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slicing a section of meat then lancing it with his knife and raising it towards his mouth.
‘No, Senta, then you will die.’
The knife froze. Senta shook his head. ‘I’m not being paid to kill you, old man.’
‘Just as well,’ said Angel. ‘You wouldn’t be there to collect it. I’ll wait for you outside.’
The former gladiator stood and left the room. Senta glanced up at Miriel. ‘It’s a good breakfast. May I stay on for supper?’
‘Don’t kill him!’
‘What?’ Senta seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I have no choice, beauty. He has challenged me.’ He stared at her. ‘Are you and he . . .? No, surely not.’ He stood. ‘I’m sorry. Truly. I quite like the old boy.’
‘He’s not that old.’
‘He’s twice my age, Miriel, and as a swordsman that makes him older than the mountains.’
‘If you kill him you’ll have to kill me. I’ll come for you. I swear it.’
Senta sighed, then bowed. There was no hint of mockery in his eyes. Swinging on his heel the assassin stepped out into the light. Angel was standing some thirty feet from the door, sword in hand.
‘Arena rules?’ called Senta.
‘As you like.’
‘Are you sure about this, Angel? There is no need for us to fight. And you know well enough you will lose.’
‘Don’t tell me, boy, show me!’
Senta drew his sabre and advanced.
Waylander emerged from the trees and saw the two swordsmen circling one another.
‘Ho Angel!’ he called. The two warriors paused, glancing up towards him as he made his way down the slope, the stocky Nadir following. From Kalis’ description Waylander guessed the swordsman was Senta.
‘Leave him to me!’ said Angel, as the gap closed.
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‘No one fights for me,’ replied Waylander, his eyes fixed on Senta, noting the man’s balance and his condescending smile. There was no fear here, only a cold confidence bordering on the arrogant. Waylander came closer. Still he had not drawn a weapon and he saw Senta’s eyes glance down at the scabbarded sword. ‘You are hunting me?’ asked Waylander, moving ever closer. Only a few paces separated them.
‘I have a commission from the Guild,’ replied Senta, taking a step back.
Waylander kept moving. Senta was tense now, for Waylander had halted immediately before him. ‘Arena rules?’ enquired the assassin.
Waylander smiled. His head snapped forward, butting the blond swordsman on the bridge of the nose. Senta staggered back. Waylander stepped in and hammered his elbow into the man’s jaw. Senta hit the ground hard, his sword falling from his fingers. Waylander grabbed the man’s long golden hair, hauling him to his knees. ‘I don’t duel,’ he said, drawing a razor-sharp knife from his baldric.
‘Don’t kill him!’ shouted Angel.
‘As you wish,’ answered Waylander, releasing his hold on the half-conscious swordsman. Senta slumped back to the ground. Waylander sheathed his knife and walked into the cabin.
‘Welcome back, Father,’ said Miriel, stepping into his embrace. His arms swept round her, stroking her back, his face pressed against her hair.
‘We have to leave,’ he whispered, his voice trembling. ‘We’re going north.’
‘What has happened?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. ‘We’ll talk later. Prepare two packs -food for three days, winter clothing. You know what is needed.’ She nodded and looked past him. He glanced back to see the Nadir warrior standing in the doorway. ‘We met in the mountains,’ said Waylander. ‘This is Belash.’
‘Buthe’s. . .’
‘Yes, he was. But Morak betrayed him. Left him to die.’ Waylander waved the man forward. ‘This is my daughter,
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Miriel.’ Belash’s face showed no expression, but his eyes were drawn to the weapons she wore. The Nadir said nothing, but walked into the kitchen where he helped himself to a hunk of bread and some cheese.
‘Can you trust him?’ whispered Miriel.
Waylander’s smile was broad. ‘Of course not. But he will be valuable where we are going.’
‘Into Gothir?’
‘Yes.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘There’s a man there I must find. Now prepare the packs.’
She half-turned, then looked back at him. ‘Why did you spare Senta?’
He shrugged. ‘Angel asked me to.’
‘Hardly a good reason.’