Waylander watched as the assassin rode south, then he wandered back over the hill-top to his own horse and stepped into the saddle. The wagons were lost in the heat haze to the north, but Waylander had no wish to catch up with them before nightfall.
He spent the day scouting the wooded hills, sleeping for two hours beside a rock pool shaded by spruce trees. Towards dusk he saw smoke curling into the sky in the north and a cold dread settled on him. Swiftly he saddled the gelding and raced for the trees, lashing the beast into a furious gallop. For almost a mile he pushed the pace, then sanity returned and he slowed the horse to a canter. His mind was numb and he knew what he would find before he crested the last hill. The smoke had been too great for a mere camp-fire, or even ten camp-fires. Sitting his horse atop the hill, he gazed down on the burnt-out wagons. They had been drawn into a rough semi-circle, as if the drivers had seen the danger with only seconds to spare and had tried to form a fighting circle. Bodies littered the ground and vultures had gathered in squabbling packs.
Waylander rode slowly down the hillside. Many of those now dead had been taken alive and cut to pieces – there had been, then, no prisoners. A child had been nailed to a tree and several women had been staked out with fires built on their chests. A little to the north Durmast’s men lay in a rough circle, ringed by dead Nadir warriors. Already the vultures had begun their work and Waylander could not bear to search for Danyal’s body. He turned his horse to the west.
The trail was not hard to follow, even under moonlight, and as he rode Waylander assembled his crossbow.
Images flickered in his mind and Danyal’s face appeared …
Waylander blinked as tears stung his eyes. He swallowed back the sobs pushing at his throat, and something in him died. His back straightened as if a weight had been lifted from him and the recent past floated across his mind’s eye like the dreams of another man. He saw the rescue of the priest, the saving of Danyal and the children, the battle at Masin and the promise made to Orien. He watched in astonishment as Cadoras was freed to strike again. Hearing himself talking to Cadoras about heroes, a dry chuckle escaped him. What a fool he must have sounded!
Hewla had been right – love was very nearly the downfall. But now the Nadir had killed Danyal and for that they would suffer. No matter that there were hundreds of them. No matter that he could not win.
Only one truth was of importance.
Waylander the Slayer was back.
Danyal knelt beside Durmast on the slopes of a hill overlooking a riverside town of rambling wooden buildings. The hill was thickly wooded and their horses were hidden in a hollow some sixty paces to the south.
She was tired. The previous day they had escaped from the Nadir raiders with seconds to spare and she had felt a deep sense of shame at their flight. Durmast had been scouting to the west and she had seen him galloping ahead of a Nadir war party, his axe in his hand. Arrows flashed by him as he thundered his bay gelding into line with the wagons, hauled on the reins alongside the baker’s wagon and shouted for Danyal. Without thinking she had climbed alongside him and he had spurred his mount for the hills. She would be lying to herself if she claimed she had not known he was taking her to safety while those around her were doomed to savage and cruel deaths. And she hated herself for her weakness.
Four Nadir riders had pursued them into the hills. Once into the woods Durmast had dumped her from the saddle and swung his horse to meet their charge. The first had died as Durmast’s axe smashed his rib-cage. The second had thrust out a lance which the giant brushed aside before slashing the man’s head from his shoulders. The rest of the vicious action had been so swift and chaotic that Danyal could not take it in. Durmast had charged the remaining riders and the horses had gone down in a welter of flailing hooves. He had risen first, looming like a god of war with his silver axe flashing in the sunlight. With the four men dead, he had looted their saddlebags for food and water and without a word brought her a Nadir pony. Together they had headed north into the trees.