Waylander II by David A. Gemmell

Think, man!

Dropping the bow, Morak felt around the soft earth until his fingers closed on a large stone the size of his fist. This was the answer. Standing, he walked back out into the clearing. Belash glanced round.

‘What is wrong?’

‘I have another plan,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

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‘Is that him?’ hissed Morak, pointing to the north. Belash’s head jerked round.

‘Where?’

The stone cracked against the back of the Nadir’s neck. Be lash fell forward. Morak hit him again. Then again. The Nadir slumped to the ground. Morak dropped the stone and drew his dagger. Always best to make sure. Then he heard movement in the undergrowth. Backing away from the sound, Morak turned and ran, sprinting down the track.

And did not see the ugly hound that emerged from the bushes.

Belash floated up from the darkness to a painful awakening. Soft earth was against his face and his head pounded. He tried to rise, but nausea swamped him. Reaching up he touched the back of his neck. The blood was beginning to congeal. His hand moved down to his belt. The knife was still in its sheath. For a while he struggled to remember what had happened. Had Waylander come upon them?

No. I would now be dead.

His mouth was dry. Something cold pushed against his face. He turned his head and found himself staring into the baleful eyes of a huge, scarred hound. Belash lay perfectly still, save for his hand which inched slowly towards his knife.

‘That would not be wise,’ said a cold voice.

At first he thought it was the hound that had spoken to him. A devil dog come to claim his soul?

‘Here, dog!’ came the voice again. The hound padded away. Belash forced himself to his knees, and saw the black-garbed figure sitting on the boulder. The man’s crossbow was now hanging from his belt, his knives sheathed.

‘How did you surprise me?’ asked Belash.

‘I didn’t. Your friend – Morak? – struck you from behind.’

Belash tried to stand, but his legs were too weak and he

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slumped back. Slowly he rolled to his back then, taking hold of the jutting branch of a fallen tree he pulled himself to a sitting position. ‘Why am I still alive?’ he asked.

‘You intrigue me,’ the man told him.

Truly the ways of the southerners are mysterious, thought Belash, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. ‘You left me my weapons. Why?’

‘I saw no reason to remove them.’

‘You think I am so poor an opponent that you need not fear me?’

The man chuckled. ‘I never yet met a Nadir who could be described as a poor opponent, but I have seen many head wounds – and yours will leave you weak for several days, if not longer.’

Belash did not reply. Bracing his legs beneath him he rose unsteadily and then sat back upon the tree. His head was spinning, but he preferred to be on his feet. He was only some three paces from Waylander, and he wondered if he could draw the knife and catch the man unawares. It was unlikely, but it was the only chance he had to stay alive.

‘Don’t even think of it,’ said Waylander softly.

‘You read thoughts?’

‘I don’t need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn’t make it – trust me on that. Are you Notas?’

Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their compositions. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. ‘No. I am of the Wolves.’

‘You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.’

‘You have walked among the Tent-people?’

‘Many times. Both as friend and enemy.’

‘What was the name the Nadir gave you?’ enquired Belash.

The man smiled thinly. ‘They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.’

Belash nodded. ‘You rode with the giant, Ice-eyes. There are songs about you – dark songs, of dark deeds.’

‘And they are true,’ admitted the man.

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‘What happens now?’

‘I haven’t decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.’