There appeared to be about twenty Nadir riders.
Waylander rode on. They were some four hours behind him, but he would increase that distance during the night.
He did not fear the pursuit, but ahead of him towered Raboas, the Sacred Giant, and here was the end of the journey where hunter and hunted were destined to meet.
His thoughts swung to Cadoras. Why had the assassin thrown his life away to rescue a man he hardly knew, a man he was pledged to kill? What had prompted an ice-cool killer to act in such a way?
Then he chuckled.
What had prompted Waylander to rescue Dardalion? Why had he fought so hard to protect Danyal and the children? Why was he now riding towards the certainty of the grave in such a foolhardy and impossible quest?
Danyal’s face floated before his eyes, to be replaced in an instant by the bearded, heavy features of Durmast. He remembered once more the vision in the fire, but could not bring himself to believe it. Yet had not Durmast killed women? Children?
The horse plodded on and the sun sank beyond the western horizon. The night air was chill and Waylander pulled his cloak from his saddle roll and swept it over his shoulders. With the coming of night, his fear of the wolfbeasts grew. Where were they now?
His eyes flicked from left to right, and he swung in the saddle to study his back trail in the fast fading light. Hefting his crossbow, he resisted the temptation to load it. Lengthy stress on the metal arms would weaken the weapon, and for these beasts he needed it at full strength.
The moon blazed her white light as the clouds cleared, illuminating a thickly wooded hillside. Way-lander had no wish to enter the trees during dark, but the tree-line stretched on far to the west and east. With a whispered curse, he flicked the reins and rode on.
Once inside the wood, he found his heart beating faster and his breathing increasing in speed as panic struggled to overcome him. Moonlight blazed ahead, silver shafts shining through the breaks in overhead branches. His horse’s hooves thudded dully on the soft loam, and to the left a badger broke through the undergrowth and ambled across his trail, its fur bathed in light which turned it to silver armour. Waylander swore and gave in to the temptation to load his crossbow.
Suddenly a wolf’s howl shattered the silence of the night. Waylander jerked and one of his bolts flew from the crossbow, slicing up through the branches overhead.
‘You dolt!’ he told himself. ‘Get a grip, man!’
Slipping a second bolt home, he re-strung the bow. The howling came from some distance to the east, and from the sound Waylander guessed that a wolf-pack had cornered its quarry – possibly a stag – and the last battle was under way. The wolves would have chased the beast for many miles, tiring it and sapping the strength from its great muscles. Now it was at bay.
Waylander rode on, but the wolves fell silent and the assassin knew that the prey had eluded them once more. He dragged on the reins, not wishing to cross the line of the chase. His horse whinnied and tried to turn, but Waylander hauled him back.
A running figure emerged from the trees some thirty paces ahead. He was wounded, and dragged his left foot; in his hands was a huge wooden club. A wolf burst into view and leapt. The man turned, the club flashing in the moonlight to crunch against the wolfs ribs, stoving them in. It landed with a thud ten feet away from him.
He was big, bigger than any man Waylander had ever seen, and he appeared to be wearing a gruesome mask decorated with a white sphere at the forehead. The lower part of the mask had a lipless mouth, lined with fangs. Waylander could not see him clearly, but he did not look like a Nadir.
More wolves came into sight and the man bellowed his fury and frustration, then limped to a tree and turned to face the pack. They spread out in a cautious semi-circle and crept in upon him. Suddenly one darted from the right and he turned to meet it. Immediately another beast sprinted from the left and leapt. The man fell back as the jaws snapped shut just short of his throat. He lashed out with his club, but a third wolf ran forward.