Part 2 (1/2)

And how many more would come?

The sun was hanging over the western peaks, a blazing copper disc 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 upon her hair, 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 manoeuvre 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 ago, 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, 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 a.s.sa.s.sin'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 drily. '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 hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crus.h.i.+ng 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.

2

Ralis liked to tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young, and it was not far from the truth. He could st ill remember when the old king, Orien, had been but a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the Spring Parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.

Now it was the Avenue of Kings, and much wider, leading through the triumphal arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.

So many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of the Drenai, wearer of the Armour of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a score of wars.

Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels, the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien, soon after the Battle at Dros Corteswain. The King had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest and Ralis, young then and dark-bearded, had been carrying his pack towards the fort town of Delnoch.

They had met at a stream. Orien was sitting on a boulder, his bare feet submerged in the cold water, his expensive boots cast aside. Ralis had released the straps of his pack and moved to the water's edge, kneeling to drink.

'The pack looks heavy,' said the golden-haired King.

'Aye, it is,' Ralis had agreed.

'A tinker, are you?'

'Aye.'

'You know who I am?'

'You're the King,' said Ralis.