Belash’s jet-black eyes stared up into Morak’s face. ‘He died with honour,’ muttered the Nadir. ‘And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.’
Morak’s laughter welled out. ‘The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth, or how I mended a broken cookpot? I can see there’ll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.’
‘Most men mock what they can never aspire to,’ said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt.
The words cut through Morak’s good humour, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. ‘Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We’ll split up and quarter the area. In three days we’ll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Bans, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.’
‘Why me?’ asked the tall, sandy-haired young man. ‘And what happens if you find him while I’m gone? Do I still get a share?’
‘We all get a share,’ promised Morak. ‘If we find him and kill him before you get back I will see that the gold is held for you in Drenan. Can I be fairer than that?’
The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all, but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this.
One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly, and rip out your entrails.
Organising the men in pairs he issued his instructions. ‘If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?’
The men nodded solemnly, then departed.
Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill – to be the man who slew a legend.
He felt the sharp rise of anticipated pleasure, as he considered all he might do to fill Waylander’s last hours with exquisite pain. There was the girl, of course. He could rape and kill her before Waylander’s eyes. Or torture her. Or give her to the men, to use and abuse. Be calm, he told himself. Let the anticipation build. First you have to find him.
Swinging his leaf-green cloak about his shoulders he walked off in pursuit of Belash. The Nadir had made camp in a sheltered hollow and was kneeling upon his blanket, hands clasped in prayer, several old fingerbones, yellowed and porous, lying before him. Morak sat down on the other side of the fire. What a disgusting practice, he thought, carrying the bones of your father in a bag. Barbarians! Who would ever understand them? Belash finished his prayer and returned the bones to the pouch at his side.
‘Your father have anything interesting to tell you?’ asked Morak, his green eyes alight with amusement.
Belash shook his head. ‘I do not speak with my father,’ he said. ‘He is gone. I speak to the Mountains of the Moon.’
‘Ah yes, the mountains. Do they know where Waylander dwells?’
‘They know only where each Nadir warrior rests.’
‘Lucky them,’ observed Morak.