Hands of death. The hands of the Slayer.
As a young soldier he had fought for the Drenai against Sathuli raiders, protecting the farmer and the settlers of the Sentran Plain. But he hadn’t protected them well enough, for a small band of killers had crossed the mountains to raid and pillage. On the return journey they stopped at his farmhouse, raped and murdered his wife and killed his children.
On that day Dakeyras changed. The young soldier resigned his commission and set out in pursuit of the killers. Coming upon their camp he had slain two of them, the rest fleeing. But he tracked them and, one by one, hunted them down. Each man he caught he tortured, forcing information on the names and likely destinations of the remaining raiders. It took years, and on the endless journey the young officer named Dakeyras died, to be replaced by the empty killing-machine known as Waylander.
By then, death and suffering meant nothing to the silent hunter and, one night in Mashrapur, his money gone, he had been approached by a merchant seeking revenge on a business rival. For forty silver pieces Waylander undertook his first assassination. He did not try to justify his actions, not even to himself. The hunt was everything, and to find the killers he needed money. Cold and heartless he moved on, a man apart, feared, avoided, telling himself that when the quest was over he would become Dakeyras again.
But when the last of the raiders had died screaming, staked out across a campfire, Waylander knew Dakeyras was gone forever. And he had continued his bloody trade, the road to Hell carrying him forward until the day he killed the Drenai King.
The enormity of the deed, and its terrible consequences, haunted him still. The land had been plunged into war, with thousands slain, widowed, orphaned.
The golden lantern light flickered on the far wall and Waylander sighed. He had tried to redeem himself, but could a man ever earn forgiveness for such crimes? He doubted it. And even if the Source granted him absolution it would mean nothing. For he could not forgive himself. Maybe that’s why Danyal died, he thought, not for the first time. Perhaps he was always to be burdened by sorrow.
Pouring himself a goblet of water he drained it and returned to his bed. The gentle priest Dardalion had guided him from the road to perdition, and Danyal had found the tiny spark of Dakeyras that remained, fanning it to life, bringing him back from the dead.
But now she too was gone. Only Miriel remained. Would he have to watch her die?
Miriel would fail the test. That’s what Angel had said, and he was right. Dakeyras recalled the day he himself had tested Danyal. Deep in Nadir territory assassins had come upon him, and he had slain them. Danyal asked him how it was that he killed with such ease.
He walked away from her and stooped to lift a pebble. ‘Catch this,’ he said, flicking the stone towards her. Her hand snaked out and she caught the pebble deftly. ‘That was easy, was it not?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Now if I had Krylla and Miriel here, and two men had knives at their throats, and you were told that if you missed the pebble they would die, would it still be easy to catch? The onset of fear makes the simplest of actions complex and difficult. I am what I am because, whatever the consequences, the pebble remains a pebble.’
‘Can you teach me?’
‘I don’t have the time.’ She had argued, and finally he said, ‘What do you fear most at this moment?’
‘I fear losing you.’
He moved away from her and lifted a second pebble. Clouds partly obscured the moonlight and she strained to see his hand. ‘I am going to throw this to you,’ he said. ‘If you catch it, you stay and I train you. If you miss it you return to Skarta.’
‘No, that’s not fair! The light is poor.’
‘Life is not fair, Danyal. If you do not agree, then I ride away alone.’
“Then I agree.’
Without another word he flicked the stone towards her -a bad throw, moving fast and to her left. Her hand flashed out and the pebble bounced against her palm. Even as it fell her fingers snaked around it, clutching it like a prize.