Free In the Realm of the Wolf by David Gemmell

sleep better and wake more refreshed. And drink a lot of water.”
    “Anything else?”
    “If I think of anything, I’ll tell you. Now let us finish this meal and start to work.”
    Having finished his meal, Angel cleared away the ash of the previous night’s fire, laid fresh kindling, and struck a spark to the tinder. Miriel had eaten in the kitchen and had then walked through the cabin and out into the night. Angel was angry with himself. You are no teacher, he thought. And the girl was right: he wanted her to quit. But not for the reasons she believed. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches, watching the tiny flames devouring the kindling, feeling the first soft waves of heat from the fire.
    He had tried to train the boy Ranuld, showing him themoves and defenses he would need in his new career, but Ranuld had died from a disemboweling cut in his first fight. Then there had been Sorrin, tall and athletic, fearless and fast. He had lasted for seven fights, had even become a favorite with the crowd. Senta had killed him—heel spin and reverse thrust to the throat. Good move, beautifully executed. Sorrin was dead before he knew it.
    That was the day Angel had retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian whose name he could not recall. The man was tough, but had been slowed by a recent wound. Even so he had almost taken Angel, cutting him twice. After the battle Angel had sat in the arena surgery, the doctor stitching his wounds, while on the table opposite lay Sorrin’s bloody corpse. Beside it sat Senta, a bandage soaked in honey and wine being applied to a shallow cut in his shoulder.
    “You trained him well,” said Senta. “He almost took me.”
    “Not well enough,” answered Angel.
    “I look forward to meeting the master.”
    Angel had looked into the young man’s eager eyes, seeing the mocking expression on the handsome face, the smile that was almost a sneer. “It won’t happen, boy,” he had said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. “I’m too old and slow. This is your day. Enjoy it.”
    “You are leaving the arena?” whispered Senta, astonished.
    “Yes. That was my last fight.”
    The young man nodded, then cursed as the orderly tied the knot in the bandage on his shoulder. “You dolt!” snapped Senta.
    “I’m sorry, sir!” said the man, moving back, his face twisted in fear.
    Senta returned his gaze to Angel. “I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favorite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.”
    Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had fought for only one more year, then had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than as a gladiator.
    The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draft. Turning, he saw Miriel walking toward her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the longmuscular legs, and the firm rounded buttocks. Arousal touched him, and he swung back to the fire.
    After a few minutes Miriel joined him, her body clothed in a loose robe of gray wool. “What work did you have in mind?” she asked him, seating herself in the chair opposite.
    “You know why I slapped you?”
    “You wanted to dominate me.”
    “No. I wanted to see you angry. I needed to know how you reacted when your blood was high.” Idly he stabbed at the fire with an iron poker. “Listen to me, girl. I am not a teacher. I have trained only two people, young men I loved. Both died. I am … was … a fine fighter, but just because I have a skill does not mean I can pass it on. You understand?” She remained silent, her large eyes staring at him, expressionless. “I was a little in love with Danyal, I think, and I have respect for your father. I came here to warm him so that he would leave the area, travel to Ventria or Gothir. And yes, I could use the gold. But that’s not why I came, nor is it why I agreed to stay. If you choose