‘I think so.’
‘Then go home, child.’
‘I am ashamed,’ said Jahunda, hanging his head.
‘You are alive,’ pointed out Jitsan, rising and moving off swiftly, the six hunters following him.
175
There would be no horse for the young Sathuli warrior now. No bangle. No shawl for Shora. He sighed and gathered up his bow.
Waylander dismounted, leading the gelding up the steep slope. Scar padded alongside him, not liking the cold snow under his paws. ‘There’s worse to come,’ said the man.
He had seen the signal smoke and watched, with grim amusement, the antics of the young Sathuli sentry. The boy could not have been more than fourteen. Callow and inexperienced, he had run too swiftly for the ambush site, leaving footprints easily seen leading to the boulder behind which he hid. There was a time Waylander would have killed him. ‘You’re getting soft,’ he scolded himself. But he did not regret the action.
At the top of the slope he halted, shading his eyes from the snow glare and seeking out the route to Senac Pass. It was twelve years since he had come this way, and that had been summer-time, the slopes of the mountains green and verdant. The wind was biting through his jerkin and he untied his fur-lined cloak from behind his saddle and unrolled it, fastening it into place with a brooch of bronze and a leather thong.
He studied the trail behind him then walked on, leading the gelding. The trail was narrow, wending its way down a snow-covered slope of scree and on to a long, twisting ledge no more than four feet wide. To the right was the mountain, to the left a dizzying drop into the valley some four hundred feet below. In summer the journey across the ledge had been fraught enough but now, ice-covered and treacherous . . .
You must be insane, he told himself. He started to walk, but the gelding held back. The wind was whistling across the mountain face and the horse wanted no part of such a venture.
‘Come on, boy!’ urged Waylander, tugging on the reins. But the gelding would not move. Behind the horse Scar let out a deep, menacing growl. The gelding leapt forward,
176
almost sending Waylander over the edge. He swayed on the brink, but his hold on the reins saved him and he pulled himself back to safety. The ledge wound on around the mountain face for almost a quarter of a mile until, just beyond a bend, it was split by a steep scree slope leading down into the valley.
Waylander took a deep breath, and was just about to step on to the scree, when Scar growled again. The horse lurched forward, pulling the reins from Waylander’s hand. The beast hit the scree head-first, and tumbled down the slope. An arrow flashed past Waylander’s head. Spinning, he drew two knives. Scar leapt to attack the first Sathuli to come into sight around the bend behind them. The hound’s great jaws snapped at the archer’s face. Dropping his bow the warrior threw himself back, cannoning into a second man, who fell from the ledge, his scream echoing away. Scar hurled himself upon the first man, fangs locking to the man’s forearm.
Waylander moved closer to the rock-face as a third Sathuli edged into sight. The warrior raised his tulwar over the hound. Waylander’s arm snapped forward, the black-bladed knife slicing between the man’s ribs. With a grunt he dropped the tulwar and fell to his knees, before toppling to his face in the snow.
‘Here, Scar!’ shouted Waylander. For a moment only the dog continued to rip and tear at the first Sathuli, but when Waylander called again it released its grip and backed away. Unhooking the small crossbow from his belt Waylander loaded it and waited. The man with the injured arm was lying on the brink of the precipice, breathing hoarsely. The other warrior was dead.
‘Who is leader here?’ called Waylander, in halting Sathuli.
‘Jitsan,’ came the reply. ‘And I speak your tongue better than you do mine.’
‘Do you like to wager?’
‘On what?’
‘On how long your friend there lives if you do not come for him and bind his wounds.’