Waylander

by Waylander [lit]

  'I do not see him as evil,' said Dardalion. 'Amoral, cruel, but not evil. You are right, though, when you

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  say he affected me. But purity is not a cloak which can be stained in a storm. He merely made me question values I had accepted.'

  'Nonsense!' snapped the Abbot. 'He fed you his blood and therefore his soul. And you became one with him, even as he now struggles against the stain you have placed on his evil. You are joined, Darda­lion, like symbiotic twins. He struggles to do good, while you struggle to commit evil. Can you not see it? If we listen to you, then our Order is finished, our discipline gone to the winds of the desert. What you ask is selfishness, for you seek safety among the numbers of the Source priests. If we accept you, then we lessen your doubt. We will not accept you.'

  'You speak of selfishness, Father Abbot. Then let me ask you this: if our lives as priests teach us to abhor selfishness, why do we allow the Brotherhood to kill us? For if unselfishness means giving up that which we desire in order to help others, then surely fighting the Brotherhood would achieve it? We do not want to fight, we want to die, therefore when we fight we are being unselfish and helping the innocents who would otherwise be slain.'

  'Go away, Dardalion, you are tainted beyond my humble counsel.'

  'I will fight them alone,' said Dardalion bowing stiffly.

  As he turned the priests moved back to allow him a path, and he walked it without turning his head to see their faces, his mind closed to their emotions.

  Clearing their ranks, he crossed the stone bridge and paused to stare at the stream. He no longer felt uncomfortable in the armour, and the burden was gone from his soul. The sound of footsteps caused him to turn and he saw a group of priests crossing

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  the bridge, all of them young. The first to come was a short, stocky man with bright blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair.

  'We wish to speak with you, brother,' he said. Dardalion nodded, and they formed a half-circle around him and sat down on the grass. 'My name is Astila,' said the blond priest, 'and these of my breth­ren have been waiting for you. Do you object to communing with us?'

  'For what purpose?'

  'We wish to know of your life, and the change you have undergone. We will best understand that by sharing your memories.'

  'And what of the stain to your purity?'

  'There are enough of us to withstand it, if such it be.'

  'Then I agree.'

  The group bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Dardalion shuddered as the priests flowed into his mind and he merged into the oblivion of their mass. A kaleidoscope of memories flickered and flashed. Childhood, joy and torment. Study and dreams. The mad rush of images slowed as the mer­cenaries tied him to the tree and went to work with their knives, and the pain returned. Then . . .

  Waylander. The rescue. The cave. The blood. The savage joy of battle and death. The walls of Masin. But through it all the constant prayers for guidance. All unanswered. Nausea swept though him as the priests returned to their bodies.

  He opened his eyes and almost fell but sucking in air, he steadied himself.

  'Well?' he asked. 'What did you find?'

  'You were stained,' said Astila, 'in the first mo­ments when Waylander's blood touched you. That

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  is why you cut your opponent to pieces. But since then you have struggled - as the Abbot pointed out - to restrain the evil.'

  'But you think I am wrong?'

  'Yes. And yet I will join you. We will all join you.'

  'Why?'

  'Because we are weak, even as you are weak. Poor priests we have been, despite our struggles. I am prepared to be judged by the Source for all my deeds, and if His judgement says eternal death then so be it. But I am tired of watching my brothers slain. I am sickened by the deaths of the children of the Drenai, and I am ready to destroy the Brotherhood.'

  Then why have you not done so before now?'

  'That is not an easy question to answer. I can only speak for myself, but I feared that I might become as one with the Brotherhood. For my hatred was growing - I did not know if a man could retain any purity, any sense of God. You have, so I will follow you.'

  'We were waiting for a leader,' said another man.

  'And you have found one. How many are we?'

  'With you, thirty.'

  'Thirty,' said Dardalion. 'It is a beginning.'

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  11

  Waylander dismissed the two female servants and rose from the bath, brushing flower petals from his body. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked to a full-length mirror and shaved slowly. His shoulder ached, the muscles were tense and knotted from the battle at Masin and an ugly bruise was flowering along his ribs. He pressed it lightly and winced. Ten years ago such a bruise would have long since vanished; ten years before that, no bruise would have flowered at all.

  Time was a greater enemy than any he had faced.

  He stared into his own dark brown eyes, then scanned the fine lines of his face and the grey hair fighting for dominance at his temples. His gaze flickered down. The body was still strong, but the muscles were looking stretched and thin, he thought. Not many years left for a man in his occupation.

  Waylander poured himself some wine and sipped it, holding it on his tongue and enjoying the sharp, almost bitter flavour.

  The door slid open and Cudin entered; he was short and fat, sweat shining on his face. Waylander nodded a greeting. The merchant was followed by a young girl carrying clothing. She laid it on a gilded chair and left the room with eyes downcast, which Cudin hovered, rubbing his hands nervously.

  'Everything as you requested, my dear fellow?'

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  'I will also need a thousand in silver.'

  'Of course.'

  'Have my investments gone well?'

  'Well, these are hard times, But I think you will find the interest has been substantial. I have lodged the greater part of the eight thousand in Ventria, for the spice trade, so the war should not affect it. You may collect it at Isbas, at the bank of Tyra.'

  'Why so nervous, Cudin?'

  'Nervous? Not I - it is the heat.' The fat man licked his lips and tried to smile, but he was not successful.

  'Someone has been looking for me, yes?'

  'No . . . yes. But I told them nothing.'

  'Of course not; you know nothing of my move­ments. But I shall tell you what you promised them - you said that you would let them know if ever I called on you. And you told them about the bank at Tyra.'

  'No,' whispered Cudin.

  'Do not be afraid, merchant, I do not blame you. You are not a friend and there is no reason to risk yourself for me; I would not expect it. Indeed, I would think you a fool if you did. Have you informed them yet of my arrival?'

  The merchant sat down beside the pile of clothing. His flesh seemed to sag as if the muscles of his face had suddenly ceased to function.

  'Yes, I sent a messenger into Skultik. What can I say?'

  'Who came to you?'

  'Cadoras the Stalker. Gods, Waylander, he has the eyes of Hell. I was terrified.'

  'How many men did he have with him?'

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  'I do not knoow. I remember he said "they" would be camped at the Opal Creek.'

  'How long ago was this?'

  'Five days. He knew you were coming.'

  'Have you seen him since?'

  'Yes. He was in a tavern, drinking with the giant outlaw - the one who looks like a bear. You know him?'

  'I know him. Thank you, Cudin.'

  'You will not kill me?'

  'No. But had you not admitted it to me . . .'

  'I understand. Thank you.'

  'There is nothing to thank me for ... Now on another matter - there are two children recently brought to Skarta, now lodged with the Source priests. Their names are Krylla and Miriel. You will see they are looked after? There is also a woman, Danyal; she too will have need of money. For this ser
vice you will keep the interest from my invest­ments. You understand?'

  'Yes. Krylla, Miriel, Danyal. I understand.'

  'I came to you, Cudin, because of your reputation for honest dealings. Do not fail me.'

  The merchant backed from the room and Way-lander moved to the clothing. A fresh linen shirt lay at the top of the pile and he lifted it to his face; it smelled of roses. Slipping it on, he tied the cuffs. Next was a pair of black troos in thick cotton, and then a woollen-backed leather jerkin and a pair of thigh-length black riding boots. Moving to the window, he hefted his mailshirt and placed it over his shoulders. The rings were freshly greased, the metal cold to his body. He dressed swiftly, buckling on his knife-belt and sword. His crossbow lay on the

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  broad bed with a fresh quiver of fifty bolts; he clipped both to his belt and left the room.

  Outside in the hall the girl waited and Waylander gave her four silver pieces. She smiled and moved away, but he called her back when he saw the bruise on her upper arm.

  'I am sorry for being rough on you,' he said.

  'Some men are worse,' she replied. 'You didn't know you were doing it.'

  'No. I did not.' He gave her another silver piece.

  'You cried in your sleep,' she said softly.

  'I am sorry if it wakened you. Tell me, doesHewla still live in Skarta?'

  'She has a cabin north of the town.' The girl was frightened, but she gave Waylander directions and he left the merchant's house, saddled his horse and rode north.

  The cabin was badly built; the unseasoned wood was beginning to warp and mud had been pushed into the cracks. The main door was poorly fitted and a curtain had been hung behind it so as to cut down the draughts. Waylander dismounted, tethered his horse to a stout bush and knocked on the door. There was no answer and he moved inside warily.

  Hewla was sitting at a pine table staring into a copper dish filled to the brim with water. She was old and almost bald, and even more skeletal than the last time Waylander had visited her two years before.

  'Welcome, Dark One,' she said, grinning. Her teeth were white and even, strangely out of place amidst the ruin of her face.

  'You have come down in the world, Hewla.'

  'All life is a pendulum. I shall return,' she answ-

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  ered. 'Help yourself to wine - or there is water if you prefer.'

  'Wine will be fine,' he said, filling a clay goblet from a stone carafe and sitting opposite her.

  Two years ago,' he said softly, 'you warned me against Kaem. You spoke of the death of princes, and of a priest with a sword of fire. It was pretty, poetic and meaningless. Now it has meaning . . . and I wish to know more.'

  'You do not believe in pre-destiny, Waylander. I cannot help you.'

  'I am not a fatalist, Hewla.'

  'There is a war being waged.'

  'You surprise me.' His tone was ironic.

  'Close your mouth, boy!' she snapped. 'You learn nothing while your lips flap.'

  'I apologise. Please go on.'

  'The war is on another plane, between forces whose very nature we do not understand. Some men would call these forces Good and Evil, others refer to them as Nature and Chaos. Still others believe the power is of one Source that wars on itself. But whatever the truth, the war is real. I myself tend towards the simplistic: good and evil. In this struggle there are only small triumphs and no final victory. You are now a part of this war - a mercenary who has changed sides at a crucial time.'

  'Tell me of my quest,' said Waylander.

  'I see the global view does not excite your interest. Very well. You have allied yourself with Durmast, a brave decision. He is a killer without conscience and in his time has slain men, women and babes. He is without morality, neither evil nor good - and he will betray you, for he has no understanding of true friendship. You are hunted by Cadoras, the

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  Scarred One, the Stalker, and he is deadly for, like you, he has never been bested with the sword or the bow. The Dark Brotherhood seek you, for they desire Orien's armour and your death, and the Ven-trian emperor has ordered a team of assassins against you for killing his nephew.'

  'I did not kill him,' said Waylander.

  'No. The deed was arranged by Kaem.'

  'Go on.'

  Hewla gazed into the bowl of water. 'Death is being drawn to you from every side. You are trapped at the centre of a web of fate and the spiders are closing in.'

  'But will I succeed?'

  'It depends on your definition of success.'

  'No riddles, Hewla. I have no time.'

  'That is true. Very well then, let me explain about prophecy. Much depends on interpretation, nothing is clear-cut. If you were to take your knife and hurl it into the forest, what chance would you have of hitting the fox that killed my chickens?'

  'None at all.'

  'That is not strictly true. The law of probability says you might kill it. And that is the size of your task.'

  'Why me, Hewla?'

  'Now that is a question I have heard before. If I could lose a year for every time it has been asked, I would be sitting before you as a virgin beauty. But it was honestly asked and I will answer it. You are nothing in this game but a catalyst. Through your actions a new force has been birthed in the world. This was born the moment you saved the priest. It is invulnerable and immortal and will ride through the centuries until the end of time. But no one will

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  remember you for it, Waylander. You will fade into the dust of history.'

  'I care nothing for that. But you have not answ­ered my question.'

  True. Why you? Because you alone have the chance, slim as it is, to change the course of this nation's history.'

  'And if I refuse?'

  'A pointless question - you will not.'

  'Why so sure?'

  'Honour, Waylander. You are cursed with it.'

  'Do you not mean blessed?'

  'Not in your case. It will kill you.'

  'Strange. I thought I would live for ever.'

  He stood to leave, but the old woman raised her hand.

  'I can give you one warning: beware the love of life. Your strength is that you care not about death. The powers of Chaos are many and not all of them involve pain and sharp blades.'

  'I do not understand you.'

  'Love, Waylander. Beware of love. I see a red-haired woman who could bring you grief.'

  'I shall not see her again, Hewla.'

  'Maybe,' grunted the old woman.

  As Waylander stepped from the cabin, a shadow flickered to his left and he dived forward as a sword blade whistled over his head. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled to his knees, his knife flashing through the air to take his attacker under the chin. The wounded man sank to his knees, tearing the blade loose, blood gushing from his throat as he toppled forward. Waylander swung round, scanning the trees, then rose and walked to the corpse. He had never seen the man before.

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  He cleaned his knife and sheathed stepped into the doorway.

  'You are a dangerous man to kno*

  grinning. -

  His dark eyes fixed on her wrinkled face, knew he was here, you crone.'

  'Yes. Good luck on your quest, Waylander! Walk warily.'

  Waylander rode east through the darkest section of the forest, his crossbow primed and his dark eyes scanning the undergrowth for movement. Above him the branches interlaced and shafts of sunlight splayed the trees. After an hour he turned north, the tension growing within him causing his neck to ache.

  Cadoras was not a man to be taken lightly. His was a name spoken in whispers in the darkest alley­ways of forbidden cities: Cadoras the Stalker, the Dream Ender. It was said that none could match him for cunning and few for cruelty, but Waylander dismissed the more wild stories, for he knew how legend could add colour to the whitest of deeds.

  For he, of all men, could understand Cadoras.