‘I have friends among the Sathuli. After our … unfortunate … encounter back in the mountains I came here, seeking more warriors. I was with the Lord Sathuli when news of the hunt came in. The Lord Sathuli is most anxious to see you dead. He feels your journey across his lands is an insult to tribal pride. He would have sent more men – but he has other matters on his mind at the moment. Instead he paid me. By the way, would you like to know who hired the Guild to hunt you?’
‘I already know,’ Waylander told him.
‘Oh, how disappointing. Still, I am by nature a kind-hearted man, so I will at least give you a little good news before I kill you. Even as we speak the Lord Protector of the Drenai lies chained in a Sathuli dungeon, ready to be delivered to the Emperor of the Gothir.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Not at all. He was persuaded to meet with the Lord Sathuli, in a bid to prevent Gothir troops crossing tribal lands. He travelled with a small party of loyal soldiers and one, rather disloyal, officer. His men were slaughtered and Karnak taken alive. I saw him myself. It was quite comical. Unusual man – offered me a fortune to help him escape.’
‘He obviously doesn’t know you too well,’ said Waylander.
‘On the contrary, I have worked for him before – many times. He paid me to kill Egel.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Yes, you do – I can see it in your eyes. Ah well, recovered your breath? Good. Then let us see some blood!’ Morak advanced, his blade lancing out. Waylander blocked, but was forced back, past the jutting boulders. Morak laughed. The lesson is now over,’ he said. ‘Time for the enjoyment to begin.’
A dark shadow moved behind him and Waylander saw the hound, Scar, pulling himself painfully forward on his front paws, his back legs limp and useless. An arrow had pierced his ribs and blood was dribbling from the huge jaws. Waylander edged to the left. Morak moved right. He had not seen the dying hound. Waylander leapt forward, sending a wild cut towards Morak’s face. The assassin moved back a step – and Scar’s huge jaws snapped shut on his right calf, the fangs sinking through skin, flesh and sinew. Morak screamed in pain. Waylander stepped in and rammed his sabre into the assassin’s belly, ripping it up through the lungs.
‘That’s for the old man you tortured!’ hissed Waylander. Twisting the blade he tore it free, disembowelling the swordsman. ‘And that’s for my dog!’
Morak fell to his knees. ‘No!’ he moaned. Then toppled sideways to the earth.
Casting aside his sword Waylander knelt by the hound, stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save the beast. The arrow had pierced its spine. But he sat with it, cradling the huge head in his lap, speaking softly, his voice soothing, until the juddering breathing slowed and finally stopped.
Then he stood, gathered his crossbow, and walked to the stand of trees where Morak had hidden his horse.
14
The wall was rough-built, but bound with a mortar composed of the volcanic black dust of the mountains. Once tamped down and doused with water it set to the hardness of granite. From the south the enemy faced a structure ten feet high, but on the defensive side there was a rampart which allowed the defenders to lean out and send volley after volley of arrows into the ranks of the attackers, then duck down out of sight of any enemy archers.
So far the wall had held. In several places the Gothir had rolled boulders to the foot of it trying to find a way of scaling the defence and later, the front ranks had carried crudely-built ladders. Others used ropes with iron hooks to gain purchase, but the defenders fought with tribal ferocity, hacking and killing all who reached the top.
Once the Gothir had almost formed a fighting wedge, six men forcing their way on to the rampart, but Angel, Senta and Belash had charged into them – and the Gothir warriors died within moments. Again and again the Gothir charged, wave after wave, seeking to overwhelm the Nadir by sheer force of numbers. It had not succeeded.