'I didn't need your help.'
'I am aware of that. I was doing him a favour. If he was lucky you would merely have stabbed him, but you might have lost your temper and used your acid tongue and he would never have recovered from that.'
'That's not very funny.'
'It depends on your standpoint. I have booked us passage on a sailing-boat which leaves tomorrow at mid-morning. I have also booked us a room . . . with two beds,' he added pointedly.
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Butaso sat within his tent, gazing sullenly at the ancient shaman squatting before him. The old man spread out a section of tanned goatskin on the earth and casually tossed a dozen knuckle bones on to it. The bones had been shaped into rough cubes and strange symbols had been etched on each side. For a while the shaman stared at the bones - then he looked up, his dark slanted eyes burning with malicious humour.
'Your treachery has killed you, Butaso,' he said.
'Speak plainly.'
'Is that not plain enough? You are doomed. Even now a dark shadow hovers over your soul.'
'I am as strong as ever,' said Butaso, lurching to his feet. 'Nothing can harm me.'
'Why did you break your word to Ice-eyes?'
'I had a vision. I have many visions. The Chaos Spirit is with me - he guides me.'
'The Spirit of Dark Deeds is his Nadir name, Butaso. Why do you not use it? He is a deceiver.'
'So you say, old man. But he has brought me power and wealth, and many wives.'
'He has brought you death. What did he require of you?'
To destroy the wagons of Ice-eyes.'
'Yet Ice-eyes lives. As does his friend, the Soul Stealer.'
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'What is that to me?'
"Think you that I have no powers? Foolish mortal! Since the Soul Stealer filled your heart with fear that day, giving you your life, you have burned with the desire for vengeance. Now you have killed his friends and he hunts you. Do you not understand?'
'I understand that I have a hundred men scouring the Steppes for him. They will bring me his head by dawn.'
'This man is the prince of killers. He will evade your hunters.'
"That would please you, would it not, Kesa Khan? You have always hated me.'
'Your ego is bloated, Butaso. I do not hate you, I despise you - but that is neither here nor there This man must be stopped.'
'You would help me?'
'He is a danger to future Nadir generations. He seeks the Armour of Bronze, the Nadir Bane; he must not live to fulfil his quest.'
'Use the Shapeshifters then - hunt him down.'
'They are a last resort,' snapped Kesa Khan, rising to his feet. 'I must think.' Replacing the knuckle bones in a goatskin sack, he moved outside the tent and stared up at the stars. Around him there was little movement, except among the sentries guarding Butaso; eight men ringed his tent with swords in hand, facing outwards silently, occasionally stamping their feet against the cold.
Kesa Khan walked to his own tent, where the slave girl Voltis had prepared a brazier of burning coals to warm the air. She had also poured a bowl of Lyrrd and placed three warmed rocks in his bed. He smiled at her and drank the Lyrrd in a single
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swallow, feeling the alcohol pouring fire into his veins.
'You are a fine girl, Voltis. I do not deserve you.'
'You have been kind,' she said, bowing.
'Would you like to return home?'
'No, Lord. I wish to serve you.' He was touched by her sincerity and leaning forward he lifted her chin . . . then froze.
Eightl
The guard on Butaso's tent was normally seven!
Butaso turned as the guard entered. 'What do you want?'
'The return of my gift,' said Waylander. Butaso spun on his heel, a scream beginning in his throat -a scream cut off by six inches of shimmering steel hammering into his neck. His fingers scrambled for the blade, and his eyes widened in agony; then he fell to his knees, his gaze fixed on the tall figure standing impassively before him.
The last thing he heard as his eyes closed was the clash of steel as his guards rushed into the tent.
Waylander turned, his sword blocking a wild cut. Twisting his wrist, he sent his opponent's blade flying through the air. The guard wrenched a knife from its scabbard, but died as Waylander's sword lanced his ribs. More guards pushed forward, forcing the assassin back to the centre of the tent.
'Put down your sword,' hissed Kesa Khan from the entrance. Waylander gazed coolly at the ring of steel closing in on him.
'Come and take it,' he said.
As the Nadir surged forward, Waylander's sword flickered out and a man fell screaming. Then a blade crashed side on against his head and he fell. He
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struggled to rise, but pounding fists pushed him down and a sea of darkness washed over him . . .
Pain woke him - deep throbbing, insistent pain. His fingers were swollen and the sun beat mercilessly down on his naked body. He was hanging by his wrists from a pole at the centre of the Nadir camp; they had stripped him of his Nadir clothes and strung him in the sun, and already he could feel the burning of his marble-white skin. His face and arms were in no danger, burnt as they were to the colour of leather, but his body had never been exposed to harsh sunlight and already his chest and shoulders felt as if on fire. He tried to open his eyes, but only the left would function; the right was swollen shut. His mouth was dry, his tongue a stick.
His hands were throbbing and almost purple. Getting his feet under him he pushed himself upright, taking pressure from his swollen wrists. Immediately a fist lashed into his stomach and he winced and bit his swollen lip so hard that blood flowed to his chin.
'We have fine things in store for you, you round-eyed son of a slut,' said a voice. Waylander tilted his head to see before him a young man of middle height - his greasy black hair tied in a pony tail, his features obscured by the ash of mourning.
Waylander looked away and the man struck him again.
'Leave him!' ordered Kesa Khan.
'He is mine.'
'Obey me, Gorkai,' ordered the old man.
'He must die hard, and then serve my father in the Void.'
The young man walked away and Waylander looked at the old man.
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'You did well, Soul Stealer, you took the life of a fool who would have led us to ruin.'
Waylander said nothing. His mouth was full of blood which moistened his dry tongue and eased his throat.
Kesa. Khan smiled.
'Blood will not sustain you. Today we take you to the desert, where we will watch your soul drawn out by the burning sand.'
The long day wore on and the pain grew. Waylander closed his mind against the burning of his flesh and fought to stay calm, breathing slowly and deeply, conserving what energy he could against the moment when the nadir released him. If they were to take him to the desert, then they must first cut him loose from the pole - at that moment he would attack and force them to kill him.
His mind drifted, flowing back over the years. He saw again the young, idealistic Dakeyras: the child who yearned to be a soldier, to serve in the army of Orien, the Warrior King of Bronze. He recalled the day when Orien had led his victorious force through the streets of Drenan, how the crowds had cheered and thrown flowers. The King had seemed like a giant to the ten-year-old Dakeyras as his armour blazed in the noon sun. Orien had carried his three-year-old son before him and the child, dismayed by the noise of the crowd, had burst into tears. Then the King had lifted him high and kissed him gently. Dakeyras had enjoyed that moment of warmth.
His mind tore his memory from the scene, and pictured once more the moment King Niallad fell with Waylander's bolt jutting from his back. The sight dragged him back to the present and the agony
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returned. How had the noble young child become the soulless slayer? His wrists ached and he realised that his legs had given way once more; he forced himself up
right and opened his good eye. A group of Nadir children squatted before him and one of them lashed at his leg with a stick.
A Nadir warrior stepped forward and sent the boy sprawling with a well-aimed kick.
Waylander drifted once more, his eyes closed. His heart sank as the vision returned of the child held high by the adoring father. With the kiss the boy had been comforted and had started to laugh, copying the King as he waved to the crowd. Tiny Niallad, the hope for tomorrow. One day, thought Dakeyras then, I will serve him as my father serves Orien.
'Waylander,' called a voice and he opened his eye. There was no one close, but the voice came again, deep in his mind. 'Close your eyes and relax.' Waylander did as he was bid, and his pain vanished as he sank into a deep sleep. He found himself standing on a bleak hillside under alien stars, bright and close and perfectly round. Two moons hung in the sky-one silver, one shot with blue and green like stained marble. On the hillside sat Orien, younger now and more like the king of Waylander's memory.
'Come, sit with me.'
'Have I died?'
'Not yet, though it is close.'
'I failed you.'
'You tried - a man can ask for no more.'
"They killed the woman I loved.'
'And you took your revenge. Was it sweet?'
'No, I felt nothing.'
'That is a truth you should have realised many years ago when you hunted down the men who slew
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your family. You are a weak man, Waylander, to be so manipulated by events. But you are not evil.'
'I killed your son. For money.'
'Yes. I had not forgotten.'
'It seems so futile to say that I am sorry, yet I am.'
'It is never futile. Evil is not like a rock, static and immobile - it is a cancer that builds on itself. Ask any soldier who has been to war. You never forget the first man you kill, but not all the gold in the world could get you to remember the tenth.'
'I can remember the tenth,' said Waylander. 'He was a raider named Kityan, a half-breed Nadir. I followed him to a small town east of Skein . . .'
'And you killed him with your hands after putting
| out his eyes with your thumbs.'
I 'Yes. He was one of those who slew my wife and
children.'
'Tell me, why did you not search for Danyal among the dead?'
Waylander turned away and swallowed hard. 'I have seen one woman I loved after the killers left her. I could not witness another such scene.'
'Had you found the strength to search, you would not now be tied to a Nadir pole. She lives, for Durmast rescued her.'
'No?'
'Would I lie, Waylander?'
'Can you help me escape?'
'No.'
'Then I will die.'
'Yes,' said Orien sadly, 'You are dying. But it is happening painlessly.'
Waylander nodded, then his head jerked round. 'You mean now?'
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'Of course.'
'Return me, damn you!'
'You wish to return to agony and death?'
'It is my life, Orien. Mine! I have known pain and I can stand it, but until the moment of death I will not surrender. Not to you, not to the Nadir, not to anyone. Return me!'
'Close your eyes, Waylander, and prepare yourself for pain.'
Waylander groaned as the agony touched him, the sound tearing his dry, swollen throat. He heard a man laugh and opened his eyes to find a crowd had formed about him.
The young man, Gorkai, was grinning widely. 'I told you he was alive. Good! Give him a drink - I want him to feel every cut.' A squat warrior forced Waylander's head back, pouring water from a stone jug to his cracked lips. He could not swallow at first, but allowed the liquid to trickle into his dry throat.
'That's enough!' said Gorkai. 'Know this, assassin: we are going to cut your body very lightly and then smear you with honey. After that we bury you beside an ant's nest. You understand?' Waylander said nothing. His mouth was full of water and every few seconds he allowed a small amount to ease his throat.
Gorkai drew a curved knife and was moving forward when the sound of galloping hooves stopped him, causing him to turn. The crowd parted as a rider thundered into the camp and Waylander looked up, but the sun was directly behind the horseman.
The Nadir scattered as the rider approached and Gorkai, shading his eyes against the sun, screamed, 'Kill him!' The Nadir ran for their weapons; Gorkai gripped his knife tightly and turned on Waylander.
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The blade rose . . . But a crossbow shaft punched through his temple and he pitched to the earth. The horseman dragged on the reins beside the pole and a sword slashed through the ropes above Waylander's wrists. He slumped forward, recovered and staggered for the horse as two Nadir ran forward with blades in hand. Dropping his crossbow, the horseman hauled Waylander across his saddle; then he lashed out with his sword and the Nadir leapt back. Arrows flashed by the rider and he kicked his mount into a canter.
The pommel of the saddle cut into Waylander's side and he almost fell as the horse galloped towards the hills. He watched the tents flash by and twice saw Nadir archers bend their bows. The animal was breathing hard as they reached the trees. Behind them Waylander could hear the thunder of hooves and the furious screams of the pursuers. The rider dragged his mount to a stop in a hollow, then threw Waylander to the ground. He landed hard, then came to his knees; his hands were still tied.
Caporas leaned over him as Waylander pushed out his arms; his sword sliced down and the ropes parted. Waylander glanced round, seeing that his own horse was tethered to a bush, his clothes and weapons tied to the saddle. By the trees was the naked corpse of the nadir warrior he had slain the night before. He stumbled to his horse, pulled clear the reins and, with an effort, climbed into the saddle. Then they were off, hugging the tree-lined narrow trail.
Behind them the Nadir were closing and arrows flashed perilously close to the fugitives, then the two men were out of the trees and found themselves riding across open ground.
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'I hope your horse can jump,' yelled Cadoras.
Waylander strained to see ahead, fear rising in him as he saw the trail end in a sudden drop. Cadoras spurred on. 'Follow me!' he shouted.
His huge grey gelding sailed over the chasm and Waylander dug his heels into his mount's flanks and followed. The jump was less than ten feet. Far below them a river rushed over white rocks. Cadoras' horse landed well, slithering on the scree; Waylander almost fell as his own mount leapt, but hung on grimly. The horse stumbled on the far side, but found its feet and carried its rider out of bowshot. Waylander swung in the saddle to see the nadir riders lining the chasm; the jump was too great for their ponies.
The two men headed deeper into the mountains, riding over rocks and through streams. Waylander swayed in the saddle, then lifted the canteen from the pommel and drank deeply. Turning, he pulled his cloak clear of the saddle rolls and swung it over his burning shoulders. Towards dusk, as they entered a thicker grove of trees, Cadoras suddenly pitched from his saddle. Waylander dismounted, tethered his horse and knelt by the fallen man. Only then did he see the three arrows that jutted from Cadoras' back. The man's cloak was drenched with blood. Gently Waylander eased him into a sitting position and Cadoras' head fell back against Waylan-der's chest. Glancing down, Waylander saw a fourth shaft deep in the man's left side.
Cadoras opened his eyes. 'Seems like a good place to camp,' he whispered.
'Why did you come back for me?'
'Who knows? Get me a drink.' With care Waylander eased the dying man against a tree before
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fetching a canteen. Cadoras drank deeply. 'I followed you. Found the Nadir you'd killed and saw that you had taken his clothes. I guessed then that you were engaged in some senseless act of folly.'
'You mean as senseless as attacking a Nadir camp singlehanded?'
Cadoras chuckled, then winced. 'Foolish, was
it not? But then I've never been a hero. Thought I would try it just once - I don't think I'll ever do it again.'
'You want me to get those arrows out?'
'What would be the point? You'd rip me to pieces. Do you know ... I have only been injured once in all these years, and that was merely a surface cut to the face which gave me this loathsome scar. Strange, is it not? I spend my life committing dark deeds, and the one time I try to do good I get killed. There's no justice!'
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