‘Gods, woman, your prattle turns my stomach,’ snarled the warrior. ‘What do you want from me? So the boy died. That’s what happens in wars … people die. And before you let fly with your viper responses, remind yourself of this: when I shouted to get down I see you managed to save yourself. Perhaps if you had thought about the boy, he wouldn’t have had an arrow in his guts.’
‘That’s not fair!’ she shouted.
‘Life is like that.’ He swept up his blankets and walked away from the group, his heart pounding as rage threatened to engulf him. He strode to the top of the rise and stared out over the plain. Somewhere out there were riders hunting him. They could not allow him to live. For if they failed in their quest their own lives would be forfeit. And here was Waylander trapped by a priest and a woman – caught like a monkey in a net while the lions moved in.
Folly. Sheer folly.
He should never have accepted a contract from that Vagrian serpent, Kaem. The man’s name was a byword for treachery: Kaem the Cruel, Kaem the Killer of Nations – the web-weaver at the centre of the Vagrian army.
All of Waylander’s instincts had screamed at him to spurn Kaem’s contract, but he had ignored them. Now the Vagrian general would have sent out groups of assassins in every direction; they would know he had not headed south or west, and the ports to the east would be closed to him. Only the north beckoned – and the killers would be watching all paths to Skultik.
Waylander cursed softly. Kaem had offered 24,000 gold pieces for the contract and, as a gesture of faith, had lodged half of the amount in Waylander’s name with Cheros, the main banker in Gulgothir. Waylander had completed the contract with his customary skill, though his memory burned with the shame of it. Seeing again the arrow in flight, he squeezed shut his eyes …
The night was cool, the stars gleaming like spear-points. Waylander stretched, forcing his mind to the present, but his victim’s face returned again and again … a gentle face, haunted by failure … soft eyes and a kind smile. He had been stooping to pick a flower when Waylander’s bolt pierced his back …
‘No!’ shouted Waylander, sitting upright, his hand lashing out as if to drive the memory from him. Think of something else … anything else!
After the kill he had slipped away to the east, for the journey to Vagria and the promise of Kaem’s gold. While on the road he met a merchant travelling from the north who told him in conversation of the death of Cheros the Banker. Three assassins had killed him at his home and made off with a fortune in gold and gems.
Waylander had known then that he was betrayed, but some instinct – some inner compulsion – drove him on. He had arrived at Kaem’s palace and scaled a high garden wall. Once inside, he killed two guard dogs and entered the main building. Locating Kaem’s room had posed a problem, but he woke a serving girl and forced her at knifepoint to lead him to the general’s bedchamber. Kaem was asleep in his apartments on the third floor of the palace. Waylander struck the girl on the neck, catching her as she fell and lowering her to a white fur rug on the floor. Then he went to the bed and touched his knife to Kaem’s throat. The general’s eyes flared open.
‘Could you have not come at a more reasonable hour?’ he had asked smoothly.
Waylander’s knife pressed forward a fraction of an inch and blood seeped from the cut as Kaem stared into the dark eyes above him.
‘I see you have heard about Cheros. I hope you don’t think it was my doing.’ The knife pressed deeper and this time Kaem winced.
‘I know it was your doing,’ hissed Waylander.
‘Can we talk about it?’
‘We can talk about 24,000 gold pieces.’
‘Of course.’
Suddenly Kaem twisted and his arm lashed out to knock Waylander from the bed. The speed of the attack stunned the assassin and he rolled to his feet to find himself facing the wiry general who had now clambered from the bed and pulled a sword from the scabbard hanging on the bedpost.