In the Realm of the Wolf by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

Can I be fairer than that?”
    The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this. One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly and rip out your entrails.
    Organizing the men in pairs, he issued his instructions. “If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him, make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?”
    The men nodded solemnly, then departed.
    Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill—to be the man who slew a legend.
    He felt the sharp rise of anticipated pleasure as he considered all that he might do to fill Waylander’s last hours with exquisite pain. There was the girl, of course. He could rape and kill her before Waylander’s eyes. Or torture her. Or give her to the men to use and abuse. Be calm, he told himself. Let the anticipation build. First you have to find him.
    Swinging his leaf-green cloak about his shoulders, he walked off in pursuit of Belash. The Nadir had made camp in a sheltered hollow and was kneeling on his blanket, hands clasped in prayer, several old finger bones, yellowed and porous, lying before him. Morak sat down on the other side of the fire. What a disgusting practice, he thought, carrying the bones of your father in a bag. Barbarians! Who would ever understand them? Belash finished his prayer and returned the bones to the pouch at his side.
    “Your father have anything interesting to tell you?” asked Morak, his green eyes alight with amusement.
    Belash shook his head. “I do not speak with my father,” he said. “He is gone. I speak to the Mountains of the Moon.”
    “Ah, yes, the mountains. Do they know where Waylander dwells?”
    “They know only where each Nadir warrior rests.”
    “Lucky them,” observed Morak.
    “There are some matters you should not mock,” warned Belash. “The mountains house the souls of all Nadir, past and future. And through them, if I am valiant, I will find the home of the man who killed my father. I shall bury my father’s bonesin that man’s grave, resting on his chest. And he will serve my father for all time.”
    “Interesting thought,” said Morak, keeping his voice neutral.
    “You
kol-isha
think you know everything. You think the world was created for your pleasure, but you do not understand the land. You, you sit there and you breathe air and feel the cold earth beneath you, and you notice nothing. And why? Because you live your lives in cities of stone, building walls to keep at bay the spirit of the land. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing.”
    I can see the boil starting on your neck, you ignorant savage, thought Morak. And I can smell the stench from your armpits. Aloud he said: “And what is the spirit of this land?”
    “It is female,” answered Belash. “Like a mother. She nourishes those who respond to her, giving them strength and pride. Like the old man you killed.”
    “And she talks to you?”
    “No, for I am the enemy of this land. But she lets me know she is there and watching me. And she does not hate me. But she hates you.”
    “Why would that be true?” asked Morak, suddenly uncomfortable. “Women have always liked me.”
    “She reads your soul,