The first move would have to be left to the enemy. The fact galled him but having accepted it, he pushed it from his mind. All he could do now was prepare himself. You have fought men and beasts, demons and Joinings, he told himself. And you are still alive while your enemies are dust.
I was younger then, came a small voice from his heart.
Spinning on his heel he swept a throwing blade from its forearm sheath and sent it flashing through the air, to plunge home into the narrow trunk of a nearby elm.
Young or old, I am still Waylander.
*
Miriel watched the old man make his way slowly towards the north-west and the distant fortress of Dros Delnoch. His pack was high on his shoulders, his white hair and beard billowing in the breeze. He stopped at the top of a rise, turned and waved. Then he was gone. Miriel wandered back through the trees, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the leaf-broken sunlight dappling the path. The mountains were beautiful in the autumn, leaves of burnished gold, the last fading blooms of summer, the mountainsides glowing green and purple; all seemingly created just for her pleasure.
Coming to the brow of a hill she paused, her eyes scanning the trees and the paths wending down to the Sentran Plain. A figure moved into sight, a tall man, wearing a cloak of green. The cold of a remembered winter touched her skin, making her shiver, her hand moving to the hilt of the shortsword at her side. The green cloak identified him as the assassin Morak. Well, this was one killer who would not live to attack her father.
Miriel stepped into sight and stood waiting as the man slowly climbed towards her. As he approached she studied his face – his broad, flat cheekbones and scarred and hairless brows, a nose flattened and broken, a harsh gash of a mouth. The chin was square and strong, the neck bulging with muscle.
He paused before her. ‘The path is narrow,’ he said, politely enough. ‘Would you be so kind as to move aside?’
‘Not for the likes of you,’ she hissed, surprised that her voice remained steady, her fear disguised.
‘Is it customary in these parts to insult strangers, girl? Or is it that you rely on gallantry to protect you?’
‘I need nothing to protect me,’ she said, stepping back and drawing her sword.
‘Nice blade,’ he said. ‘Now put it away – lest I take it from you and spank you for your impudence.’
Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing fear, and she smiled.
‘Draw your sword – and we’ll see who suffers,’ she told him.
‘I do not fight girls,’ he replied. ‘I am seeking a man.’
‘I know whom you seek, and why. But to get to him you must first pass me. And that will not be easy with your entrails hanging to your ankles.’ Suddenly she leapt forward, the point of her blade stabbing towards his belly. He swayed aside, his arm flashing up and across, the back of his hand cannoning against her cheek. Miriel stumbled and fell, then rolled to her feet, her face burning from the slap.
The man moved to the right, slipping the thong from his green cloak and laying the garment over a fallen tree. ‘Who taught you to lunge like that?’ he asked. ‘A farmer, perhaps? Or a herdsman? That is not a hoe you are holding. The thrust should always be disguised, and used following a riposte or counter.’ He drew his own sword and advanced on her. Miriel did not wait for his attack, but moved in to meet him, thrusting again, this time at his face. He blocked the blow and spun on his heel, his shoulder thudding into her chest, hurling her from her feet.
She sprang up and rushed in, slashing the blade towards his neck. His own sword swept up, blocking the blow, but this time she spun and leapt, her booted foot cracking against his chin. She expected him to fall but he merely staggered, righted himself, and spat blood from his mouth. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Very good. Swift and in perfect balance. Perhaps there is something to you after all.’