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‘Speak plainly, Drenai!’
‘I am passing through. I am no danger to the Sathuli. Nor am I a soldier. Give me your word the hunt will cease and I will leave here now. You can rescue your friend. If not, I wait. We fight. He dies.’
‘If you wait you die,’ shouted Jitsan.
‘Even so,’ answered Waylander. The injured man groaned and tried to roll himself from the ledge to certain death on the rocks below. It was a brave move, and Waylander found himself admiring the warrior. Jitsan called out to him in Sathuli and the man ceased his struggle.
‘Very well, Drenai, you have my word.’ Jitsan stepped into sight, his sword sheathed.
Waylander flicked the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings. ‘Let’s go, dog,’ he said, and leapt to the scree, sliding down the slope on his haunches. Scar followed him instantly, tumbling and rolling past his master.
But Waylander had misjudged the speed of the descent and he lost his grip on the crossbow as he struck a hidden rock which catapulted him into the air, spinning and cartwheeling. Relaxing his muscles he rolled himself into a ball and prayed he would not strike a tree or a boulder.
At last the dizzying fall slowed and he came to a stop in a deep drift of snow. His body was bruised and aching, and two of his knives had fallen from their sheaths. Curiously his sword was still in its scabbard. He sat up. His head was spinning, and he felt a rush of nausea. After it had passed he pushed himself to his knees. As well as the two knives, his crossbow quiver was empty, his leggings were torn and his right thigh was gashed and bleeding.
To his right lay the gelding, its neck broken in the fall. Waylander took a long, deep breath, his fingers probing at his bruised ribs. Nothing seemed broken. Scar padded over to him, licking his face. The stitches on the dog’s side had opened and a thin trickle of blood was oozing from the wound.
‘Well, we made it, boy,’ said Waylander. Slowly and with great care he stood. Several of his crossbow bolts and one
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of his knives lay nearby, close to the dead gelding. Gathering the weapons he searched around the snow for his knife, but could not find it. Scar ran back up the slope and returned with the crossbow in his jaws.
A second search left Waylander with twelve bolts and one knife recovered. The gash in his leg was not deep, requiring no stitches, but he bound the wound with a bandage taken from his saddlebag and then sat on a jutting rock and shared some dried meat with the hound.
High above him he saw the signal smoke. Reaching down he stroked Scar’s huge head. ‘You just can’t trust the Sathuli,’ he said. The hound twisted its head and licked the man’s hand.
Waylander stood and surveyed the valley. The snow was deep here, but the way to Senac Pass lay open.
Lifting the food sack from the dead horse he set off towards the north.
Slowly the six hundred black-cloaked warriors filed into the huge hall, forming twenty ranks before the dais on which stood Zhu Chao and his six captains. Red lanterns glowed with crimson light and shadows flickered across the great curving beams of the high ceiling.
All was silent. Zhu Chao spread wide his arms, his caped gown arching down from his shoulders like the wings of a demon. ‘The day is here, comrades!’ he shouted. Tomorrow the Ventrians attack Purdol and the pass at Skein. Gothir troops will then march on the Sentran Plain. And five thousand soldiers will obliterate the Nadir wolves, bringing us the treasures of Kar-Barzac.
‘Within the month all three great nations will be ruled by the Brotherhood. And we will have the power our strength and our faith deserves.
‘The Days of Blood are here! The days when, for us, the only law will be to do as we will, wherever we choose.’ A thunderous roar rose up from the ranks, but he quelled it with a swift wave of his hand. ‘We are talking about power, comrades. The Elder Races did not understand the power