Kreeg’s spirits had soared anew. This was what he had been hoping for. Hunting a man through a forest was chancy at best. Knowing his victim’s habits made the task slightly less hazardous, but to find there was one place the victim always visited… that was a gift from the gods. And a graveside at that. Waylander’s mind would be occupied, full of sorrow, perhaps, and fond memories.
So it had proved. Kreeg, following Taric’s directions, had located the waterfall soon after dawn this morning, and found a hiding place which overlooked the headstone. Now all that was left was the killing shot. Kreeg’s gaze flickered to the ebony crossbow, still lying on the grass beside the grave.
Ten thousand in gold! He licked his thin lips and carefully wiped his sweating palm on the leaf-green tunic he wore.
The tall man walked back to the pool, collecting more water, then crossed to the furthest rose bushes, crouching once more by the roots. Kreeg switched his gaze to the headstone. Forty feet away. At that distance the barbed bolt would punch through Waylander’s back, ripping through the lungs and exiting through the chest. Even if he missed the heart his victim would die within minutes, choking on his own blood.
Kreeg was anxious for the kill to be over and his eyes sought out the tall man.
He was not in sight.
Kreeg blinked. The clearing was empty.
‘You missed your chance,’ came a cold voice.
Kreeg swung, trying to bring the crossbow to bear. He had one glimpse of his victim, arm raised, something shining in his hand. The arm swept down. It was as if a bolt of pure sunlight had exploded within Kreeg’s skull. There was no pain, no other sensation. He felt the crossbow slipping from his hands, and the world spinning.
His last thought was about luck.
It had not changed at all.
*
Waylander knelt by the body and lifted the ornate crossbow the man had held. The shoulder-stock of ebony had been expertly crafted, and embossed with swirling gold. The bow itself was of steel, most likely Ventrian, for its finish was silky smooth and there was not a blemish to be seen. Putting aside the weapon he returned his scrutiny to the corpse. The man was lean and tough, his face hard, the chin square, the mouth thin. Waylander was sure he had never seen him before. Leaning forward he dragged his knife clear of the man’s eye-socket, wiping the blade across the grass. Drying the knife against the dead man’s tunic he slipped it once more into the black leather sheath strapped to his left forearm.
A swift search of the man’s clothing revealed nothing, save four copper coins and a hidden knife, hanging from a thong at his throat. Taking hold of the leaf-green tunic Waylander hauled the corpse upright, hoisting the body over his right shoulder. Foxes and wolves would fight over the remains, and he wanted no such squabbles near Danyal’s grave.
Slowly he made his way to the second waterfall, hurling the body out over the rim and watching it plummet to the rushing stream below. At first the impact wedged the corpse against two boulders, but slowly the pull of the water exerted itself and Kreeg’s lifeless form floated away, face-down towards the distant river. Retrieving his own crossbow, and taking up the assassin’s weapon, Waylander made his way back to the cabin.
Smoke was lazily drifting up from the stone chimney and he paused at the edge of the trees, staring without pleasure at the home he had crafted for Danyal and himself. Built against the base of a rearing cliff, protected from above by an overhang of rock, the log cabin was sixty feet long, with three large, shuttered windows and one door. The ground before it had been cleared of all trees, bushes and boulders, and no one could approach within a hundred feet without being seen.
The cabin was a fortress, and yet there was beauty also. Danyal had covered the corner joints with mottled stones of red and blue, and planted flowers beneath the windows, roses that climbed and clung to the wooden walls, pink and gold against the harsh, ridged bark.