Movement caught his eye and Ralis squinted, trying to focus. On the mountainside, at least a quarter of a mile distant, he thought he saw a man running. Ralis yawned and returned to the fire, easing himself down into the deep leather chair. The kindling was burning well and he added two seasoned logs from a stack beside the hearth.
So, he thought, the mystery is solved at last. What was surprising was that he felt in such low spirits now. For years he had known Dakeyras and his family, the beautiful wife, the twin girls. And always he had sensed there was more to the mountain man. And the mystery had occupied his mind, perhaps even helping to keep him active at an age when most – if not all – of his youthful contemporaries were dead.
A fugitive, a nobleman having turned his back on wealth and privilege, a refugee from Gothir tyranny… all these he had considered as backgrounds for Dakeyras. And more. But the speculation was now over. Dakeyras was the legendary Waylander – the man who killed King Orien’s son, Niallad. But he was also the hero who had found the hidden Armour of Bronze, returning it to the Drenai people, freeing them from the murderous excesses of the invading Vagrians.
The old man sighed. What fresh mysteries could he find now to exercise his mind, and blot out the passing of time and the inevitable approach of death?
He heard Miriel rise from her bed in the far room. She wandered in, tall and slim and naked. ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Well enough, girl. You should put some clothes on.’ His voice was gruff, the words said in a sharper tone than he had intended. It wasn’t that her nakedness aroused him; it was the opposite, he realised. Her youth and her beauty only made him feel the weight of his years, looming behind him like a mountain. She returned to her room and he leaned back in his chair. When had arousal died? He thought back. It was in Melega that he had first noticed it, some fifteen years before. He had hired a whore, a buxom wench, but had been unable to perform despite all her expert ministrations.
At last she had shrugged. ‘Dead birds cannot rise from the nest,’ she told him cruelly.
Miriel returned, dressed now in grey leggings and a shirt of creamy white wool. ‘Is that more to your liking, sir tinker?’
He forced a smile. ‘Everything about you, my dear, is to my liking. But naked you remind me of all that there once was. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ she said, but he knew she was humouring him. What did the young ever understand? Pulling a tall chair to the fireside she reversed it and sat astride it opposite him, her elbows resting on the high back. ‘You mentioned some of the men who are hunting my father,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me of them?’
‘They are all dangerous men – and there will be those among them I do not know. But I know Morak the Ventrian. He’s deadly, truly deadly. I believe he is insane.’
‘What weapons does he favour?’ she asked.
‘Sabre and knife, but he is a very skilled bowman. And he has great speed – like a striking snake. He’ll kill anyone -man, woman, child, babe in arms. He has a gift for death.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Medium height, slim. He tends to wear green, and he has a ring of heavy gold, set with a green stone. It matches his eyes, cold and hard.’
‘I will watch out for him.’
‘If you see him – kill him,’ snapped Ralis. ‘But you won’t see him.’
‘You don’t think he’ll come here?’
‘That’s not what I said. You would both be best advised to leave here. Even Waylander cannot defeat all who are coming against him.’
‘Don’t underestimate him, tinker,’ she warned.
‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘But I am an old man, and I know how time makes dotards of us all. Once I was young, fast and strong. But slowly, like water eating at stone, time removes our speed and our strength. Waylander is not a young man. Those hunting him are in their prime.’