‘You depress me, Nemodes.’
‘I do have some good news for you, general.’
‘I can scarce believe that.’
‘We have found the mountain entrance to the fortress – the route by which Karnak entered.’
Kaem took a deep breath and smiled. ‘I want a thousand men ready to march in two hours.’
‘I shall see that it is done,’ promised Nemodes.
19
The wood was not large, but within it was a hollow where Waylander could build a fire. He was cold through, and though recovering fast from his ordeal still felt the effects of the fever caused by his tortured skin. For three days he had rested within the cave; then he had journeyed north, meeting a small group of Notas who sold him some foul-smelling salve which he smeared across his shoulders and upper back. While he was with them, a young woman had tended to the wound at his temple and the old Notas leader had given him a new name: Oxskull. Using a bronze mirror, Waylander had examined the wound. It was a swelling, purple and gross, the skin split across it in a jagged line. He remembered the sword-blade crashing against his head, and realised that it must have turned and struck him semi-flat. The swelling in his eye had reduced considerably, but he still found his vision troubled by harsh sunlight, which caused the eye to water heavily.
The Notas leader – a wizened, jovial ancient -examined his head, pressing and pushing.
‘No crack, Oxskull. You live.’
‘How far to Raboas?’
‘Five days if you travel without care. Seven if your eyes are open.’
The girl moved forward with a pitcher of stone cooled water and bathed Waylander’s head. She was petite and pretty, her hands gentle.
‘My youngest wife,’ said the old man. ‘Good, yes?’
‘Good,’ agreed Waylander.
‘You carry many weapons, Oxskull. You are fighting a war?’
Waylander nodded. ‘It would displease me to think I will leave here with less than I arrived.’
‘Your black horse is ferocious,’ countered the ancient leader. ‘He bit my eldest son in the shoulder.’
‘He is of uncertain temper. When your people gather my possessions back into one place, I will put them in my blanket roll. The horse will not bite me.’
The old man chortled and dismissed the girl, but his face lost its smile as the tent-flap settled back into place and he and the stranger were alone.
‘You are a hunted man, Oxskull. Many, many riders seek you.’
‘I know this.’
‘Some Nadir. Some Southriders.’
‘I know this also.’
‘The Southriders wear black cloaks and their eyes are cold. They are like a cloud across the sun and our children fear them – the young are so perceptive.’
‘They are evil men,’ said Waylander. ‘Their promises are dust, but their threats are sworn in blood.’
‘This I know,’ said the Notas leader. ‘They promised gold for knowledge and death for silence.’
‘When they return, tell them I was here.’
‘This I would have done anyway. Why do they seek you? Are you a king in exile?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
Waylander spread his hands. ‘A man makes many enemies.’
The old man nodded grimly, his dark eyes fixed on the assassin.
‘You know why I have lived this long?’ he asked, leaning sideways and pouring a goblet of Lyrrd for his guest.
Waylander shrugged, accepting the goblet and drank deeply.
‘Because I am blessed. I see things within the mist of minds. I walk the spirit roads and view the births of mountains. Nothing is hidden from me. The Southriders worship the darkness and feed on the hearts of babes. They swallow the long green leaf and soar on the night winds. But you they cannot find. These men, who could hunt the smallest bat within a night-dark cavern, cannot find a rider on an arid plain. When I close my eyes I can see all things – the children playing beyond the tent, your horses cropping the grass, my youngest wife telling my oldest that she fears my touch for it reminds her of death. And yet I cannot see you, Oxskull. Why is that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You speak the truth. But I know. Somewhere you have a friend – a friend of great power who has laid a charm over your spirit. Only with true eyes can you be seen.’