WAYLANDER II: In the Realm of the Wolf by David A. Gemmell

By David Gemmell

LEGEND

THE KING BEYOND THE GATE

WAYLANDER

QUEST FOR LOST HEROES

WAYLANDER II

THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND

WOLF IN SHADOW

THE LAST GUARDIAN

BLOODSTONE

GHOST KING

LAST SWORD OF POWER

LION OF MACEDON

DARK PRINCE

IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER

THE HAWK ETERNAL

KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN

MORNINGSTAR

Prologue

The man called Angel sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his huge gnarled hands cupped around a goblet of mulled wine, his scarred features hidden by a black hood. Despite the four open windows, the air in the sixty-foot room was stale, and Angel could smell the smoke from the oil-filled lanterns, merging with the combined odours of sweating men, cooked food and sour ale.

Lifting his goblet Angel touched his lips to the rim, taking just a sip of the wine and rolling it around his mouth. The Spiked Owl was full tonight, the drinking area crowded, the dining-hall packed. But no one approached Angel as he nursed his drink. The hooded man did not like company, and such privacy as a man could enjoy in a tavern was accorded to the scarred gladiator.

Just before midnight an argument began between a group of labourers. Angel’s flint-coloured eyes focused on the group, scanning their faces. There were five men, and they were arguing over a spilled drink. Angel could see the rush of blood to their faces, and knew that despite the raised voices, none of them was in the mood to fight. When a battle is close the blood runs from the face, leaving it white and ghostly. Then his gaze flickered to a young man at the edge of the group. This one was dangerous! The man’s face was pale, his mouth set in a thin line, and his right hand was hidden within the folds of his tunic.

Angel looked back towards Balka, the tavern-owner. The burly former wrestler stood behind the serving shelf, watching the men. Angel relaxed. Balka had seen the danger and was ready.

The row began to die down – but the pale young man said something to one of the others and fists suddenly flew. A knife flashed in the lantern light, and a man shouted in pain.

Balka, a short wooden club in his right hand, vaulted the serving shelf and leapt at the white-faced knife-wielder, cracking the club first against the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blade, then hammering a blow to the temple. He dropped to the sawdust-covered floor as if poleaxed.

That’s it, my lads!’ roared Balka. The night is done.’

‘Oh, one more drink, Balka?’ pleaded a regular.

Tomorrow,’ snapped the tavern-keeper. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s clear away the mess.’

The drinkers downed the last of their ale and wine, and several took hold of the unconscious knifeman, dragging him into the street. The man’s victim had been stabbed in the shoulder; the wound was deep, his arm numb. Balka gave him a large tot of brandy before sending him on his way to find a surgeon.

At last the tavern-owner shut the door, dropping the lock-bar into place. His barmen and serving girls began gathering tankards, goblets and plates, and righting tables and chairs knocked over in the brief fight. Balka slipped his club into the wide pocket of his leather apron and strolled to where Angel sat.

‘Another quiet evening,’ he muttered, pulling up a chair opposite the gladiator. Manic!’ he called. ‘Bring me a jug.’

The young cellar boy emptied a bottle of the finest Lentrian red into a clay jug, sought out a clean pewter goblet, and carried both to the table. Balka looked up at the boy and winked. ‘Good lad, Janic,’ he said. Janic smiled, cast a nervous glance at Angel and backed away. Balka sighed and leaned back in his chair.

‘Why don’t you just pour it from the bottle?’ asked Angel, his grey eyes staring unblinking at the tavern-keeper.

Balka chuckled. ‘It tastes better from clay.’

‘Horse dung!’ Angel reached across the table, lifting the jug and holding it below his misshapen nose. ‘It’s Lentrian red … at least fifteen years old.’