‘Ten thousand gold pieces would buy it back for you,’ said Waylander coldly.
‘Indeed it would – five times over. But as I have already told you, I do not work for the Guild. And do not even think of calling me a liar!’
Waylander pulled the bolts clear of the weapon then released the strings. Dropping the bow to the table he turned back to the scarred fighter. ‘You are no liar,’ he said. ‘But why would you warn me? We were never close.’
Angel shrugged. ‘I was thinking of Danyal. I didn’t want to see her widowed. Where is she?’
Waylander did not reply, but Angel saw the colour fade from his face, and a look of anguish that was swiftly masked. ‘You may stay the night,’ said Waylander. ‘And I thank you for your warning.’ With that he took up his crossbow and left the cabin.
‘My mother died,’ whispered Miriel. ‘Five years ago.’ Angel sighed and sank back in his chair. ‘You knew her well?’ she asked.
‘Well enough to be a little in love with her. How did she die?’
‘She was riding. The horse fell and rolled on her.’
‘After all she’d been through … battles and wars …’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no sense to such things, none at all. Unless it be that the gods have a grim sense of humour. Five years, you say. Gods! He must have adored her to stay alone this long.’
‘He did. He still does, spending too much time by her grave, talking to her as if she can still hear him. He does that here sometimes.’
‘I see it now,’ said Angel softly.
‘What do you see?’
‘Isn’t it obvious, Miriel? The killers are gathering -assassins, hunters, stalkers of the night. He cannot kill them all, he knows that. So why is he still here?’
‘You tell me.’
‘He’s like the old stag hunted by wolves. It takes to the high ground, knowing it is finished, and then it turns and waits, facing the enemy for one last battle.’
‘But he’s not like that stag. He’s not old! He’s not! And he’s not finished, either.’
‘That’s not how he sees it. Danyal was what he lived for. Perhaps he thinks that in death they will be reunited, I don’t know. What I do know – and so does he – is that to stay here means death.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Miriel, but her words carried no conviction.
3
Floating on a sea of pain Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left, save one small flickering spark of pride.
He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.
‘I can free you from this pain, old man,’ he said. Ralis said nothing. ‘What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what … fifty, sixty years? He’s here and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.’
‘He … will… kill you … all,’ whispered Ralis.
Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelt the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming and he could only utter a short, broken groan.
And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed, and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.
He rose from his bonds and flew towards the voice. ‘I did not tell them, Father,’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘I did not tell them!’
*
‘Old fool,’ said Morak, as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. ‘Let’s go!’
‘Tough old man,’ put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.
‘He made us waste half a day – and for what? Had he told us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he’s dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid!’