Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by David A. Gemmell
Copyright
The ruined city of Kuan-Hador reeks of dark mystery. Shunned by brigands and merchants alike, it is home to fearsome things – slavering white beasts who possess an insatiable desire for death and destruction. The sorcerers and their foul minions will soon be free to wreak a horrible vengeance upon all that lives. Only a rag-tag group of unlikely heroes are prepared to stand against them: Kysumu, the Rajnee swordsman; Yu Yu Liang, a humble ditch-digger with dreams of glory; Keeva Taliana, a warrior woman as fierce as she is beautiful; and the mysterious Grey Man, a man with a blood-drenched past known throughout the lands of the Drenai as Waylander, the Slayer.
Now, to defeat a timeless evil, an ancient riddle must be solved, and Waylander, the prince of assassins, must kill a man who cannot die . . .
In Hero in the Shadows, David Gemmell returns to the savage lands of his acclaimed Drenai Saga in an action-packed tale of malevolent sorceries reborn – and the brave men and women who dare to stand against them.
David A. Gemmell’s first novel, Legend, was first published in 1984 and went on to become a classic. His most recent Drenai and Rigante novels are available as Corgi paperbacks; all are Sunday Times bestsellers.
Widely regarded as the finest writer of heroic fantasy, David Gemmell lived in Sussex until his tragic death in July 2006.
The Drenai books
Legend
The King Beyond the Gate
Waylander
Quest for Lost Heroes
Waylander II: In the Realm of the Wolf
The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
The Legend of Deathwalker
Winter Warriors
Hero in the Shadows
The Damned books
White Wolf
The Swords of Night and Day
The Jon Shannow books
Wolf in Shadow
The Last Guardian
Bloodstone
The Stones of Power books
Ghost King
Last Sword of Power
Lion of Macedon
Dark Prince
The Hawk Queen books
Ironhand’s Daughter
The Hawk Eternal
The Rigante books
Sword in the Storm
Midnight Falcon
Ravenheart
Stormrider
Individual titles
Knights of Dark Renown
Morning Star
Dark Moon
Echoes of the Great Song
Anthologies
Drenai Tales Volume I
Drenai Tales Volume II
Drenai Tales Volume III
Hero in the Shadows is dedicated with much love to Broo Doherty, with thanks for the years of support, encouragement and flawless good humour. Be happy, Broo!
WAYLANDER SWAYED IN the saddle, the weight of weariness and pain bearing down on him, washing away the anger. Blood from the gash in his left shoulder had flowed over his chest and stomach, but this had halted now. The wound in his side, however, was still bleeding. He felt light-headed, and gripped the saddle pommel, taking slow, deep breaths.
The village girl was kneeling by the dead raider. He heard her say something, then watched as she took up his throwing knife in her bound hands and rammed it into the man’s face over and over again. Waylander looked away, his vision blurring.
Fifteen years ago he would have hunted down these men and emerged without a scratch. Now his wounds throbbed and, with the fury gone, he felt empty, devoid of emotion. With great care he dismounted. His legs almost gave way, but he kept hold of the pommel and sagged against the steeldust gelding. Anger at his weakness flared, giving him a little strength. Reaching into his saddlebag he pulled out a small pouch of blue linen and moved to a nearby boulder. His fingers were trembling as he opened it. He sat quietly for a few heartbeats, breathing deeply, then unfastened his black cloak, letting it drop back to drape over the boulder. The girl came alongside him. Blood had splashed to her face, and into her long, dark hair. Waylander drew his hunting knife and cut the ropes binding her wrists. The skin beneath was raw and bleeding.
Twice he tried to sheath his blade, but his vision was misting, and he placed the knife on the boulder beside him. The girl peered at his torn leather tunic shirt, and the bloodstains upon it. ‘You are hurt,’ she said. Waylander nodded. Unbuckling his belt, he reached up with his right hand and tried to pull his shirt over his head. But there was no strength left. Swiftly she stepped in, lifting the garment clear. There were two wounds, a shallow cut from the top of his left shoulder and down past the collarbone, and a deeper puncture wound that had entered just above his left hip and exited at the back. Both holes were plugged with tree moss, but blood was still oozing. Waylander reached for the crescent needle embedded in the blue linen pouch. As his fingers touched it darkness swept over him.
When first he opened his eyes he wondered why the needle was shining so brightly, and why it was floating before his eyes. Then he realized he was staring at the crescent moon in a clear night sky. His cloak had been laid over him, and beneath his head was a pillow fashioned from a folded blanket. A fire was burning close by, and he could smell the savoury scent of woodsmoke. As he tried to move, pain erupted in his shoulder, stitches stretching against tortured flesh. He sagged back.
The girl moved alongside him, stroking his hair from his sweat-drenched brow.
Waylander closed his eyes and slept again, floating in a sea of dreams. A giant creature with the face of a wolf bore down upon him. He shot two crossbow bolts into its mouth. A second came at him. With no weapons to hand, he leapt at the beast, his hands grasping for its throat. It shifted and changed, becoming a slender woman whose neck snapped as his hands gripped hard. He cried out in agony, then looked around. The first dead beast had also changed. It had become a small boy, lying dead in a meadow of spring flowers. Waylander looked at his hands. They were covered in blood, which flowed up over his arms, covering his chest and neck, streaming over his face and into his mouth, choking him. He spat it out, struggling for breath, and staggered to a nearby stream, hurling himself into it, trying to wash the blood from his face and body.
A man was sitting on the bank. ‘Help me!’ called Waylander.
‘I cannot,’ said the man. He stood and turned away, and Waylander saw two crossbow bolts jutting from his back.
The terrible dreams continued, dreams of blood and death.
When he awoke it was still dark, but he felt stronger. Moving with care to protect the stitches, he rolled to his right and pushed himself to a sitting position. The second wound above his hip flared with pain and he grunted.
‘Are you feeling better?’ the girl asked him.
‘A little. Thank you for helping me.’
She laughed.
‘What is so amusing?’ he asked.
‘You rode after thirteen men and suffered these wounds to come to my rescue. And you thank me? You are a strange man, Lord. Are you hungry?’ He realized that he was. In fact, he was ravenous. She took a stick and rolled three large clay balls from the fire. Cracking open the first with a sharp blow she knelt down and examined the contents. Looking up at him, she smiled.
It was a pretty smile, he thought. ‘What do you have there?’ he asked.
‘Pigeons. I killed them yesterday. They are a little too fresh, but there was no other food. My uncle taught me how to cook them in clay, but I have not tried it in years.’
‘Yesterday? How long have I been sleeping?’
‘On and off for three days.’
Satisfied that the first pigeon was cooked, she cracked open the other two balls. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. Waylander felt almost sick with hunger. They waited impatiently until the meat had cooled, then devoured the birds. The flavour was strong, the texture not unlike aged beef.
‘Who is Tanya?’ she asked.
He looked at her, and his eyes were cold. ‘How do you know that name?’
‘You cried out in your sleep.’
He did not answer at first, and she did not press him. Instead she built up the fire and sat quietly, a blanket around her shoulders. ‘She was my first wife,’ he said at last. ‘She died. Her grave is a long way from here.’
‘Did you love her greatly?’
‘Aye. Greatly. You are very curious.’
‘How else does one find out what one wishes to know?’
‘I cannot argue with that.’ She was about to speak, but he raised his hand. ‘And let that be an end to questions on this matter,’ he said.
‘As you will, Lord.’
‘I am not a lord. I am a landowner.’
‘Are you very old? Your hair is grey, and there are lines on your face. But you move like a young man.’
‘What is your name?’ he asked her.
‘Keeva Taliana.’
‘Yes, I am old, Keeva Taliana. Older than sin.’
‘Then how is it that you could kill all those men? They were young and strong and fierce as devils.’
Suddenly he felt weary again. She was instantly full of concern. ‘You must drink lots of water,’ she said. ‘My uncle told me that. Loss of blood, lots of water.’
‘A wise man, your uncle. Did he also teach you to use your elbow as a weapon?’
‘Yes. He taught me many things. None of which was terribly useful when the raiders came.’
Fetching a canteen from a saddle on the ground close by, she held it out to him. Waylander took it from her and drank deeply. ‘Do not be so sure,’ he said. ‘You are alive. The others are not. You stayed cool and you used your mind.’
‘I was lucky,’ she said, a note of anger in her voice.
‘Yes, you were. But you planted the seed of fear in the leader. For that he kept you alive.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You told him the Grey Man was coming.’
‘You were there?’
‘I was there when he told his sergeant what you had said. I was about to slay them both when the sergeant grabbed you by the hair and dragged you back to the fire. That caught me out of position. Had you not crushed that man’s nose I would not have had time to come to your aid. So, yes, you were lucky. But you made the best use of that luck.’
‘I did not see you or hear you,’ she said.
‘Neither did they.’ Then he lay back and slept again.
When he awoke she was snuggled down alongside him, sleeping peacefully. It was pleasant to be this close to another human being, and he realized he had been alone too long. Easing himself away from her, he rose to his feet and pulled on his boots. As he did so, a group of crows detached themselves from the bodies of the dead and rose into the air, cawing raucously. The sound woke Keeva. She sat up, smiled at him, then moved away behind the boulders. Waylander saddled two of the horses she had tethered, the effort causing his wounds to throb.
He was still angry about the first wound to his shoulder. He should have guessed the leader would send out a rearguard. They almost had him. The first had been crouched on a tree branch above the trail, the second hiding in the bushes. Only the scraping of the first man’s boot upon the bark above had alerted him. Bringing up his crossbow he had sent a bolt into the man as he leapt. It had entered at the belly, slicing up through the heart. He had fallen almost on top of Waylander, his sword slashing across his shoulder. Luckily the man was dead as the blow struck, and there was no real force in it. The second man had lunged from the bushes, a single-bladed axe in his hand. The steeldust gelding had reared, forcing the attacker back. In that moment Waylander sent the second bolt through the man’s forehead. You are getting old and slow, he chided himself. Two clumsy assassins and they almost had you.
It had probably been this anger that had led him to attack their camp – a need to prove to himself that he could still move as he once had. Waylander sighed. He had been lucky to escape with his life. Even so, one of the men had managed to slam a blade into his hip. An inch or so higher and he would have been disembowelled, a few inches lower and the blade would have sliced the femoral artery, killing him for sure.
Keeva returned, smiling and waving as she came. He felt a touch of guilt. He had not known, at first, that the raiders had a captive. He had hunted them purely because they raided his lands. Her rescue, though it gave him great pleasure, was merely a fluke, a fortunate happenstance.
Keeva rolled the blankets and tied them to the back of her saddle. Then she brought him his cloak and weapons. ‘Do you have a name, Lord?’ she asked. ‘Apart from the Grey Man.’
‘I am not a lord,’ he said again, ignoring her question.
‘Yes, Grey Man,’ she said, with an impudent smile. ‘I will remember that.’
How resilient the young are, he thought. Keeva had witnessed death and destruction, had been raped and abused, and was now miles from home in the company of a stranger. Yet she could still smile. Then he looked into her dark eyes, and saw beneath the smile the traces of sorrow and fear. She was making a great effort to appear carefree, to charm him. And why not? he thought. She is a peasant girl with no rights, save those her master allows her. And these were few. If Waylander were to rape and kill her, there would be no inquest and few questions asked. In essence he owned her as if she were a slave. Why would she not seek to please him?
‘You are safe with me,’ he said.
‘I know that, Lord. You are a good man.’
‘No, I am not. But you can trust my words. No further harm will come to you, and I will see you safely home.’
‘I do trust your words, Grey Man,’ she replied. ‘My uncle said that words were just noises in the air. Trust deeds, he told me, not words. I will not be a burden to you. I will help with your wounds as we travel.’
‘You are not a burden, Keeva,’ he said softly, then heeled his horse forward. She rode alongside him.
‘I told them you were coming. I told them you would kill them. But I didn’t really believe it. I just wanted them to know fear as I knew fear. Then you came. And they were terrified. It was wonderful.’
They rode for several hours, heading south and west, until they came to an old stone road leading to a secluded fishing settlement on the banks of a wide, flowing river. There were some forty houses, many of them stone-built. The people here looked prosperous, thought Keeva. Even the children playing close by boasted tunics without patches or any sign of wear, and all wore shoes. The Grey Man was recognized instantly and a crowd gathered. The village headman, a small, portly man with thinning blond hair, pushed his way through them. ‘Welcome, sir,’ he said, with a deep bow. Keeva could see fear in the man’s eyes, and felt the nervous tension emanating from the small crowd. The Grey Man dismounted.
‘Jonan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Jonan,’ answered the little headman, bowing once more.
‘Well, be at ease, Jonan, I am merely passing through. I need some food for the rest of the journey, and my companion needs a change of clothing and a warm cloak.’
‘It will be done instantly, sir. You are most welcome to wait in my home, where my wife will prepare some refreshment. Let me show you the way.’ The little man bowed once more and turned towards the crowd. He gestured once at them, and they all bowed. Keeva climbed down from the tall horse and followed the two men. The Grey Man did not show any evidence of his wounds, save that there was still dried blood on his ripped tunic.
Jonan’s house was of sand-fired brick, the frontage decorated with blackened timbers, the roof covered by red terracotta tiles. Jonan led them into a long living room. At the northern end was a large fireplace, also built with brick, and before it were set several deep leather chairs and a low table. The floor was of polished timber, adorned with attractive rugs, beautifully crafted from Chiatze silk. The Grey Man eased himself into a chair, resting his head against the high back-rest. A young blonde woman entered. She smiled nervously at Keeva and curtsied to the Grey Man. ‘We have ale, sir,’ she said, ‘or wine. Whatever pleases you.’
‘Just some water, thank you,’ he replied.
‘We have apple juice, if that would be preferable?’
He nodded. ‘That would be very fine.’
The headman shifted from foot to foot. ‘May I sit, sir?’ he asked.
‘It is your house, Jonan. Of course you may sit.’
‘Thank you.’ He sank into the chair opposite. Keeva, unnoticed, sat down cross-legged upon a rug. ‘It is a great pleasure and an honour to see you, sir,’ continued Jonan. ‘Had we known you were coming we could have prepared a feast in your honour.’
The woman returned, bringing a goblet of apple juice for the Grey Man and a tankard of ale for Jonan. As she backed away she glanced down at Keeva and silently gestured for her to follow. Keeva rose from the floor and walked from the room, through the hall beyond and into a long kitchen. The woman of the house was flustered, but she offered Keeva a seat at a pine table and filled a clay cup with juice. Keeva drank it.
‘We did not know he was coming,’ said the woman nervously, sitting down opposite Keeva. She ran her fingers through her long, blond hair, pushing it back from her eyes, and tying it at the nape of her neck.
‘It is not an inspection,’ said Keeva softly.
‘No? You are sure?’
‘I am sure. Some raiders attacked my village. He hunted them down and killed them.’
‘Yes, he is a terrible killer,’ said the woman, her hands trembling. ‘Has he harmed you?’
Keeva shook her head. ‘He rescued me from them. He is taking me home.’
‘I thought my heart would stop beating when he rode in.’
‘He owns this village too?’ asked Keeva.
‘He owns all the lands of the Crescent. Bought them six years ago from Lord Aric, though he has been here only once in that time. We send him his taxes. In full,’ she added quickly. Keeva did not respond to this. Surely no community paying full taxes could afford so many fine clothes, furniture and Chiatze rugs. Nor would they be so nervous concerning inspections. But, then, withholding taxes was, in her limited experience, a way of life among farmers and fishermen. Her brother had always managed to squirrel away one sack of grain in twenty to sell at market in order to supply small luxuries to his family, like new shoes, or a better-made bed for himself and his wife.
‘My name is Conae,’ said the woman, relaxing a little. ‘Keeva.’
‘Did the raiders kill many in your village?’
‘Five men and three women.’
‘So many? How awful.’
‘They came in at dusk. Some of the women managed to run, taking the children with them. The men tried to fight. It was over very quickly.’ Keeva shuddered at the memory.
‘Was your husband among them?’
‘I am not married. I was living in Carlis with my uncle, and when he died last year I went to work for my brother. He was killed. So was his wife. And they burned down our house.’
‘You poor girl,’ said Conae.
‘I am alive,’ said Keeva.
‘Were you close to your brother?’
‘He was a hard man and he treated me like a slave. His wife was little better.’
‘You could stay here,’ said Conae. ‘There are more young men than young girls and a pretty creature like you could find a good husband.’
‘I am not looking for a husband,’ said Keeva. ‘Not yet,’ she added, seeing the concern on Conae’s face. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a little while, then Conae smiled awkwardly and rose. ‘I’ll fetch you some clothes,’ she said. ‘For your journey.’
As Conae left the room Keeva leant back in the chair. She was tired now, and very hungry. Am I evil not to mourn Grava’s death? she wondered, picturing his broad face, and his small, cold eyes. He was a brute and you hated him, she told herself. It would be hypocrisy to pretend grief. Pushing herself to her feet, she moved across the kitchen, cutting herself a slab of bread and pouring another cup of apple juice. In the silence she could hear the conversation from the living room. Chewing the bread, she moved closer to the wall. There was a closed wooden hatch, crafted so that food could be passed from the kitchen. Putting her eye to the crack, she saw the Grey Man rise from his chair. Jonan stood also.
‘There are bodies in the woods to the north-east,’ said the Grey Man. ‘Send out some men to bury them, and gather whatever weapons and coin they were carrying. These you can keep. You will also find horses. These will be brought to me at my house.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘One other thing, Jonan. Your profits from smuggling are nothing to do with me. Taxes on goods shipped in from Chiatze lands are subject to the Duke’s laws not mine. You should bear in mind, however, that punishment for smugglers is severe indeed. I am reliably informed that the Duke’s inspectors will be sent out in the next month.’
‘You are mistaken, sir. We don’t . . .’ His words tailed away as he met the Grey Man’s gaze.
‘If the inspectors find you guilty you will all be hanged. Then who will bring in the fish and pay me my taxes? Are you all blind here? You are a fishing settlement and yet your children wear clothes of the best wool, your women boast brooches of silver, and your own house has three rugs that would cost a year’s profit from a good fishing vessel. If there are any old clothes left in this village I suggest you find them. And when the inspectors arrive make sure they are worn.’
‘It will be as you say, sir,’ said Jonan miserably.
Keeva pulled away from the hatch as Conae returned with a dress of blue wool, a pair of high-laced ankle-length shoes, and a brown woollen cloak lined with rabbit fur. Keeva put them on. The dress was a little loose, the shoes a perfect fit.
Jonan called out for the women and they both returned to the living room. The Grey Man was on his feet. Reaching into a pouch by his side, he gave Jonan several small silver coin, in payment for the clothes.
‘That is not necessary, sir,’ said Jonan.
Ignoring him, the Grey Man turned to Conae. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, lady.’
Conae curtsied.
The horses were outside, the saddlebags bulging with food for the journey. The Grey Man helped Keeva to mount, then stepped into the saddle.
Without a word of farewell he rode from the settlement, Keeva following.
THEY RODE IN silence for a little while and Keeva saw that the Grey Man’s face was stern. She guessed he was angry. Even so, she noted that he studied the lands as he rode, always alert and watchful. Clouds obscured the sun and a little light rain began to fall. Keeva lifted her hood into place and drew her new fur-lined cloak about her.
The rain passed swiftly, sunlight spearing through a break in the clouds. The Grey Man angled his horse up a shallow slope and paused at the top. Keeva drew alongside. ‘How are your wounds?’ she asked him.
‘Almost healed,’ he said.
‘In such a short time? I don’t think so.’
He shrugged and, satisfied the way was clear of danger, heeled the steeldust forward.
Throughout the long afternoon they rode steadily, once more entering the forest. An hour before dusk the Grey Man found a campsite beside a stream and set a fire. ‘Are you angry with the villagers for cheating you?’ asked Keeva, as the flames licked at the dry wood.
‘No. I am angry at their stupidity.’ He looked at her. ‘You were listening?’
She nodded. The Grey Man’s face softened. ‘You are a canny girl, Keeva. You remind me of my daughter.’
‘Does she live with you?’
‘No, she lives far away in another land. I have not seen her in several years. She is married now to an old friend of mine. They had two sons, last I heard.’
‘You have grandsons.’
‘In a manner of speaking. She is my adopted daughter.’
‘Do you have children of your own?’
He fell silent for a moment, and in the firelight she saw a look of deep sadness touch him. ‘I had children, but they . . . died,’ he said. ‘Let us see what food Jonan’s wife prepared for us.’ Rising smoothly he moved to the saddlebags, returning with a hunk of ham and some freshly baked bread. They ate in silence. Keeva gathered more dry wood and fed the fire. The clouds had returned, but the night was not cold.
The Grey Man removed his shirt. ‘Time to draw these stitches,’ he said.
‘The wounds cannot have healed,’ she told him sternly. ‘The stitches should remain for at least ten days. My uncle . . .’
‘. . . was a very wise man,’ said the Grey Man. ‘But see for yourself.’
Keeva moved closer to him and examined the wounds. He was right. The skin had healed, and already scar tissue had formed. Taking his hunting knife, she carefully cut through the twine, pulling each stitch clear. ‘I have never heard of anyone healing this fast,’ she said, as he pulled on his shirt. ‘Do you know magic?’
‘No. But once I was healed by a monster. It changed me.’
‘A monster?’
He grinned at her. ‘Aye, a monster. Seven feet tall, with a single eye in the centre of his forehead – an eye that had two pupils.’
‘You are making fun of me,’ she chided him.
The Grey Man shook his head. ‘No, I am not. His name was Kai. He was a freak of nature – a man beast. I was dying and he laid his hands upon me and all my wounds closed, healed in a heartbeat. Ever since then I have known no sickness, no winter chills, no fevers, no boils. I think even time has slowed for me, for by now I should be spending my days sitting in a comfortable chair with a blanket around my knees. He was a fine man, Kai.’
‘What happened to him?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he is happy somewhere, perhaps he is dead.’
‘You have lived an interesting life,’ she said.
‘How old are you?’ he asked her.
‘Seventeen.’
‘Kidnapped by raiders, and taken away into the forest. There are some in years to come who will hear of this tale and say, “You have lived an interesting life.” What will you say to them?’
Keeva smiled. ‘I shall agree – and they will envy me.’
He laughed then, the sound full of good-humour. ‘I like you, Keeva,’ he said. Then, he added wood to the fire, stretched out and covered himself with a blanket.
‘I like you too, Grey Man,’ she said.
He did not answer, and she saw that he was already asleep.
She looked at his face in the firelight. It was strong – the face of a fighter – and yet she could detect no cruelty there.
Keeva slept, and woke with the dawn. The Grey Man was already up. He was sitting by the stream and splashing water to his face. Then, using his hunting knife, he shaved away the black and silver stubble from his chin and cheeks. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked, as he returned to the fire.
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘No dreams. It was wonderful.’ He looked so much younger without the stubble, a man perhaps in his late thirties. She wondered momentarily how old he was. Forty-five? Fifty-five? Surely not older.
‘We should be at your settlement by noon,’ he said.
Keeva shivered, remembering the murdered women. ‘There is nothing there for me. I was staying with my brother and his wife. They are both dead, the farmhouse burned.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Go back to Carlis and seek work.’
‘Are you trained in some craft or skill?’
‘No, but I can learn.’
‘I can offer you employment at my home,’ he said.
‘I will not be your mistress, Grey Man,’ she told him.
He smiled broadly. ‘Have I asked you to be my mistress?’
‘No, but why else are you offering to take me to your palace?’
‘Do you think so little of yourself?’ he countered. ‘You are intelligent and brave. I also think you are trustworthy and would be loyal. I have one hundred and thirty servants at my home, administering often to more than fifty guests. You would clean rooms, prepare beds for those guests, and help in the kitchens. For this I will pay you two silvers a month. You will have your own room and one day a week free of all duties. Think on it.’
‘I accept,’ she said.
‘Then let it be so.’
‘Why do you have so many guests?’
‘My home – my palace, as you call it – houses several libraries, an infirmary and a museum. Scholars come from all over Kydor to study there. There is also a separate centre in the South Tower for students and physicians to analyse medicinal herbs and their uses, and three further halls have been set aside for the treatment of the sick.’
Keeva remained silent for a while, then she looked into his eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ she said.
‘Why would you apologize? You are an attractive young woman, and I can understand why you would fear unwelcome advances. You do not know me. Why should I be trusted?’
‘I trust you,’ she told him. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘If you have a palace why are your clothes so old, and why do you ride out alone to protect your lands? Think of all you could lose.’
‘Lose?’ he asked.
‘All your wealth.’
‘Wealth is a small thing, Keeva, tiny like a grain of sand. It seems large only to those who do not possess it. You talk of my palace. It is not mine. I built it, I live within it. Yet one day I will die and the palace will have another owner. Then he will die. And so it goes on. A man owns nothing but his life. He holds items briefly in his hand. If they are made of metal or stone they will surely outlive him and be owned by someone else for a short time. If they are cloth he will – with luck – outlive them. Look around you, at the trees and the hills. According to Kydor law, they are mine. You think the trees care that they are mine? Or the hills? The same hills that were bathed in sunlight when my earliest ancestor walked the earth. The same hills that will still be covered in grass when the last man turns to dust.’
‘I see that,’ said Keeva, ‘but with all your wealth you can have everything you want for the rest of your life. Every pleasure, every joy is available to you.’
‘There is not enough gold in all the world to supply what I want,’ he said.
‘And what is that?’
‘A clean conscience,’ he said. ‘Now, do you wish to return to the settlement to see your brother buried?’
The conversation was obviously over. Keeva shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to go there.’
‘Then we will push on. We should reach my home by dark.’
Cresting a hill, they began the slow descent on to a wide plain. As far as the eye could see there were ruins everywhere. Keeva drew rein and stared out over the plain. In some places there were merely a few white stones, in others the shapes of buildings could still be seen. Towards the west, against a granite cliff-face there were the remains of two high towers, which had crumbled at the base and crashed to the ground like felled trees.
‘What was this place?’ she asked.
The Grey Man gazed over the ruins. ‘An ancient city called Kuan-Hador. No one knows who built it, or why it fell. Its history is lost in the mists of time.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘I expect the people here once believed they owned the hills and the trees,’ he said.
They rode down on to the plain. Some way to the west Keeva saw a mist rolling between the jagged ruins. ‘Speaking of mists,’ she said, pointing it out to her companion. Waylander halted his horse and glanced to the west. Keeva rode alongside. ‘Why are you loading your crossbow?’ she asked him, as his hands slid two bolts into the grooves in the small black weapon.
‘Habit,’ he said, but his expression was stern, his dark eyes wary. Angling his horse towards the south-east, away from the mist, he rode away.
Keeva followed him and swung in the saddle to stare back at the ruins. ‘How strange,’ she said. ‘The mist is gone.’
He, too, glanced back, then unloaded his weapon, slipping the bolts back into the quiver at his belt. He saw her looking at him.
‘I do not like this place,’ she said. ‘It feels . . . dangerous,’ she concluded lamely.
‘You have good instincts,’ he told her.
Matze Chai parted the painted silk curtains of his palanquin and gazed with undisguised malevolence at the mountains. Sunlight was filtering through the clouds and shining brightly upon the snow-capped peaks. The elderly man sighed and pulled shut the curtains. As he did so his dark, almond-shaped eyes focused on the back of his slender hand, seeing again the brown liver spots of age staining the dry skin.
The Chiatze merchant reached for a small, ornate wooden box and removed a tub of sweet-smelling lotion, which he applied carefully to his hands, before leaning back against his cushions and closing his eyes.
Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze’s view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the Philosopher termed the Mirrors of Mortality. The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light; the frailty of his flesh apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.
He leant forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as in his youth. But a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.
The palanquin lurched to the right, as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labour, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.
The door was opened by his Rajnee, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, the eight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.
Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him the watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. ‘How much longer?’ he asked the man.
‘Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.’
Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin he settled himself down on his cushions. ‘Join me, Kysumu,’ he said.
The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long grey robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who travelled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well paid, well fed, powerful young labourers; men of little imagination but great strength.
Matze Chai leant back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai’s gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.
‘How is it you are not wealthy?’ Matze Chai asked him.
‘Define wealth,’ answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.
‘The ability to purchase whatever one desires, whenever one desires it.’
‘Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little food and water each day. These I can pay for.’
Matze Chai smiled. ‘Then let me rephrase the question: how is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?’
‘Gold does not interest me.’
Matze Chai already knew this. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized Rajnee in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew that the swordsman could not be bought, and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life – indeed, among politicians of all races. Which made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back, or mock his ‘stupidity’. Even though it highlighted, in glorious colour, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.
Kysumu had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Matze Chai looked at him closely. No more than five and a half feet tall, slightly round-shouldered, the man looked more like a scholar or a priest. His long face and slightly downturned mouth gave him a look of melancholy. It was an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly. The only distinctive feature was a small purple birthmark on his left eyebrow. Kysumu’s eyes opened and he yawned.
‘Have you ever visited the lands of Kydor?’ asked the merchant.
‘No.’
‘They are an uncivilized people, and their language is hard on both the ear and the mind. It is guttural and coarse. Not musical in any way. Do you speak any foreign tongues?’
‘A few,’ said Kysumu.
‘The people here are offshoots from two empires, the Drenai and the Angostin. Both languages have the same base.’ Matze Chai was just beginning to outline the history of the land, when the palanquin came to a sudden stop. Kysumu opened the panelled door and leapt lightly to the ground. Matze Chai rang the small bell and the palanquin was lowered to the rocks. Not smoothly, which irritated him. He climbed out to berate the bearers, then saw the group of armed men barring the way. He scanned them. There were eleven warriors, all armed with swords and clubs, though two carried longbows.
Matze Chai flicked a glance back to his six guards, who had all edged their horses forward. They were looking nervous, and this added to Matze’s irritation. They were supposed to be fighters. They were paid to be fighters.
Lifting his yellow robes to keep the dust from the hem, Matze Chai moved towards the armed men. ‘Good day to you,’ he said. ‘Why have you stopped my palanquin?’
A bearded man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a longsword in his hand, two long, curved knives sheathed in his thick belt. ‘This is a toll road, Slant-eye. No one passes here without payment.’
‘And what is the payment?’ asked Matze Chai.
‘For a rich foreigner like you? Twenty in gold.’ Movement came from left and right as a dozen more men emerged from behind rocks and boulders.
‘The toll seems excessive,’ said Matze Chai. He turned to Kysumu and spoke in Chiatze. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘They are robbers and they outnumber us.’
‘Do you wish to pay them?’
‘Do you believe they will merely take twenty in gold?’
‘No. Once we accede to their demands they will demand more.’
‘Then I do not wish to pay them.’
‘Return to your palanquin,’ said Kysumu softly, ‘and I will clear the path.’
Matze Chai returned his gaze to the bearded leader. ‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘that you step aside. This man is Kysumu, the most feared Rajnee among the Chiatze. And you are, at this moment, only heartbeats from death.’
The tall leader laughed. ‘He may be all you say, Slant-eye, but to me he’s just another vomit-coloured dwarf ripe for the taking.’
‘I fear you are making a mistake,’ said Matze Chai, ‘but, then, all actions have consequences and a man must have the courage to face them.’ He gave an abrupt bow, which in Chiatze would have been insulting, and turned away, walking slowly back to his palanquin. He glanced back, and saw Kysumu walk forward to stand before the leader. Two robbers advanced from the group to stand alongside the bearded man. For a moment only Matze Chai doubted the wisdom of this course of action. Kysumu seemed suddenly tiny and innocuous against the brute power of the round-eye robber and his men.
The leader’s sword came up. Kysumu’s blade flashed into the air.
Moments later, with four men dead, the rest of the robbers scattering and running away into the rocks, Kysumu wiped clean his sword and returned to the palanquin. He was not out of breath, neither was his face flushed. He looked, as always, serene and at peace. Matze Chai’s heart was beating wildly, but he fought to keep his face expressionless. Kysumu had moved with almost inhuman speed, cutting, slashing, spinning like a dancer into the midst of the robbers. At the same moment his six guards had charged their horses into the second group, and they, too, had run for cover. All in all, a most satisfactory outcome, and one that justified the expense of hiring guards.
‘Do you believe they will come back?’ asked Matze Chai.
‘Perhaps,’ said Kysumu, with a shrug. Then he stood quietly waiting for orders. Matze Chai summoned a servant and asked Kysumu if he wished to partake of some watered wine. The swordsman refused. Matze Chai accepted a goblet, intending to take a sip. Instead he half drained it.
‘You did well, Rajnee,’ he said.
‘We should be moving from here,’ replied Kysumu.
‘Indeed so.’
The cabin of the palanquin felt like a sanctuary as Matze Chai settled himself down on his cushions. Lightly striking the bell to signal the bearers to move on, he closed his eyes. He felt safe, secure, and almost immortal. Opening his eyes, he glanced out through the window and saw the setting sun blaze its dying light over the mountain peaks. Reaching up, he drew the curtains closed, his good-humour evaporating.
They made camp an hour later, and Matze Chai sat in his palanquin while his servants unloaded his night-time furniture from the wagons, assembling his gold-lacquered bed, and spreading upon it his satin sheets and thick goose-down quilt. After this they raised the poles and frame of his blue and gold silk tent, spreading out the black canvas sheet upon the ground, then unrolling his favourite silk rug to cover it. Lastly his two favourite chairs, both inlaid with gold and deeply cushioned with padded velvet, were placed in the tent entrance. When finally Matze Chai climbed from the palanquin the camp was almost prepared. His sixteen bearers were sitting together round two campfires set in a jumble of boulders, two of the six guards had taken up sentry positions to patrol the perimeter, and his cook was busy preparing a light supper of spiced rice and dried fish.
Matze Chai moved across the campground to his tent and sank gratefully into his chair. He was tired of living like a frontier nomad, at the mercy of the elements, and longed for the journey to be over. Six weeks of this harsh existence had drained his energy.
Kysumu was sitting cross-legged upon the ground close by, a section of parchment, pinned to a board of cork, resting on his knees. Using a shaped piece of charcoal Kysumu was sketching a tree. Matze Chai watched the little swordsman. Every evening he would fetch his leather folder from the supply wagon, take a fresh section of parchment, and sketch for an hour. Usually trees or plants, Matze Chai had noted.
Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented, but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze Chai’s opinion, the harmony of emptiness. Kysumu’s work had too much passion. Art should be serene, devoid of human emotion. Stark and simple, it should encourage meditation. Even so, Matze Chai decided, he should – at journey’s end – offer to purchase one of the sketches. It would be impolite not to do so.
A servant brought him a cup of scented tisane and, with the temperature dropping, laid a fur-lined robe around Matze Chai’s thin shoulders. Then two of the bearers, using forked wooden poles, carried an iron brazier, glowing with coals, into Matze Chai’s tent, setting it down on a pewter base plate, to prevent cinders singeing the expensive rugs.
The incident with the robbers had proved spiritually uplifting. As the mountains spoke silently of the fleeting nature of man, the sudden peril had brought to the fore just how much Matze Chai enjoyed life. It made him aware of the sweetness of the air he breathed, and of the feel of silk upon his skin. Even the tisane he now sipped was almost unbearably fine upon the tongue.
Despite the discomforts of travel Matze Chai was forced to admit that he now felt better than he had in years. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined cloak he settled back and found himself thinking of Waylander. It had been six years since last they met, back in Namib. At that time, Matze Chai had recently returned from Drenan, where he had, upon Waylander’s instruction, purchased a skull from the Great Library. Waylander had then sold his home and journeyed north and east, seeking a new land and a new life.
Such a restless soul, thought Matze Chai. But, then, Waylander was a man on a mission that could never be completed, a quest born in despair and longing. At first Matze Chai had believed Waylander to be seeking redemption for past sins. This was only partly true. No, what the Grey Man sought was an impossibility.
An owl hooted close by, breaking Matze Chai’s concentration.
Kysumu finished his sketch, and replaced it in the leather folder. Matze Chai beckoned him to sit in the second chair. ‘It occurs to me,’ he said, ‘that had the remaining robbers not panicked and run you would have been overwhelmed.’
‘Indeed,’ said Kysumu.
‘Or, if my guards had not attacked the second group at just that instant, they could have run at the palanquin and killed me.’
‘They could have,’ agreed the swordsman.
‘But you did not think it likely?’
‘I did not think of it at all,’ said Kysumu.
Matze Chai suppressed a smile, but allowed the feeling of warm satisfaction to flow through him. Kysumu was a delight. The ideal companion. He did not gush or chatter, or ask endless questions. He was, in truth, harmony itself. They sat thus for a little while. Then food was brought and they ate quietly.
At the conclusion of the meal Matze Chai rose from his chair. ‘I shall sleep now,’ he said. Kysumu rose, pushed his sword and scabbard into the sash around his robes, and strolled from the camp.
The captain of Matze Chai’s guards, a young man named Liu, approached his master and bowed deeply. ‘Might I enquire, Lord, where the Rajnee is going?’
‘I would imagine he is seeking out the robbers, in the event that they might be following,’ Matze Chai told him.
‘Should some of the men not go with him, Lord?’
‘I do not believe he has need of them.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ said Liu, bowing and backing away.
‘You did well today, Liu,’ said Matze Chai. ‘I shall mention it to your father upon our return.’
‘Thank you, Lord.’
‘You were frightened, though, were you not, before the fighting began?’
‘Yes, Lord. Did it show?’
‘I am afraid that it did. Try to exhibit a little more control of your expressions should any similar incidents occur.’
The Grey Man’s palace had initially both surprised and disappointed Keeva. Darkness had fallen as they arrived. They had ridden slowly up a dirt road through thick woods, emerging on to open ground and an area of well-trimmed lawn, bisected by a wide stone avenue. There were no fountains or statues. Two spear-wielding guards were patrolling the front of a long, flat, single-storey building around two hundred feet long. There were few windows to be seen, and even these were dark. The only light Keeva could see came from four large brass lanterns hanging in the wide, marble-pillared entrance. It looks like a mausoleum, thought Keeva, as the Grey Man rode his horse forward.
The black doors opened and two young men ran out to meet them. Both wore grey livery. Weary now, Keeva dismounted. The servants led the horses away, and the Grey Man beckoned her to follow him inside. An elderly man was waiting for them, a tall, stooping figure, white-haired and long-faced. He, too, was wearing grey, an ankle-length tunic of fine wool. At the shoulder the image of a tree had been beautifully embroidered in black satin. He bowed to the Grey Man. ‘You look tired, sir,’ he said, his voice deep and low. ‘I shall have a hot bath prepared.’
‘Thank you, Omri. This young woman will be joining the staff. Have a room prepared for her.’
‘Of course, sir.’