Alone.
His spirits soared. Much as he loved Miriel he felt a great release, a sense of freedom from the burdens of company. Glancing down at the hound he chuckled. ‘Not entirely alone, eh Scar?’ The dog cocked its head to one side and ran on, sniffing at the ground, seeking rabbit spoor. Waylander drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh and cold, blowing down from the snow-topped peaks. The Sathuli would be building their winter stores now, their thoughts far from raiding and war. With skill, and a little luck, he should be able to ride the high passes and the echo-haunted canyons without their knowledge.
A little luck? He thought of the route ahead – the narrow, ice-covered trails, the treacherous slopes, the frozen streams, the realms of the wolf, the bear and the mountain lion.
Fear touched him – and he laughed aloud. For with the onset of fear he felt the pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in vein and muscle, the strength in his arms and torso. Right or wrong he knew this was what he had been born for, the lonely ride into danger, enemies all around. For what was fear if not the wine of life, and the taste of it thrilled him anew.
I have been dead these last five years, he realised. A walking corpse, though I did not know it. He thought of Danyal, and found himself remembering the joys of their life, without the sharp, jagged bitterness at her passing. The mountains loomed, grey and threatening.
And the man rode on.
*
Miriel sat silently in the garden of the tavern staring down over the colossal walls of Dros Delnoch. The journey to the fortress had passed without incident, save for the bickering between Angel and Belash. At first Miriel found it hard to understand the hatred festering within the gladiator, then she used her Talent. She shivered at the memory, and switched her line of thought. Her father would now be travelling through the lands of the Sathuli. A fiercely independent people, they had crossed the sea from the deserts of Ventria three hundred years before, settling in the Delnoch mountains. She knew little of their history, save that they believed in the words of an ancient prophet, and were persecuted for their beliefs in their home country. They were a solitary race, hardy and ferocious in battle, and permanently at war with the Drenai.
She sighed. Waylander would not cross their lands without a fight, she knew, and she prayed he would come through safely.
Behind the three tavern buildings, the ancient keep reared between the narrows of the Delnoch Pass. Impressive and strong, the keep was dwarfed by the new fortress which now filled the valley. Miriel scanned the immense structure, with its crenellated battlements of reinforced granite, its massive gate-towers and turrets.
‘They call it Egel’s Folly,’ said Angel, moving alongside her and handing her a goblet of watered wine. Senta and Belash followed him from the tavern and sat on the grass with Miriel. ‘Each of the walls is more than sixty feet high, and the barracks can accommodate thirty thousand men. Some of them have never been used. Never will be.’
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ she whispered. ‘The sentries on the first wall seem as small as insects from here.’
‘A magnificent waste of money,’ said Senta. ‘Twenty thousand labourers, a thousand stone-masons, fifty architects, hundreds of carpenters. And all built for a dream.’
‘A dream?’ inquired Miriel.
Senta chuckled and turned to Belash. ‘Yes. Egel said he saw a vision of Belash and a few of his brothers – a veritable ocean of warriors gathering against the Drenai. Hence this monstrosity.’
‘It was built to keep out the Nadir?’ asked Miriel, disbelieving.
‘Indeed it was, Miriel,’ said Senta. ‘Six walls and a keep. The largest fortress in the world, to thwart the smallest enemy. For not one Nadir tribe numbers more than a thousand warriors.’
‘But there are more than a thousand tribes,’ pointed out Belash. ‘The Uniter will bring them all together. One people. One king.’
‘Such are the dreams of all poor peoples,’ said Senta. ‘The Nadir will never unite. They hate each other as much -if not more – than they hate us. They are always at war. And they take no prisoners.’