Waylander ds-3

by David A. Gemmell

  'Sweet Lord of Light!' said Danyal. 'Whyl Why the blood?'

  'According to the Source no priest shall taste blood, for it carries the soul,' explained Waylander softly. 'The weapon was not enough, but the blood brought him back.'

  'I don't understand you. And I do not wish to,' she said.

  'He is alive, woman. What more do you want?'

  'From you, nothing.'

  Waylander smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Taking a small canvas sack from his saddlebag, he removed a length of linen bandage and clumsily wound it around the shallow cut in his arm.

  'Would you mind tying a knot in this?' he asked her.

  'I'm afraid not,' she answered. 'It would mean touching you and I do not want my hand cut off at the wrist!'

  'I am sorry for that. It should not have been said.'

  Without waiting for a reply, Waylander left the cave, tucking the bandage under its own folds as he went.

  The day was bright and cool, the mountain breezes sharp with the snow of the Skoda peaks as Waylander walked to the crest of a nearby hill and gazed into the blue distance. The Delnoch mountains were still too far off to be seen by the naked eye.

  For the next three or four days the trail would be easy, moving from wood to forest to wood, with only short stretches of open ground. But thereafter the Sentran Plain would lie before them, flat and formless.

  To cross that emptiness unobserved would take more luck than a man had any right to ask. Six people and two horses! At the pace they must travel they would be on the Plain for nigh a week – a week without fires or hot food. Waylander scanned the possible trails to the north-east, towards Purdol, the City by the Sea. It was said that a Vagrian fleet had berthed at the harbour mouth, landing an army to besiege the citadel. If that were true – and Waylander thought it likely – then Vagrian outriders would be scouring the countryside for food and supplies. To the north-west was Vagria itself and the citadel of Segril, but from here troops were pouring into the Drenai lands. The Sentran Plain was due north, and beyond it Skultik forest and the mountains said to be the last Drenai stronghold west of Purdol.

  But did Egel still hold Skultik?

  Could anyone hold together the remnants of a defeated army against the Hounds of Chaos? Waylander doubted it … yet beyond the doubts there was a spark of hope. Egel was the most able Drenai general of the age, unspectacular but sound – a stern disciplinarian, unlike the courtiers King Niallad normally placed in charge of his troops. Egel was a northerner, uncultured and at times uncouth, but a man of charisma and strength. Waylander had seen him once during a parade in Drenan and the man had stood out like a boar amongst gazelle.

  Now the boar had gone to ground in Skultik.

  Waylander hoped he could hold, at least until he delivered the woman and the children.

  If he could deliver them.

  Waylander killed a small deer during the afternoon. Hanging the carcass from a nearby tree, he cut prime sections and then carried the meat back to the cave. It was growing dark when he arrived and the priest still slept. Danyal set the fire while Waylander rigged a rough spit to roast the venison. The children sat close to the fire, watching the drops of fat splash into the flames – their stomachs tight, their eyes greedy. Lifting the meat from the spit, Waylander laid it to rest on a flat rock to cool; then he sliced sections for the children and lastly Danyal.

  'It is a little tough,' complained the woman.

  'The deer saw me just as I loosed the shaft,' said Waylander. 'Its muscles were bunched to run.'

  'It tastes good all the same,' she admitted.

  'Why is Dardalion still asleep?' asked Miriel, smiling at Waylander and tipping her head to one side so that her long fair hair fell across her face.

  'He was very tired,' answered the warrior, 'after his tussle with the man you saw.'

  'He cut him into little bits,' said the child.

  'Yes, I'm sure he did,' said Danyal. 'But children shouldn't make up stories – especially nasty stories. You'll frighten your sister.'

  'We saw him,' said Krylla and Miriel nodded agreement. 'When you were sitting with Dardalion, we closed our eyes and watched. He was all silver and he had a shining sword – he chased the bad man and cut him into little bits. And he was laughing!'

  'What can you see when you close your eyes?' asked Waylander.

  'Where?' asked Miriel.

  'Outside the cave,' said the warrior softly.

  Miriel closed her eyes. 'There's nothing out there,' she said, her eyes still closed.

  'Go further down the trail, near the big oak. Now what do you see?'

  'Nothing. Trees. A little stream. Oh!'

  'What is it?' asked Waylander.

  'Two wolves. They're jumping by a tree – like they're dancing.'

  'Go closer.'

  'The wolves will get me,' Miriel protested.

  'No, they won't – not with me here. They won't see you. Go closer.'

  'They are jumping after a poor little deer that's in the tree; he's hanging there.'

  'Good. Come back now, and open your eyes.'

  Miriel looked up and yawned. 'I'm tired,' she said.

  'Yes,' said Waylander softly. 'But tell me first – like a bedtime story – about Dardalion and the other man.'

  'You tell him, Krylla. You're better at telling stories.'

  'Well,' said Krylla, leaning forward, 'the nasty man with the arrow in his eye caught hold of Miriel and me. He was hurting us. Then Dardalion came and the man let us go. And a big sword appeared in the man's hand. And we ran away, didn't we, Miriel? We went and slept in your lap, Waylander. And we were safe there. But Dardalion was being cut a lot and he was flying very fast. And we couldn't catch up. But we saw him again, when you and Danyal were holding him. He seemed to grow very tall, and silver armour covered him up, and his robes caught fire and burned away. Then he had a sword and he was laughing. The other man's sword was black –and it broke, didn't it, Miriel?

  'Then he fell on his knees and began to weep. And Dardalion cut off his arms and legs and he just disappeared. After that Dardalion laughed even more. Then he disappeared and came home to where his body lives. And we are all right now.'

  'Yes, we are all right now,' agreed Waylander. 'I think it is time to sleep now. Are you tired, Culas?' The boy nodded glumly.

  'What is wrong, boy?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Come, tell me.'

  'No.'

  'He's angry because he cannot fly with us,' said Miriel, giggling.

  'No, I'm not,' snapped Culas. 'Anyway, you are making it up.'

  'Listen, Culas,' said Waylander, 'I can't fly either and it doesn't worry me. Now let's stop the arguing and sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.' With the children huddled together by the far wall, Danyal moved alongside Waylander.

  'Were they speaking the truth, do you think?' she asked.

  'Yes, for Miriel saw where I hid the deer.'

  'Then Dardalion did kill his enemy?'

  'It would appear so.'

  'It makes me feel uneasy – I don't know why.'

  'It was a spirit of evil. What else would you expect a priest to do? Bless it?'

  'Why are you always so unpleasant, Waylander?'

  'Because I choose to be.'

  'In that case, I don't suppose you have many friends.'

  'I don't have any friends.'

  'Does that make you lonely?'

  'No. It keeps me alive.'

  'And what a life it must be for you, full of fun and laughter!' she mocked. 'I'm surprised you're not a poet.'

  'Why so angry?' he asked. 'Why should it affect you?'

  'Because you are part of our lives. Because for as long as we live, you will remain in our memories. Speaking for myself, I would have preferred another saviour.'

  'Yes, I have seen the arena-plays,' said Waylander. 'The hero has golden hair and a white cloak. Well, I am not a hero, woman –I am a man trapped in the priest's web. You think he has been sullied? Well, s
o have I. The difference is that he needed my darkness to survive. But his Light will destroy me.'

  'Will you two never stop rowing?' asked Dardalion, sitting up and stretching his arms.

  Danyal ran to his side. 'How do you feel?'

  'Ravenous!' He threw aside the blanket and moved to the fire, casually spearing two strips of venison with the spit. Laying it in place, he added fuel to the dwindling blaze.

  Waylander said nothing, but sadness settled on him like a dark cloak.

  4

  Waylander woke first and made his way from the cave. Stripping off his shirt and leggings, he stepped into the icy steam and lay flat on his back, allowing the water to flow over him. The stream was mere inches deep, running over rounded rocks, but the force of the flow was strong and he felt himself gently sliding down the sloping stream-bed. Rolling over, he splashed his face and beard and stood up before clambering from the water, where he sat on the grass waiting for the dawn breezes to dry his skin.

  'You look like a three-day-dead fish,' said Danyal.

  'And you're beginning to smell like one,' he responded, grinning. 'Go on, wash yourself!'

  For a moment she looked at him closely, then she shrugged and removed the green woollen tunic dress. Waylander leaned back and watched her. Her waist was slim, her hips smooth, her skin …

  He turned away to watch a red squirrel leaping in the branches nearby, then stood and stretched. Near the stream was a thick screen of bushes, and within it a small clump of lemon balm. Pulling free a handful of the shield-shaped leaves, he carried them back to where Danyal sat.

  'Here, crush these in your hand and wipe them on your skin.'.

  'Thank you,' she said, reaching up.

  Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Waylander found his clothes and dressed. He wished he still had a spare shirt, but the priest wore it and he was uncomfortably aware of the dust in his own.

  Once dressed, Waylander returned to the cave and looped his chain-mail shoulder-guard in place over his black leather jerkin. Taking his boots, he removed the two spare knives and sharpened them with his whetstone before replacing them carefully in the sheaths stitched inside each boot.

  Dardalion watched him, noting the care with which he handled his weapons.

  'Could you spare me a knife?' he asked.

  'Of course. Heavy or light?'

  'Heavy.'

  Waylander picked up his belt and pulled clear a dark sheath complete with ebony-handled blade. 'This should suffice. The blade is keen enough to shave with and double-edged.'

  Dardalion threaded his narrow belt through the sheath and settled it in place against his right hip.

  'Are you left-handed?' asked Waylander.

  'No.'

  'Then angle it on your left hip. That way, when you pull it clear the blade will face your enemy.'

  'Thank you.'

  Waylander buckled his own belt in place, then rubbed his chin. 'You worry me, priest,' he said.

  'Why?'

  'Yesterday you would have walked around a crawling bug. Now you are ready to kill a man. Was your faith so weak?'

  'My faith remains, Waylander. But now I see things a little more clearly. You gave me that with your blood.'

  'I wonder. Was it a gift – or a theft? I feel I have robbed you of something precious.'

  'If you have, then be assured I do not miss it.'

  'Time will tell, priest.'

  'Call me Dardalion. You know that is my name.'

  'Is "priest" no longer good enough for you?'

  'Not at all. Would you prefer it if I called you "assassin"?'

  'Call me what you like. Nothing you say will affect the way I perceive myself.'

  'Have I offended you?' asked Dardalion.

  'No.'

  'You have not asked me about my duel with the enemy.'

  'No, I have not.'

  'Is it because you do not care?'

  'No, Dardalion. I don't know why, but I do care. My reasons are far more simple. I deal in death, my friend – death which is final. You are here, therefore you killed him and he is no longer of interest to me. It disturbs me that you cut away his arms and legs, but I shall get over that, as I shall get over you once you are safely with Egel.'

  'I had hoped we could be friends.'

  'I have no friends. I wish for none.'

  'Was it always so?'

  'Always is a long time. I had friends before I became Waylander. But that was another universe, priest.'

  'Tell me.'

  'I see no reason why I should,' replied Waylander. 'Wake the children. We have a long day before us.'

  Waylander strolled from the cave to where he had picketed the horses, then saddled them and rode his own gelding to the spot where he had hung the deer.

  Taking a canvas bag, he cut several strips from the carcass and packed them away for the evening meal. Then he pulled the remains from the tree to lie on the grass for the wolves.

  'Did you have friends, little doe?' he asked, staring at the blank grey eyes.

  He turned his horse towards the cave, remembered the days of camaraderie at Dros Purdol. As a young officer he had excelled, though why he had no idea; he had always disliked authority, but had relished the discipline.

  He and Gellan had been closer than brothers, always together whether on patrol or whoring. Gellan had been a witty companion and only in the Silver Sword tourney had they ever found themselves as opponents. Gellan always won, but then the man was inhumanly swift. They had parted when Waylander met Tanya – a merchant's daughter from Medrax Ford, a small town to the south of Skein Pass. Waylander was in love before he knew it and had resigned his commission for life on the farm.

  Gellan had been heartbroken. 'Still,' he had said on that last day, 'I expect I won't be long following you. Army life will be dreadfully dull!'

  Waylander wondered if Gellan had done so. Was he a farmer somewhere? Or a merchant? Or was he dead in one of the many lost battles fought by the Drenai?

  If the latter, Waylander guessed that a neat pile of corpses would surround his body, for his blade moved faster than a serpent's tongue.

  'I should have stayed, Gellan,' he said. 'I really should.'

  Gellan was hot and tired, sweat sliding down the back of his neck under the chain-mail shoulder-guard and causing his spine to itch unbearably. He removed his black helm and ran his fingers through his hair. There was no breeze and he cursed softly.

  Forty miles from Skultik and the relative security of Egel's camp – and the horses were tired, the men weary and dispirited. Gellan raised his right arm with fist clenched, giving the signal to 'Walk Horses'. Behind him the fifty riders dismounted; there was no conversation.

  Sarvaj rode his mount alongside Gellan and the two men dismounted together. Gellan hooked his helm over the pommel of his saddle and pulled a linen cloth from his belt. Wiping the sweat from his face, he turned to Sarvaj.

  'I don't think we'll find a village standing,' he said. Sarvaj nodded but did not reply. He had served under Gellan for half a year, and knew by now when the officer's comments were rhetorical.

  They walked side by side for half an hour, then Gellan signalled for a rest stop and the men sat down beside their horses.

  'Morale is low,' said Gellan and Sarvaj nodded. Gellan undipped his red cloak, laying it over his saddle. Pushing his hands into the small of his back he stretched and groaned. Like most tall men, he found long hours in the saddle irksome and was plagued by continual backache.

  'I stayed too long, Sarjav. I should have quit last year. Forty-one is too old for a Legion officer.'

  'Dun Esterik is fifty-one,' Sarvaj commented.

  Gellan grinned. 'If I had quit, you would have taken over.'

  'And what a fine time to do so, with the army crushed and the Legion skulking in the woods. No thank you!'

  They had stopped in a small grove of elm and Gellan wandered off to sit alone. Sarvaj watched him go and then removed his helm; his dark brown hair was thinning ba
dly and his scalp shone with sweat. Self-consciously he swept his hair back over the bald patches and replaced the helm. Fifteen years younger than Gellan, yet here he was looking like an old man. Then he grinned at his vanity and pulled the helm clear.

  He was a stocky man – ungainly when not in the saddle – and one of the few career soldiers left in the Legion following the savage reductions of the previous autumn, when King Niallad had ordered a new militia programme. Ten thousand soldiers had been dismissed and only Gellan's determination had saved Sarvaj.

  Now Niallad was dead and the Drenai all but conquered.

  Sarvaj had shed no tears for the King for the man was a fool … worse than a fool!

  'Off on his walks again?' said a voice and Sarvaj glanced up. Jonat sat down on the grass and stretched his long bony frame to full length, lying back with his head on his hands.

  'He needs to think,' said Sarvaj.

  'Yes. He needs to think about how to get us through the Nadir lands. I am sick of Skultik.'

  'We are all sick of Skultik, but I don't see that riding north would help. It would merely mean fighting the Nadir tribes instead of the Vagrians.'

  'At least we'd have a chance there. Here we have none.' Jonat scratched his thin black beard. 'If they'd damn well listened to us last year, we would not be in this mess.'

  'But they didn't,' said Sarvaj wearily.

  'Pox-ridden courtiers! In some ways the Hounds did us a favour by butchering the whoresons.'

  'Don't say that to Gellan – he lost a lot of friends in Skoda and Drenan.'

  'We all lost friends,' snapped Jonat, 'and we'll lose a lot more. How long is Egel going to keep us cooped up in that damned forest?'

  'I don't know, Jonat. Gellan doesn't know and I doubt if Egel himself knows.'

  'We ought to strike north, through Gulgothir, and make for the eastern ports. I wouldn't mind settling down in Ventria. Always hot, plenty of women. We could hire out as mercenaries.'

  'Yes,' said Sarvaj, too weary to argue. He failed to understand why Gellan had promoted Jonat to command of a Quarter – the man was full of bile and bitterness.