In the Realm of the Wolf

Book 5: Drenai Saga

by David Gemmell

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

Enter the extraordinary, action-filled world that became Legend--
as the exciting Drenai adventure continues to unfold . . .

A mighty warrior and a feared assassin among the Drenai, Waylander the Slayer is now a man hunted by his own people--with a fortune in gold offered as grim reward for his murder. But this is only one of many evils closing in on Waylander and his daughter, Miriel, the beautiful and deadly Battle Queen of Kar-Barzac.

For, once separated, father and daughter face certain death as the sorcerers and demons, soldiers and shamans of three empires summon their blackest, most destructive powers in an effort to annihilate these two most gifted Drenai warriors.

Release date: June 8, 2011

Publisher: Del Rey

Print pages: 320

Sample

Miriel had been running for slightly more than an hour. In that time she
had covered around nine miles from the cabin in the high pasture, down to
the stream path, through the valley and the pine woods, up across the
crest of Ax Ridge, and back along the old deer trail.



She was tiring, heartbeat rising, lungs battling to supply oxygen to her
weary muscles. But still she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin
before the sun climbed to its noon high.



The slope was slippery from the previous night's rain, and she stumbled
twice, the leather knife scabbard at her waist digging into her bare
thigh. A touch of anger spurred her on. Without the long hunting knife and
the throwing blade strapped to her left wrist she could have made better
time. But Father's word was law, and Miriel had not left the cabin until
her weapons had been in place.



"There is no one here but us," she had argued, not for the first time.



"Expect the best, prepare for the worst," was all he had said.



And so she ran with the heavy scabbard slapping against her thigh and the
hilt of the throwing blade chafing the skin of her forearm.



Coming to a bend in the trail, she leapt over the fallen log, landing
lightly and cutting left toward the last rise, her long legs increasing
their pace, her bare feet digging into the soft earth. Her slim calves
were burning, her lungs hot. But she was exultant, for the sun was at
least twenty minutes from its noon high and she was but three minutes from
the cabin.



A shadow moved to her left, talons and teeth flashing toward her.
Instantly Miriel threw herself forward, hitting the ground on her right
side and rolling to her feet. The lioness, confused at having missing her
victim with the first leap, crouched down, ears flat to her skull, tawny
eyes focusing on the tall young woman.



Miriel's mind was racing. Action and reaction. Take control!



Her hunting knife slid into her hand, and she shouted at the top of her
voice. The lioness, shocked by the sound, backed away. Miriel's throat was
dry, her heart hammering, but her hand was steady on the blade. She
shouted once more and jumped toward the beast. Unnerved by the suddenness
of the move, the creature slunk back several more paces. Miriel licked her
lips. It should have run by now. Fear rose, but she swallowed it down.



Fear is like fire in your belly. Controlled, it warms you and keeps you
alive.
Unleashed, it burns and destroys you.



Her hazel eyes remained locked to the tawny gaze of the lioness, and she
noted the beast's ragged condition and the deep angry scar on its right
foreleg. No longer fast, it could not catch the swift deer, and it was
starving. It would not--could not--back away from the fight.



Miriel thought of everything Father had told her about lions: Ignore
the head--the bone is too thick for an arrow to penetrate. Send your shaft
in behind the front leg, up and into the lung. But he had said
nothing about fighting such a beast when armed with only a knife.



The sun slid from behind an autumn cloud, and light shone from the knife
blade. Instantly Miriel angled the blade, directing the gleam into the
eyes of the lioness. The great head twisted, the eyes blinking against the
harsh glare. Miriel shouted again.



But instead of fleeing, the lioness suddenly charged, leaping high toward
the girl.



For an instant only Miriel froze. Then the knife swept up. A black
crossbow bolt punched into the creature's neck just behind the ear, with a
second slicing into its side. The weight of the lioness struck Miriel,
hurling her back, but the hunting knife plunged into the beast's belly.



Miriel lay very still, the lioness on top of her, its breath foul on her
face. But the talons did not rake her, or the fangs close on her. With a
coughing grunt the lioness died. Miriel closed her eyes, took a deep
breath, and eased herself from beneath the body. Her legs felt weak, and
she sat on the trail, her hands trembling.



A tall man, carrying a small double crossbow of black metal, emerged from
the undergrowth and crouched down beside her. "You did well," he said, his
voice deep.



She looked up into his dark eyes and forced a smile. "It would have killed
me."



"Perhaps," he agreed. "But your blade reached its heart."



Exhaustion flowed over her like a warm blanket, and she lay back,
breathing slowly and deeply. Once she would have sensed the lioness long
before any danger threatened, but that talent was lost to her now, as her
mother and her sister were lost to her: Danyal killed in an accident five
years earlier and Krylla wed and moved away the previous summer. Pushing
such thoughts from her mind, she sat up. "You know," she whispered, "I was
really tired when I came to the last rise. I was breathing hard, and my
limbs felt as if they were made of lead. But when the lioness leapt, all
my weariness vanished." She gazed up at her father.



He smiled and nodded. "I have experienced that many times. Strength can
always be found in the heart of a fighter, and such a heart will rarely
let you down."



She glanced at the dead lioness. "Never shoot for the head--that's what
you told me," she said, tapping the first bolt jutting from the creature's
neck.



He shrugged and grinned. "I missed."



"That's not very comforting. I thought you were perfect."



"I'm getting old. Are you cut?"



"I don't think so ..." Swiftly she checked her arms and legs, as wounds
from a lion's claws or fangs often became poisonous. "No. I was very
lucky."



"Yes, you were," he agreed. "But you made your luck by doing everything
right. I'm proud of you."



"Why were you here?"



"You needed me," he answered. Rising smoothly to his feet, he reached out,
drawing her upright. "Now skin the beast and quarter it. There's nothing
quite like lion meat."



"I don't think I want to eat it," she said. "I think I'd like to forget
about it."



"Never forget," he admonished her. "This was a victory, and you are
stronger for it. I'll see you later." Retrieving his bolts, the tall man
cleaned them of blood, returned them to the leather quiver at his side.



"You're going to the waterfall?" she asked him softly.



"For a little while," he answered, his voice distant. He turned back to
her. "You think I spend too much time there?"



"No," she told him sadly. "It's not the time you sit there nor the effort
you put into tending the grave. It's you. She's been ... gone ... now for
five years. You should start living again. You need ... more than this."



He nodded, but she knew she had not reached him. He smiled and laid his
hand on her shoulder. "One day you'll find a love, and then we can talk on
equal terms. I do not mean that to sound patronizing. You are bright and
intelligent. You have courage and wit. But sometimes it is like trying to
describe colors to a blind man. Love, as I hope you will find, has great
power. Even death cannot destroy it. And I still love her." Leaning
forward, he drew her toward him, kissing her brow. "Now skin that beast.
And I'll see you at dusk."



She watched him walk away, a tall man moving with grace and care, his
black and silver hair drawn back into a tightly tied ponytail, his
crossbow hanging from his belt.



And then he was gone, vanished into the shadows.









The waterfall was narrow, no more than six feet wide, flowing over white
boulders in a glittering cascade to a leaf-shaped bowl thirty feet across
and forty-five feet long. At its most southern point a second fall
occurred, the stream surging on to join the river two miles to the south.
Golden leaves swirled on the surface of the water, and with each breath of
breeze more spiraled down from the trees.



Around the pool grew many flowers, most of them planted by the man who now
knelt by the graveside. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was losing its
power, the cold winds of autumn flowing over the mountains. Waylander
sighed. A time of dying. He gazed at the golden leaves floating on the
water and remembered sitting there with Danyal and the children on another
autumn day ten lifetimes earlier.



Krylla had been sitting with her tiny feet in the water, with Miriel
swimming among the leaves. "They are like souls of the departed," Danyal
had told Krylla. "Floating on the sea of life toward a place of rest."



He sighed again and returned his attention to the flower-garlanded mound
beneath which lay all he had lived for.



"Miriel fought a lion today," he said. "She stood and did not panic. You
would have been proud of her." Laying his ebony-handled crossbow to one
side, he idly dead-headed the geraniums growing by the headstone, removing
the faded, dry red blooms. The season was late, and it was unlikely they
would flower again. Soon he would need to pull them, shaking dry the roots
and hanging them in the cabin, ready for planting in the spring.



"But she is still too slow," he added. "She does not act with instinct but
with remembered learning. Not like Krylla." He chuckled. "You remember how
the village boys used to gather around her? She knew how to handle them,
the tilt of the head, the sultry smile. She took that from you."



Reaching out, he touched the cold rectangular marble headstone, his index
finger tracing the carved lines.





Danyal, wife of Dakeyras,

the pebble in the moonlight






The grave was shaded by elms and beech, and there were roses growing close
by, huge yellow blooms filling the air with sweet fragrance. He had bought
them in Kasyra, seven bushes. Three had died on the journey back, but the
remainder had flourished in the rich clay soil.



"I'm going to have to take her to the city soon," he said. "She's eighteen
now, and she needs to learn. I'll find a husband for her." He sighed. "It
means leaving you for a while. I'm not looking forward to that."



The silence grew, with even the wind in the leaves dying down. His dark
eyes were distant, his memories solemn. Smoothly he rose and, taking up
the clay bowl beside the headstone, moved to the pool, filled the bowl,
and began to water the roses. The previous day's rain had been little more
than a shower, and the roses liked to drink deep.

Kreeg crouched low in the bushes, his crossbow loaded. How easy, he
thought, unable to suppress a smile.



Find Waylander and kill him. He had to admit that the prospect
of such a hunt had frightened him. After all, Waylander the Slayer was no
mean opponent. When his family had been slain by raiders, he had roamed
the land until he had hunted down every one of the killers. Waylander was
a legend in the Guild, a capable swordsman but a brilliant knife fighter
and a crossbowman without peer. More than that, he was said to possess
mystical abilities, always sensing when danger was near.



Kreeg sighted the crossbow at the tall man's back. Mystical abilities?
Pah. In one heartbeat he would be dead.



The man at the graveside picked up a clay bowl and moved toward the pool.
Kreeg shifted his aim, but his intended victim crouched down, filling the
bowl. Kreeg lowered his bow a fraction, slowly letting out his held
breath. Waylander was side-on now, and a sure killing shot would have to
be to the head. What was he doing with the water? Kreeg watched the tall
man kneel by the roses, tipping the bowl and splashing the contents around
the roots. He'll go back to the grave, thought Kreeg. And once there, I'll
take him.



So much in life depended on luck. When the kill order had come to the
Guild, Kreeg had been out of money and living off a whore in Kasyra, the
gold he had earned from killing the Ventrian merchant long since vanished
in the gambling dens of the city's south side. Now Kreeg blessed the bad
luck that had dogged him in Kasyra. For all life, he knew, was a circle.
And it was in Kasyra that he had heard of the hermit in the mountains, the
tall widower with the shy daughter. He thought of the message from the
Guild:



Seek out a man named Dakeyras. He has a wife, Danyal, and a daughter,
Miriel. The man has black and silver hair and dark eyes and is tall, close
to fifty years of age. He will be carrying a small double crossbow of
ebony and bronze. Kill him and bring the crossbow to Drenan as proof of
success. Move with care. The man is Waylander. Ten thousand in gold is
waiting.



In Kasyra Kreeg had despaired of earning such a fabulous sum.
Then--blessed be the gods--he had told the whore about the hunt.



"There's a man with a daughter called Miriel who lives in the mountains to
the north," she had said. "I've not seen him, but I met his daughters
years ago at the Priests' School. We learned our letters there."



"Do you remember the mother's name?"



"I think it was something like Daneel ... Donalia ..."



"Danyal?" he had whispered, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling from his
lean, scarred body.



"That's it," she had said.



Kreeg's mouth had gone dry, his heart palpitating. Ten thousand! But
Waylander? What chance would Kreeg have against such an enemy?



For almost a week he toured Kasyra, asking about the mountain man. Fat
Sheras the miller saw him about twice a year and remembered the small
crossbow.



"He's very quiet," said Sheras, "but I wouldn't like to see his bad side,
if you take my meaning. Hard man. Cold eyes. He used to be almost
friendly, but then his wife died--five ... six years ago. Horse fell,
rolled on her. There were two daughters, twins. Good-looking girls. One
married a boy from the south and moved away. The other is still with him.
Shy child. Too thin for my taste."



Goldin the tavern keeper, a thin-faced refugee from the Gothir lands, also
remembered him. "When the wife was killed, he came here for a while and
drank his sorrows away. He didn't say much. One night he just collapsed,
and I left him lying outside the door. His daughters came and helped him
home. They were around twelve then. The city elders were talking of
removing them from his care. In the end he paid for places at the Priests'
School, and they lived there for almost three years."



Kreeg was uplifted by Goldin's tale. If the great Way-lander had taken to
drinking heavily, then he was no longer to be feared. But his hopes
evaporated as the tavern keeper continued.



"He's never been popular. Keeps to himself too much," said Goldin. "But he
killed a rogue bear last year, and that pleased people. The bear
slaughtered a young farmer and his family. Dakeyras hunted it down.
Amazing! He used a small crossbow. Taric saw it. The bear charged him, and
he just stood there, then, right at the last moment, as the bear reared up
before him, he put two bolts up through its open mouth and into the brain.
Taric says he's never seen the like. Cold as ice."



Kreeg found Taric, a slim blond hostler, working at the earl's stables.



"We tracked the beast for three days," he said, sitting back on a bale of
hay and drinking deeply from the leather-bound flask of brandy Kreeg
offered him. "Never saw him break a sweat--and he's not a young man. And
when the bear reared up, he just leveled the bow and loosed. Incredible!
There's no fear in the man."



"Why were you with him?"



Taric smiled. "I was trying to pay court to Miriel, but I got nowhere.
Shy, you know. I gave up in the end. And he's a strange one. Not sure I'd
want him for a father-in-law. Spends most of his time by his wife's grave."



Kreeg's spirits soared anew. That was what he had been hoping for. Hunting
a man through a forest was chancy at best. Knowing his victim's habits
made the task slightly less hazardous, but to find out that there was one
place the victim always visited ... that was a gift from the gods. And a
graveside, at that. Waylander's mind would be occupied, full of sorrow,
perhaps, and fond memories.



So it had proved. Kreeg, following Taric's directions, had located the
waterfall soon after dawn that morning and had found a hiding place that
overlooked the headstone. Now all that was left was the killing shot.
Kreeg's gaze flickered to the ebony crossbow still lying on the grass
beside the grave.



Ten thousand in gold! He licked his thin lips and carefully wiped his
sweating palm on the leaf-green tunic he wore.



The tall man walked back to the pool, collecting more water, then crossed
to the farthest rosebushes, crouching once more by the roots. Kreeg
switched his gaze to the headstone. Forty feet away. At that distance the
barbed bolt would punch through Waylander's back, ripping through the
lungs and exiting through the chest. Even if he missed the heart, his
victim would die within minutes, choking on his own blood.



Kreeg was anxious for the kill to be over, and his eyes sought out the
tall man.



He was not in sight.



Kreeg blinked. The clearing was empty.



"You missed your chance," came a cold voice.



Kreeg swung, trying to bring the crossbow to bear. He had one glimpse of
his victim, arm raised, something shining in his hand. The arm swept down.
It was as if a bolt of pure sunlight had exploded within Kreeg's skull.
There was no pain, no other sensation. He felt the crossbow slipping from
his hands and the world spinning.



His last thought was about luck.



It had not changed at all.









Waylander knelt by the body and lifted the ornate crossbow the man had
held. The shoulder stock of ebony had been expertly crafted and embossed
with swirling gold. The bow itself was of steel, most likely Ventrian, for
its finish was silky smooth and there was not a blemish to be seen.
Putting aside the weapon, he returned his scrutiny to the corpse. The man
was lean and tough, his face hard, the chin square, the mouth thin.
Waylander was sure he had never seen him before. Leaning forward, he
dragged his knife clear of the man's eye socket, wiping the blade across
the grass. Drying the knife against the dead man's tunic, he slipped it
once more into the black leather sheath strapped to his left forearm.



A swift search of the man's clothing revealed nothing save four copper
coins and a hidden knife hanging from a thong at his throat. Taking hold
of the leaf-green tunic, Waylander hauled the corpse upright, hoisting the
body over his right shoulder. Foxes and wolves would fight over the
remains, and he wanted no such squabbles near Danyal's grave.



Slowly he made his way to the second waterfall, hurling the body out over
the rim and watching it plummet to the rushing stream below. At first the
impact wedged the corpse against two boulders, but slowly the pull of the
water exerted itself and Kreeg's lifeless form floated away facedown
toward the distant river. Retrieving his own crossbow and taking up the
assassin's weapon, Waylander made his way back to the cabin.



Smoke was lazily drifting up from the stone chimney, and he paused at the
edge of the trees, staring without pleasure at the home he had crafted for
Danyal and himself. Built against the base of a rearing cliff, protected
from above by an overhang of rock, the log cabin was sixty feet long, with
three large shuttered windows and one door. The ground before it had been
cleared of all trees, bushes, and boulders, and no one could approach
within a hundred feet without being seen.



The cabin was a fortress, yet there was beauty also. Danyal had covered
the corner joints with mottled stones of red and blue and had planted
flowers beneath the windows, roses that climbed and clung to the wooden
walls, pink and gold against the harsh ridged bark.



Waylander scanned the open ground, searching the tree line for any second
assassin who might be hidden, but he could see no one. Carefully keeping
to cover, he circled the cabin, checking for tracks and finding none save
those made by his own moccasins and Miriel's bare feet. Satisfied at last,
he crossed to the cabin and stepped inside. Miriel had prepared a meal of
hot oats and wild strawberries, the last of the season. She smiled as he
entered, but the smile faded as she saw the crossbow he carried.



"Where did you find that?" she asked.



"There was a man hidden near the graveside."



"A robber?"



"I don't believe so. This bow would cost perhaps a hundred gold pieces. It
is a beautifully crafted weapon. I think he was an assassin."



"Why would he be hunting you?"



Waylander shrugged. "There was a time when I had a price on my head.
Perhaps I still have. Or maybe I killed his brother or his father. Who
knows? One thing is certain; he can't tell me."



She sat down at the long oak table, watching him. "You are angry," he said
at last.



"Yes. He shouldn't have gotten that close. I should have been dead."



"What happened?"



"He was hidden in the undergrowth some forty paces from the graveside,
waiting for the killing shot. When I moved to get water for the roses, I
saw a bird fly down to land in the tree above him, but it veered off at
the last moment."



"It could have been a fox or any sudden movement," she pointed out. "Birds
are skittish."



"Yes, it could have been," he agreed. "But it wasn't. And if he'd had
enough confidence to try for a head shot, I would now by lying beside
Danyal."



"Then we've both been lucky today," she said.



He nodded but did not answer, his mind still puzzling over the incident.
For ten years they had lived without his past returning to haunt him. In
these mountains he was merely the widower Dakeyras. Who, after all this
time, would send an assassin after him?



And how many more would come?









The sun was hanging over the western peaks, a blazing cooper disk of fire
casting a last defiant glare over the mountainside. Miriel squinted
against the light.



"It's too bright," she complained.



But his hand swept up, the wooden chopping board sailing into the sky.
Smoothly she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, her fingers pressing
the bronze trigger. The bolt leapt from the weapon, missing the arcing
wood by little more than a foot.



"I said it was too bright," she repeated.



"Picture failure and it will happen," he told her sternly, recovering the
wooden board.



"Let me throw it for you, then."



"I do not need the practice--you do!"



"You couldn't hit it, could you? Admit it?"



He gazed into her sparkling eyes and noted the sunlight glinting red on
her hair and the bronzed skin of her shoulders. "You ought to be married,"
he said suddenly. "You are far too beautiful to be stuck on a mountainside
with an old man."



"Don't try to evade the issue," she scolded, snatching the board from him
and walking back ten paces. He chuckled and shook his head, accepting
defeat. Carefully he eased back the steel string of the lower bow arm. The
spring-loaded hook clicked, and he inserted a short black bolt, gently
pressing the notch against the string. Repeating the maneuver with the
upper bow arm, he adjusted the tension in the curved bronze triggers. The
weapon had cost him a small fortune in opals many years before, but it had
been crafted by a master and Waylander had never regretted the purchase.



He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled
the board high. The sunlight seared his eyes, but he waited until the
spinning board reached its highest point. Extending his arm, he pressed
the first bronze trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into
the board, half splitting it. As it fell, he released the second bolt. The
board exploded into shards.



"Horrible man!" she said.



He made a low bow. "You should feel privileged," he told her, holding back
his smile. "I don't usually perform without payment."



"Throw again," she ordered him, restringing the crossbow.



"The wood is broken," he pointed out.



"Throw the largest piece."



Retrieving his bolts, he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more
than four inches across and less than a foot long. "Are you ready?"



"Just throw!"



With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The
crossbow came up, and the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander
applauded the shot. Miriel gave an elaborate bow.



"Women are supposed to curtsey," he said.



"And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery," she retorted.



"True," he conceded. "How do you like the assassin's bow?"



"It has good balance, and it is very light."



"Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some
swordplay?"



She laughed. "Is your pride ready for another pounding?"



"No," he admitted. "I think we'll have an early night." She looked
disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin.
"I think you need a better swordmaster than I," he told her as they
walked. "It is your best weapon, and you are truly skilled. I'll think on
it."





"I thought you were the best," she chided.



"Fathers always seem that way," he said dryly. "But no. With bow or knife
I am superb. With the sword? Only excellent."



"And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?"



"Yes," he answered, his smile fading.



Increasing his pace, he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His
first family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls, and
his son. The picture was bright in his mind. He had found the boy lying
dead in the flower garden, his little face surrounded by blooms.



And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched
helplessly as Danyal's horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion
had hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing
her chest. She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain.



"Is there anything at which you do not excel?"



Only one.



I cannot keep alive those I love.