So much in life depended on luck. When the kill order came to the Guild, Kreeg had been out of money and living off a whore in Kasyra, the gold he had earned from killing the Ventrian merchant long since vanished in the gambling dens of the city’s south side. Now Kreeg blessed the bad luck that had dogged him in Kasyra. For all life, he knew, was a circle. And it was in Kasyra that he had heard of the hermit in the mountains, the tall widower with the shy daughter. He thought of the message from the Guild.
Seek out a man named Dakeyras. He has a wife Danyal and a daughter Miriel. The man has black and silver hair, dark eyes, and is tall, close to fifty years of age. He will be carrying a small double crossbow of ebony and bronze. Kill him and bring the crossbow to Drenan as proof of success. Move with care. The man is Waylander. Ten thousand in gold is waiting.
In Kasyra Kreeg had despaired of earning such a fabulous sum. Then – blessed be the gods – he had told the whore of the hunt.
‘There’s a man with a daughter called Miriel who lives in the mountains to the north,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen him, but I met his daughters years ago at the Priests’ School. We learned our letters there.’
‘Do you remember the mother’s name?’
‘I think it was something like Daneel… Donalia …’
‘Danyal?’ he whispered, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling from his lean, scarred body.
‘That’s it,’ she said.
Kreeg’s mouth had gone dry, his heart palpitating. Ten thousand! But Waylander? What chance would Kreeg have against such an enemy?
For almost a week he toured Kasyra, asking about the mountain man. Fat Sheras the miller saw him about twice a year, and remembered the small crossbow.
‘He’s very quiet,’ said Sheras, ‘but I wouldn’t like to see his bad side, if you take my meaning. Hard man. Cold eyes. He used to be almost friendly, but then his wife died – five … six years ago. Horse fell, rolled on her. There were two daughters, twins. Good-looking girls. One married a boy from the south and moved away. The other is still with him. Shy child. Too thin for my taste.’
Goldin the tavern-keeper, a thin-faced refugee from the Gothir lands, also remembered him. ‘When the wife was
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killed he came here for a while and drank his sorrows away. He didn’t say much. One night he just collapsed and I left him lying outside the door. His daughters came and helped him home. They were around twelve then. The city elders were talking of removing them from his care. In the end he paid for places at the Priests’ School and they lived there for almost three years.’
Kreeg was uplifted by Goldin’s tale. If the great Waylander had taken to drinking heavily then he was no longer to be feared. But his hopes evaporated as the tavern-keeper continued.
‘He’s never been popular. Keeps to himself too much,’ said Goldin. ‘But he killed a rogue bear last year, and that pleased people. The bear slaughtered a young farmer and his family. Dakeyras hunted it down. Amazing! He used a small crossbow. Taric saw it – the bear charged him and he just stood there, then, right at the last moment, as the bear reared up before him he put two bolts up through its open mouth and into the brain. Taric says he’s never seen the like. Cold as ice.’
Kreeg found Taric, a slim blond hostler, working at the Earl’s stables.
‘We tracked the beast for three days,’ he said, sitting back on a bale of hay and drinking deeply from the leather-bound flask of brandy Kreeg offered him. ‘Never saw him break sweat – and he’s not a young man. And when the bear reared up he just levelled the bow and loosed. Incredible! There’s no fear in the man.’
‘Why were you with him?’
Taric smiled. ‘I was trying to pay court to Miriel, but I got nowhere. Shy, you know. I gave up in the end. And he’s a strange one. Not sure I’d want him for a father-in-law. Spends most of his time by his wife’s grave.’