Waylander scanned the open ground, searching the tree line for any second assassin who might be hidden. But he could see no one. Carefully keeping to cover he circled the cabin, checking for tracks and finding none, save those made by his own moccasins and Miriel’s bare feet. Satisfied at last, he crossed to the cabin and stepped inside. Miriel had prepared a meal of hot oats and wild strawberries, the last of the season. She smiled as he entered, but the smile faded as she saw the crossbow he carried.
‘Where did you find that?’ she asked.
‘There was a man hidden near the graveside.’
‘A robber?’
‘I don’t believe so. This bow would cost perhaps a hundred gold pieces. It is a beautifully crafted weapon. I think he was an assassin.’
‘Why would he be hunting you?’
Waylander shrugged. ‘There was a time when I had a price on my head. Perhaps I still have. Or maybe I killed his brother, or his father. Who knows? One thing is certain, he can’t tell me.’
She sat down at the long oak table, watching him. ‘You are angry,’ she said at last.
‘Yes. He shouldn’t have got that close. I should have been dead.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was hidden in the undergrowth some forty paces from the graveside, waiting for the killing shot. When I moved to get water for the roses I saw a bird fly down to land in the tree above him, but it veered off at the last moment.’
‘It could have been a fox or any sudden movement,’ she pointed out. ‘Birds are skittish.’
‘Yes, it could have been,’ he agreed. ‘But it wasn’t. And if he’d had enough confidence to try for a head shot I would now be lying beside Danyal.’
“Then we’ve both been lucky today,’ she said.
He nodded, but did not answer, his mind still puzzling over the incident. For ten years they had lived without his past returning to haunt him. In these mountains he was merely the widower Dakeyras. Who, after all this time, would send an assassin after him?
And how many more would come?
*
The sun was hanging over the western peaks, a blazing copper disc of fire casting a last, defiant glare over the mountainside. Miriel squinted against the light.
‘It’s too bright,’ she complained.
But his hand swept up, the wooden chopping board sailing into the sky. Smoothly she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, her fingers pressing the bronze trigger. The bolt leapt from the weapon, missing the arcing wood by little more than a foot. ‘I said it was too bright,’ she repeated.
‘Picture failure and it will happen,’ he told her sternly, recovering the wooden board.
‘Let me throw it for you, then.’
‘I do not need the practice – you do!’
‘You couldn’t hit it, could you? Admit it!’
He gazed into her sparkling eyes, and noted the sunlight glinting red upon her hair, the bronzed skin of her shoulders. ‘You ought to be married,’ he said suddenly. ‘You are far too beautiful to be stuck on a mountainside with an old man.’
‘Don’t try to evade the issue,’ she scolded, snatching the board from him and walking back ten paces. He chuckled and shook his head, accepting defeat. Carefully he eased back the steel string of the lower bow arm. The spring-loaded hook clicked and he inserted a short black bolt, gently pressing the notch against the string. Repeating the manoeuvre with the upper bow arm, he adjusted the tension in the curved bronze triggers. The weapon had cost him a small fortune in opals many years ago, but it had been crafted by a master and Waylander had never regretted the purchase.
He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled the board high. The sunlight seared his eyes but he waited until the spinning board reached its highest point. Extending his arm he pressed the first bronze trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into the board, half splitting it. As it fell he released the second bolt. The board exploded into shards.
‘Horrible man!’ she said.
He made a low bow. ‘You should feel privileged,’ he told her, holding back his smile. ‘I don’t usually perform without payment.’