Dardalion closed the book and leaned back in the chair, gazing down on the lovingly carved and polished wood. It was a work of some artistry. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked to the bedroom where Degas lay on blood-soaked sheets, his knife still in his hand. His eyes were open and Dardalion gently closed the lids before covering the old man's face with a sheet.

'Lord of All Things,' said Dardalion, 'lead this man home.'

15

Cadoras watched as Waylander rode from the wagons, heading away to the north towards a range of low hills. The hunter lay flat on his belly, his chin in his hands; behind him, on the far side of the hill, his horse was tethered. He eased his way back from the hill-top, walked slowly to the steel-grey gelding and unbuckled the thick saddle roll, opening it out on the ground. Within the canvas wrapping was an assortment of weapons ranging from a dismantled crossbow to a set of ivory-handled throwing knives. Cadoras assembled the crossbow and selected ten bolts which he placed in a doeskin quiver at his belt. Then he carefully slid two throwing knives into each of his calf-length riding boots, and two more into sheaths at his side. His sword was strapped to his saddle, along with a Vagrian cavalry bow tipped with gold; the quiver for this hung on his saddle horn. Fully equipped, Cadoras returned the saddle roll to its place and buckled the straps. Then he took some dried meat from his saddlebags and sat back on the grass and stared at the sky, watching the gathering storm clouds drifting in from the east.

It was time for the kill.

There had been little joy in the hunting. He could have killed Waylander on a dozen occasions – but then it took two to play the game, and Waylander had refused to take part. At first this had irritated Cadoras, making him feel slightly as if his victim had held him in contempt. But as the days passed he had realised that Waylander simply did not care. And so Cadoras had not loosed the fatal shaft.

He wanted to know why. He was filled with an urge to ride in to the wagons and sit opposite Waylander, to ask him…

Cadoras had been a hunter for more than a decade and he knew the role better than any man alive. In the deadliest game of all he was a master – understanding every facet, every iron rule: the hunter stalked, the prey evaded or ran, or turned and fought back. But the prey never ignored.

Why?

Cadoras had expected Waylander to hunt him, had even set elaborate traps around his camp-site. Night after night he had hidden in trees, his bow slung, while his blankets lay by warm fires covering only rocks and branches.

Today would end the burning questions. He would kill Waylander and go home.

Home?

High walls and soul-less rooms, and cold-eyed messengers with offers of gold for death. Like a tomb with windows.

'Curse you, Waylander! Why did you make it so easy?'

'It was the only defence.' answered Waylander and Cadoras spun round as a sword of shining steel rested on his back. He froze and then relaxed, his right hand inching, towards the hidden knives in his boot. 'Don't be foolish,' said Waylander. 'I can open your throat before you blink.'

'What now, Waylander?'

'I have not yet decided.'

'I should have killed you.'

'Yes, but then life is full of "should haves". Take off your boots … slowly.' Cadoras did as he was bid. 'Now your belt and jerkin.' Waylander moved the weapons and hurled them on to the grass.

'You planned this?' asked Cadoras, sitting back and resting on his elbows. Waylander nodded and sheathed his sword, sitting some ten feet from the hunter. 'You want some dried meat?' Cadoras enquired. Waylander shook his head and drew a throwing knife, balancing the blade in his right hand.

'Before you kill me, may I ask a question?'

'Of course.'

'How did you know I would wait this long?'

'I didn't, I merely hoped. You should know better than any man that the hunter has all the advantages. No man is safe from the assassin, be he king or peasant. But you had something to prove, Cadoras – and that made you an easy prey.'

'I had nothing to prove.'

Truly? Not even to yourself?'

'Like what?'

'That you were the better man, the greatest hunter?'

Cadoras leaned back and stared at the sky. 'Pride,' he said. 'Vanity. It makes fools of us all.'

'We are all fools regardless – otherwise we would be farmers, watching our sons grow.'

Cadoras rolled to one elbow and grinned. 'Is that why you've decided to be a hero?'

'Perhaps,' admitted Waylander.

'Does it pay well?'

'I don't know. I haven't been one very long.'

'You know the Brotherhood will be back?'

'Yes.'

'You can't survive.'

'I know that too.'

'Then why do it? I've seen you with the woman –why don't you take her to Gulgothir and head east to Ventria?'

'You think it would be safe there?'

Cadoras shook his head. 'You have a point. But then at least you'd have a chance – on this quest you have none.'

'I am touched by your concern.'

'You may not believe it, but it is genuine. I respect you, Waylander, but I feel sorry for you. You are doomed … and by your own hand.'

'Why by mine?'

'Because the skills that are yours are now shackled. I do not know what has happened to you, but you are no longer Waylander the Slayer. If you were, I would now be dead. The Slayer would not have stopped to talk.'

'I cannot argue with that, but then the Cadoras of old would not have waited before loosing an arrow.'

'Maybe we are both getting old.'

'Collect your weapons and ride,' said Waylander, sheathing his knife and rising smoothly to his feet.

'I make no promises,' stated Cadoras. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Just ride.'

'Why not merely give me your knife and offer me your throat?' snapped Cadoras.

'Are you angry because I haven't killed you?'

'Think back to what you were, Waylander, then you'll know why I'm angry.' Cadoras strode to his weapons and retrieved them. Then he pulled on his boots, tightened his saddle cinch and mounted.

Waylander watched as the assassin rode south, then he wandered back over the hill-top to his own horse and stepped into the saddle. The wagons were lost in the heat haze to the north, but Waylander had no wish to catch up with them before nightfall.

He spent the day scouting the wooded hills, sleeping for two hours beside a rock pool shaded by spruce trees. Towards dusk he saw smoke curling into the sky in the north and a cold dread settled on him. Swiftly he saddled the gelding and raced for the trees, lashing the beast into a furious gallop. For almost a mile he pushed the pace, then sanity returned and he slowed the horse to a canter. His mind was numb and he knew what he would find before he crested the last hill. The smoke had been too great for a mere camp-fire, or even ten camp-fires. Sitting his horse atop the hill, he gazed down on the burnt-out wagons. They had been drawn into a rough semi-circle, as if the drivers had seen the danger with only seconds to spare and had tried to form a fighting circle. Bodies littered the ground and vultures had gathered in squabbling packs.

Waylander rode slowly down the hillside. Many of those now dead had been taken alive and cut to pieces – there had been, then, no prisoners. A child had been nailed to a tree and several women had been staked out with fires built on their chests. A little to the north Durmast's men lay in a rough circle, ringed by dead Nadir warriors. Already the vultures had begun their work and Waylander could not bear to search for Danyal's body. He turned his horse to the west.

The trail was not hard to follow, even under moonlight, and as he rode Waylander assembled his crossbow.