The memory of the horse falling, rolling, the terrible scream …
Waylander closed his eyes, forcing the memories back, concentrating on a picture of little Miriel feeding the fox cub with bread dipped in warm milk.
Just before dawn he heard something moving at the cave entrance. Rolling to his feet he drew his sword. The grey wolfhound limped inside and settled down at his feet. Waylander chuckled and sheathed his sword. Squatting down he reached out to stroke the beast. The dog gave a low, warning growl and bared its fangs.
‘By Heaven, I like you, dog,’ said Waylander. ‘You remind me of me.’
*
Miriel watched the ugly warrior as he trained, his powerful hands clasped to the branch, his upper body bathed in sweat. ‘You see,’ he said, hauling himself smoothly up, ‘the movement must be fluid, feet together. Touch your chin to the wood and then lower – not too fast, mind. No strain. Let your mind relax.’ His voice was even, no hint of effort in his actions.
He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side. Like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face, the smashed nose, the gashed, deformed lips, the swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.
But his face …
He dropped to the ground and grinned. ‘Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty’s not bad. What are you thinking?’
Caught offguard she blushed. ‘You make it look so simple,’ she said, averting her gaze.
In the three days she had been practising she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. ‘You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.’ Moving past her he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.
‘What happened to your wife?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Which one?’
‘How many have you had?’
‘Three.’
‘That’s a little excessive, isn’t it?’ she snapped.
He chuckled. ‘Seems that way now,’ he agreed.
‘What about the first one?’
He sighed. ‘Hell-cat. By Heaven she could fight. Half-demon -and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was Drenai -1 didn’t believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.’
‘Did she die?’
He nodded. ‘Plague. She fought it, mind. All the swellings had gone, the discolouration. She’d even begun to get her hair back. Then she caught a chill and had no strength left to battle it. Died in the night. Peaceful.’
‘Were you a gladiator then?’
‘No. I was a merchant’s book-keeper.’
‘I don’t believe it! How did you meet her?’
‘She danced in a tavern. One night someone reached up and grabbed her leg. She kicked him in the mouth. He drew a dagger. I stopped him.’
‘Just like that? A book-keeper?’
‘Do not make the mistake of judging a man’s physical courage, or his skills, by the work he is forced to do,’ he said. ‘I knew a doctor once who could put an arrow through a gold ring at forty paces. And a street cleaner in Drenan who once held off twenty Sathuli warriors, killing three, before he carried his injured officer back to camp. Judge a man by his actions, not his occupation. Now let’s get back to work.’
‘What about the other wives?’
‘Don’t want to work yet, eh? All right. Let’s see, what can I tell you about Kalla? She was another dancer. Worked in the south quarter in Drenan. Ventrian girl. Sweet – but she had a weakness. Loved men. Couldn’t say no. That marriage lasted eight months. She ran off with a merchant from Mashrapur. And lastly there was Voria. Older than me, but not much. I was a young fighter then, and she was the patron of the Sixth Arena. She took a fancy to me, showered me with gifts. Married her for her money, have to admit it, but I learned to love her, in my own way.’