‘That would not be wise,’ said a cold voice.
At first he thought it was the hound that had spoken to him. A devil dog come to claim his soul?
‘Here, dog!’ came the voice again. The hound padded away. Belash forced himself to his knees, and saw the black-garbed figure sitting on the boulder. The man’s crossbow was now hanging from his belt, his knives sheathed.
‘How did you surprise me?’ asked Belash.
‘I didn’t. Your friend – Morak? – struck you from behind.’
Belash tried to stand, but his legs were too weak and he slumped back. Slowly he rolled to his back then, taking hold of the jutting branch of a fallen tree he pulled himself to a sitting position. ‘Why am I still alive?’ he asked.
‘You intrigue me,’ the man told him.
Truly the ways of the southerners are mysterious, thought Belash, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. ‘You left me my weapons. Why?’
‘I saw no reason to remove them.’
‘You think I am so poor an opponent that you need not fear me?’
The man chuckled. ‘I never yet met a Nadir who could be described as a poor opponent, but I have seen many head wounds – and yours will leave you weak for several days, if not longer.’
Belash did not reply. Bracing his legs beneath him he rose unsteadily and then sat back upon the tree. His head was spinning, but he preferred to be on his feet. He was only some three paces from Waylander, and he wondered if he could draw the knife and catch the man unawares. It was unlikely, but it was the only chance he had to stay alive.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ said Waylander softly.
‘You read thoughts?’
‘I don’t need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn’t make it – trust me on that. Are you Notas?’
Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their compositions. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. ‘No. I am of the Wolves.’
‘You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.’
‘You have walked among the Tent-people?’
‘Many times. Both as friend and enemy.’
‘What was the name the Nadir gave you?’ enquired Belash.
The man smiled thinly. ‘They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.’
Belash nodded. ‘You rode with the giant, Ice-eyes. There are songs about you – dark songs, of dark deeds.’
‘And they are true,’ admitted the man.
‘What happens now?’
‘I haven’t decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.’
‘Why do you think I would not kill you, once my strength has returned?’
‘The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull I would say that Morak has terminated your employment. What would you gain by killing me?’
‘Nothing,’ agreed Belash. Except the honour of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the Mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure? Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.
Waylander moved forward. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then follow me.’ The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.
Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.
6
The table was forty feet long and three feet wide, and had once been covered by fine linens and decorated with golden plates and goblets. The finest of foods had graced the plates, and nobles had carved their meats with knives of gold. Now there was no fine linen, and the plates were of pewter, the goblets of clay. Bread and cheese lay upon the plates, cool spring water in the goblets. At the table sat twenty-eight priests in white robes. Behind each priest, glittering in the lantern light, was a suit of armour, a bright silver helm, a shining cuirass and a scabbarded sword. And against each suit of armour rested a long wooden staff.
Ekodas sat at the head of the table, Dardalion beside him.