‘There are some matters you should not mock,’ warned Belash. ‘The mountains house the souls of all Nadir, past and future. And through them, if I am valiant, I will find the home of the man who killed my father. I shall bury my father’s bones in that man’s grave, resting on his chest. And he will serve my father for all time.’
‘Interesting thought,’ said Morak, keeping his voice neutral.
‘You kol-isha think you know everything. You think the world was created for your pleasure, but you do not understand the land. You, you sit there and you breathe air and feel the cold earth beneath you, and you notice nothing. And why? Because you live your lives in cities of stone, building walls to keep at bay the spirit of the land. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing.’
I can see the boil starting on your neck, you ignorant savage, thought Morak. And I can smell the stench from your armpits. Aloud he said: ‘And what is the spirit of this land?’
‘It is female,’ answered Belash. ‘Like a mother. She nourishes those who respond to her, giving them strength and pride. Like the old man you killed.’
‘And she talks to you?’
‘No, for I am the enemy of this land. But she lets me know she is there and watching me. And she does not hate me. But she hates you.’
‘Why would that be true?’ asked Morak, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Women have always liked me.’
‘She reads your soul, Morak. And she knows it is full of dark light.’
‘Superstition!’ snapped Morak. ‘There is no woman. There is no force in the world save that which is held in ten thousand sharp swords. Look at Karnak. He ordered the assassination of the great hero Egel, and now he rules in his place, revered, even loved. He is the force in the Drenai world. Does the lady love him?’
Belash shrugged. ‘Karnak is a great man – for all his faults – and he fights for the land, so maybe she does. And no man truly knows whether Karnak ordered Egel’s killing.’
I know, thought Morak, remembering the moment when he stood over the great man’s bed and plunged the dagger into his right eye.
Oh yes, I know.
*
It was close to midnight when Waylander returned. Angel was sitting beside the fire, Miriel was asleep in the back room. Waylander lifted the lock-bar into place on the iron brackets of the door then undipped the quiver from his belt, laying it on the table beside his ebony crossbow. Angel glanced up. The only light in the room came from the flickering fire, and in its glow Waylander seemed an eldritch figure surrounded by dancing demon shadows.
Silently, Waylander lifted clear his black leather baldric, with its three throwing knives, then untied the two forearm sheaths, placing the weapons upon the table. Two more knives came from hidden scabbards in his knee-length moccasins. At last he walked to the fire and sat down opposite the former gladiator.
Angel sat back, his pale eyes watching the warrior, observing his tension.
‘I see you fought Miriel,’ said Waylander.
‘Not for long.’
‘No. How many times did you knock her down?’
‘Twice.’
Waylander nodded. ‘The tracks were not easy to read. Your footprints were deeper than hers, but they overlaid one another.’
‘How did you know I knocked her down?’
‘The ground was soft, and I found where her elbow struck the earth. You beat her easily.’
‘I defeated thirty-seven opponents in the arena. You think a girl should best me?’
Waylander said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘How good was she?’
Angel shrugged. ‘She would survive against an unskilled swordsman, but the likes of Morak, or Senta? She’d be dead within seconds.’
‘She’s better than me,’ said Waylander. ‘And I would survive against them for longer than that.’
‘She’s better than you when you practise,’ replied Angel. ‘You and I both know the difference between that and the reality of combat. She is too tense. Danyal once told me of the test you set her. You recall?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘Well, were you to try it with Miriel she would fail. You know that, don’t you?’