The writing was more shaky now:
We enter the second month of siege and I see no hope of success. I am not able to sleep as I used. Dreams. Bad dreams fill my night hours.
And then:
Hundreds dying. I have started to experience the strangest visions. I feel that I am flying in the night sky, and I can see the lands of the Drenai below me. Nothing but corpses. Niallad dead. Egel dead.
All the world is dead, and only we mock the world of ghosts.
Ten days earlier Degas had written:
My son Elnar died today, defending the gate tower. He was twenty-six and strong as a bull, but an arrow cut him down and he fell out over the wall and on to the enemy. He was a good man and his mother, bless her soul, would have been proud of him. I am now convinced that we stand alone against Vagria and know we cannot hold for long. Kaem has promised to crucify every man, woman and child in Purdol unless we surrender. And the dreams have begun once more, whispering demons in my head. It is getting so hard to think clearly.
Dardalion flipped the pages.
Karnak arrived today with a thousand men. My heart soared when he told me Egel still fought, but then I realised how close I came to betraying everything I have given my life to protect. Kaem would have slain my men and the Drenai would have been doomed. Harsh words I heard from young Karnak, but richly deserved they were. I have failed.
And the last page:
The dreams have gone and I am at peace. It occurs to me now that through all my married life I never spoke to Rula of love. I never kissed her hand, as courtiers do, nor brought her flowers. So strange. Yet all men knew I loved her, for I bragged about her constantly. I once carved her a chair that had flowers upon it. It took me a month and she loved the chair. I have it still.
Dardalion closed the book and leaned back in the chair, gazing down on the lovingly carved and polished wood. It was a work of some artistry. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked to the bedroom where Degas lay on blood-soaked sheets, his knife still in his hand. His eyes were open and Dardalion gently closed the lids before covering the old man’s face with a sheet.
‘Lord of All Things,’ said Dardalion, ‘lead this man home.’
15
Cadoras watched as Waylander rode from the wagons, heading away to the north towards a range of low hills. The hunter lay flat on his belly, his chin in his hands; behind him, on the far side of the hill, his horse was tethered. He eased his way back from the hill-top, walked slowly to the steel-grey gelding and unbuckled the thick saddle roll, opening it out on the ground. Within the canvas wrapping was an assortment of weapons ranging from a dismantled crossbow to a set of ivory-handled throwing knives. Cadoras assembled the crossbow and selected ten bolts which he placed in a doeskin quiver at his belt. Then he carefully slid two throwing knives into each of his calf-length riding boots, and two more into sheaths at his side. His sword was strapped to his saddle, along with a Vagrian cavalry bow tipped with gold; the quiver for this hung on his saddle horn. Fully equipped, Cadoras returned the saddle roll to its place and buckled the straps. Then he took some dried meat from his saddlebags and sat back on the grass and stared at the sky, watching the gathering storm clouds drifting in from the east.
It was time for the kill.
There had been little joy in the hunting. He could have killed Waylander on a dozen occasions – but then it took two to play the game, and Waylander had refused to take part. At first this had irritated Cadoras, making him feel slightly as if his victim had held him in contempt. But as the days passed he had realised that Waylander simply did not care. And so Cadoras had not loosed the fatal shaft.