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idiot,’ said Waylander, lifting the meat and touching it to the hound’s long canines. Its tongue snaked out and the man watched as the dog chewed wearily. Slowly, as the hours passed, he fed the rest of the meat to the injured hound. Then, with the light fading, he took a last look at the wounds. They were mostly sealed, though a thin trickle of blood was seeping from the deepest cut on the rear right flank.
That’s all I can do for you, boy,’ said Waylander, rising. ‘Good luck to you. Were I you, I wouldn’t stay here too long. Those oafs may decide to come back for some sport -and they could bring a bowman.’ Without a backward glance the man left the hound and made his way back into the forest.
The moon was high when he found a place to camp, a sheltered cave where his fire could not be seen, and he sat long into the night, wrapped in his cloak. He had done what he could for the dog, but there was little chance it would survive. It would have to scavenge for food, and in its wounded state it would not be able to move far. If it had been stronger he would have encouraged it to follow him, taken it to the cabin. Miriel would have loved it. He recalled the orphaned fox cub she had mothered as a child. What was the name she gave it? Blue. That was it. It stayed near the cabin for almost a year. Then, one day, it just loped off and never returned. Miriel had been twelve then. It was just before . . .
The memory of the horse falling, rolling, the terrible scream . . .
Waylander closed his eyes, forcing the memories back, concentrating on a picture of little Miriel feeding the fox cub with bread dipped in warm milk.
Just before dawn he heard something moving at the cave entrance. Rolling to his feet he drew his sword. The grey wolfhound limped inside and settled down at his feet. Waylander chuckled and sheathed his sword. Squatting down he reached out to stroke the beast. The dog gave a low, warning growl and bared its fangs.
‘By Heaven, I like you, dog,’ said Waylander. ‘You remind me of me.’
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Miriel watched the ugly warrior as he trained, his powerful hands clasped to the branch, his upper body bathed in sweat. ‘You see,’ he said, hauling himself smoothly up, ‘the movement must be fluid, feet together. Touch your chin to the wood and then lower – not too fast, mind. No strain. Let your mind relax.’ His voice was even, no hint of effort in his actions.
He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side. Like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face, the smashed nose, the gashed, deformed lips, the swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.
But his face . . .
He dropped to the ground and grinned. ‘Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty’s not bad. What are you thinking?’
Caught offguard she blushed. ‘You make it look so simple,’ she said, averting her gaze.
In the three days she had been practising she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. ‘You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.’ Moving past her he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.
‘What happened to your wife?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Which one?’
‘How many have you had?’
Three.’
‘That’s a little excessive, isn’t it?’ she snapped.
He chuckled. ‘Seems that way now,’ he agreed.
‘What about the first one?’
He sighed. ‘Hell-cat. By Heaven she could fight. Half-demon -and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was
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Drenai -1 didn’t believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.’