'Gellan worries me,' said Karnak.
'In what way? He's a good officer – you've said that yourself.'
'He gets too close to his men. He thinks he is cynic, but in fact he's a romantic – searching for heroes in a world that has no use for them. What makes a man like that?'
'Most men think you are a hero, sir.'
'But Gellan does not want a pretend hero, Dundas. What was it Vanek called me? A political whoreson? Is it a crime to want a strong land, where savage armies cannot enter??'
'No, sir, but then you are not a pretend hero. You are a hero who pretends to be otherwise.'
But Karnak appeared not to have heard. He was staring out over the harbour as three more ships ghosted in towards the jetty.
Dardalion touched the wounded soldier's forehead and the man's eyes closed, the lines of pain disappearing from his face. He was young and had not yet found need of a razor. Yet his right arm was hanging from a thread of muscle and his torn stomach was held in place by a broad leather belt.
'There is no hope for this one,' Astila's mind pulsed.
'I know,' answered Dardalion. 'He sleeps now … the sleep of death.'
The makeshift hospital was packed with beds, pallets and stretchers. Several women moved among the injured men – changing bandages, mopping brows, talking to the wounded in soft compassionate voices. Karnak had asked the women to help and their presence aided the men beyond even the skill of the surgeons, for no man likes to appear weak before a woman and so the injured gritted their teeth and made light of their wounds.
The chief surgeon – a spare slight man named Evris – approached Dardalion. The two had struck up an instant friendship and the surgeon had been overwhelmingly relieved when the priests augmented his tiny force.
'We need more room,' said Evris, wiping his sweating brow with a bloody cloth.
'It is too hot in here,' said Dardalion. 'I can smell disease in the air.'
'What you can smell is the corpses below. Gan Degas had nowhere to bury them.'
'Then they must be burnt.'
'I agree, but think of the effect on morale. To see your friends cut down is one thing, to see them tossed on a raging fire is another.'
'I'll talk to Karnak.'
'Have you seen anything of Gan Degas?' asked Evris.
'No. Not for several days in fact.'
'He's a proud man.'
'Most warriors are. Without that pride there would be no wars.'
'Karnak used hard words on him – called him a coward and a defeatist. Neither was true. A braver, stronger man never lived. He was trying to do what was best for his men and had he known Egel still fought, he would never have thought of surrender.'
'What do you want from me, Evris?'
'Talk to Karnak – persuade him to apologise, to spare the old man's feelings. It would cost Karnak nothing, but it would save Degas from despair.'
'You are a good man, surgeon, to think of such a thing when you are exhausted from your labours among the wounded. I will do as you bid.'
'And then get some sleep. You look ten years older than when you arrived six days ago.'
'That is because we work during the day and we guard the fortress by night. But you are right again. It is arrogant of me to believe I can go on like this for ever. I will rest soon, I promise you.'
Dardalion walked from the ward to a small side-room and stripped off his bloodied apron. He washed swiftly, pouring fresh water from a wooden bucket into an enamelled bowl; then he dressed. He started to buckle on his breastplate, but the weight bore him down and he left his armour on the narrow pallet bed and wandered along the cool corridor. As he reached the open doors to the courtyard the sounds of battle rushed upon him – clashing swords and bestial screams, shouted orders and the anguished wails of the dying.
Slowly he climbed the worn stone steps into the Keep, leaving the dread clamour behind him. Degas' rooms were at the top of the Keep and there Dardalion tapped at the door and waited, but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The main room was neat and spartanly furnished with a carved wooden table and seven chairs. Rugs were laid before a wide hearth and a cabinet stood by the window. Dardalion sighed deeply and strode to the cabinet. Inside were campaign medals ranging over forty years, and some mementoes – a carved shield presented to Dun Degas to celebrate a cavalry charge, a dagger of solid gold, a long silver sabre with the words FOR THE ONE etched in acid on the blade.
Dardalion sat down and opened the cabinet. On the bottom shelf were the diaries of Degas, one for every year of his military service. Dardalion opened them at random. The writing was perfectly rounded and showed a disciplined hand, while the words themselves gave evidence of the military mind.
One ten-year-old entry read:
Sathuli raiding party struck at Skarta outskirts on the eleventh. Two forces of Fifty sent to engage and destroy. Albar led the First, I the Second. My force trapped them on the slopes beyond Ekarlas. Frontal charge hazardous as they were well protected by boulders. I split the force into three sections and we climbed around and above them, dislodging them with arrows. They tried to break out at dusk, but by then I had deployed Albar's men in the arroyo below and all the raiders were slain. Regret to report we lost two men, Esdric and Garlan, both fine riders. Eighteen raiders were despatched.
Dardalion carefully replaced the diary, seeking the most recent.
The writing was more shaky now:
We enter the second month of siege and I see no hope of success. I am not able to sleep as I used. Dreams. Bad dreams fill my night hours.
And then:
Hundreds dying. I have started to experience the strangest visions. I feel that I am flying in the night sky, and I can see the lands of the Drenai below me. Nothing but corpses. Niallad dead. Egel dead.
All the world is dead, and only we mock the world of ghosts.
Ten days earlier Degas had written:
My son Elnar died today, defending the gate tower. He was twenty-six and strong as a bull, but an arrow cut him down and he fell out over the wall and on to the enemy. He was a good man and his mother, bless her soul, would have been proud of him. I am now convinced that we stand alone against Vagria and know we cannot hold for long. Kaem has promised to crucify every man, woman and child in Purdol unless we surrender. And the dreams have begun once more, whispering demons in my head. It is getting so hard to think clearly.
Dardalion flipped the pages.
Karnak arrived today with a thousand men. My heart soared when he told me Egel still fought, but then I realised how close I came to betraying everything I have given my life to protect. Kaem would have slain my men and the Drenai would have been doomed. Harsh words I heard from young Karnak, but richly deserved they were. I have failed.
And the last page:
The dreams have gone and I am at peace. It occurs to me now that through all my married life I never spoke to Rula of love. I never kissed her hand, as courtiers do, nor brought her flowers. So strange. Yet all men knew I loved her, for I bragged about her constantly. I once carved her a chair that had flowers upon it. It took me a month and she loved the chair. I have it still.
Dardalion closed the book and leaned back in the chair, gazing down on the lovingly carved and polished wood. It was a work of some artistry. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked to the bedroom where Degas lay on blood-soaked sheets, his knife still in his hand. His eyes were open and Dardalion gently closed the lids before covering the old man's face with a sheet.
'Lord of All Things,' said Dardalion, 'lead this man home.'
15
Cadoras watched as Waylander rode from the wagons, heading away to the north towards a range of low hills. The hunter lay flat on his belly, his chin in his hands; behind him, on the far side of the hill, his horse was tethered. He eased his way back from the hill-top, walked slowly to the steel-grey gelding and unbuckled the thick saddle roll, opening it out on the ground. Within the canvas wrapping was an assort
ment of weapons ranging from a dismantled crossbow to a set of ivory-handled throwing knives. Cadoras assembled the crossbow and selected ten bolts which he placed in a doeskin quiver at his belt. Then he carefully slid two throwing knives into each of his calf-length riding boots, and two more into sheaths at his side. His sword was strapped to his saddle, along with a Vagrian cavalry bow tipped with gold; the quiver for this hung on his saddle horn. Fully equipped, Cadoras returned the saddle roll to its place and buckled the straps. Then he took some dried meat from his saddlebags and sat back on the grass and stared at the sky, watching the gathering storm clouds drifting in from the east.
It was time for the kill.
There had been little joy in the hunting. He could have killed Waylander on a dozen occasions – but then it took two to play the game, and Waylander had refused to take part. At first this had irritated Cadoras, making him feel slightly as if his victim had held him in contempt. But as the days passed he had realised that Waylander simply did not care. And so Cadoras had not loosed the fatal shaft.
He wanted to know why. He was filled with an urge to ride in to the wagons and sit opposite Waylander, to ask him…
Cadoras had been a hunter for more than a decade and he knew the role better than any man alive. In the deadliest game of all he was a master – understanding every facet, every iron rule: the hunter stalked, the prey evaded or ran, or turned and fought back. But the prey never ignored.
Why?
Cadoras had expected Waylander to hunt him, had even set elaborate traps around his camp-site. Night after night he had hidden in trees, his bow slung, while his blankets lay by warm fires covering only rocks and branches.
Today would end the burning questions. He would kill Waylander and go home.
Home?
High walls and soul-less rooms, and cold-eyed messengers with offers of gold for death. Like a tomb with windows.
'Curse you, Waylander! Why did you make it so easy?'
'It was the only defence.' answered Waylander and Cadoras spun round as a sword of shining steel rested on his back. He froze and then relaxed, his right hand inching, towards the hidden knives in his boot. 'Don't be foolish,' said Waylander. 'I can open your throat before you blink.'
'What now, Waylander?'
'I have not yet decided.'
'I should have killed you.'
'Yes, but then life is full of "should haves". Take off your boots … slowly.' Cadoras did as he was bid. 'Now your belt and jerkin.' Waylander moved the weapons and hurled them on to the grass.
'You planned this?' asked Cadoras, sitting back and resting on his elbows. Waylander nodded and sheathed his sword, sitting some ten feet from the hunter. 'You want some dried meat?' Cadoras enquired. Waylander shook his head and drew a throwing knife, balancing the blade in his right hand.
'Before you kill me, may I ask a question?'
'Of course.'
'How did you know I would wait this long?'
'I didn't, I merely hoped. You should know better than any man that the hunter has all the advantages. No man is safe from the assassin, be he king or peasant. But you had something to prove, Cadoras – and that made you an easy prey.'
'I had nothing to prove.'
Truly? Not even to yourself?'
'Like what?'
'That you were the better man, the greatest hunter?'
Cadoras leaned back and stared at the sky. 'Pride,' he said. 'Vanity. It makes fools of us all.'
'We are all fools regardless – otherwise we would be farmers, watching our sons grow.'
Cadoras rolled to one elbow and grinned. 'Is that why you've decided to be a hero?'
'Perhaps,' admitted Waylander.
'Does it pay well?'
'I don't know. I haven't been one very long.'
'You know the Brotherhood will be back?'
'Yes.'
'You can't survive.'
'I know that too.'
'Then why do it? I've seen you with the woman –why don't you take her to Gulgothir and head east to Ventria?'
'You think it would be safe there?'
Cadoras shook his head. 'You have a point. But then at least you'd have a chance – on this quest you have none.'
'I am touched by your concern.'
'You may not believe it, but it is genuine. I respect you, Waylander, but I feel sorry for you. You are doomed … and by your own hand.'
'Why by mine?'
'Because the skills that are yours are now shackled. I do not know what has happened to you, but you are no longer Waylander the Slayer. If you were, I would now be dead. The Slayer would not have stopped to talk.'
'I cannot argue with that, but then the Cadoras of old would not have waited before loosing an arrow.'
'Maybe we are both getting old.'
'Collect your weapons and ride,' said Waylander, sheathing his knife and rising smoothly to his feet.
'I make no promises,' stated Cadoras. 'Why are you doing this?'
'Just ride.'
'Why not merely give me your knife and offer me your throat?' snapped Cadoras.
'Are you angry because I haven't killed you?'
'Think back to what you were, Waylander, then you'll know why I'm angry.' Cadoras strode to his weapons and retrieved them. Then he pulled on his boots, tightened his saddle cinch and mounted.
Waylander watched as the assassin rode south, then he wandered back over the hill-top to his own horse and stepped into the saddle. The wagons were lost in the heat haze to the north, but Waylander had no wish to catch up with them before nightfall.
He spent the day scouting the wooded hills, sleeping for two hours beside a rock pool shaded by spruce trees. Towards dusk he saw smoke curling into the sky in the north and a cold dread settled on him. Swiftly he saddled the gelding and raced for the trees, lashing the beast into a furious gallop. For almost a mile he pushed the pace, then sanity returned and he slowed the horse to a canter. His mind was numb and he knew what he would find before he crested the last hill. The smoke had been too great for a mere camp-fire, or even ten camp-fires. Sitting his horse atop the hill, he gazed down on the burnt-out wagons. They had been drawn into a rough semi-circle, as if the drivers had seen the danger with only seconds to spare and had tried to form a fighting circle. Bodies littered the ground and vultures had gathered in squabbling packs.
Waylander rode slowly down the hillside. Many of those now dead had been taken alive and cut to pieces – there had been, then, no prisoners. A child had been nailed to a tree and several women had been staked out with fires built on their chests. A little to the north Durmast's men lay in a rough circle, ringed by dead Nadir warriors. Already the vultures had begun their work and Waylander could not bear to search for Danyal's body. He turned his horse to the west.
The trail was not hard to follow, even under moonlight, and as he rode Waylander assembled his crossbow.
Images flickered in his mind and Danyal's face appeared …
Waylander blinked as tears stung his eyes. He swallowed back the sobs pushing at his throat, and something in him died. His back straightened as if a weight had been lifted from him and the recent past floated across his mind's eye like the dreams of another man. He saw the rescue of the priest, the saving of Danyal and the children, the battle at Masin and the promise made to Orien. He watched in astonishment as Cadoras was freed to strike again. Hearing himself talking to Cadoras about heroes, a dry chuckle escaped him. What a fool he must have sounded!
Hewla had been right – love was very nearly the downfall. But now the Nadir had killed Danyal and for that they would suffer. No matter that there were hundreds of them. No matter that he could not win.
Only one truth was of importance.
Waylander the Slayer was back.
Danyal knelt beside Durmast on the slopes of a hill overlooking a riverside town of rambling wooden buildings. The hill was thickly wooded and their horses were hidden in a hollow some sixty paces to the south.
Sh
e was tired. The previous day they had escaped from the Nadir raiders with seconds to spare and she had felt a deep sense of shame at their flight. Durmast had been scouting to the west and she had seen him galloping ahead of a Nadir war party, his axe in his hand. Arrows flashed by him as he thundered his bay gelding into line with the wagons, hauled on the reins alongside the baker's wagon and shouted for Danyal. Without thinking she had climbed alongside him and he had spurred his mount for the hills. She would be lying to herself if she claimed she had not known he was taking her to safety while those around her were doomed to savage and cruel deaths. And she hated herself for her weakness.
Four Nadir riders had pursued them into the hills. Once into the woods Durmast had dumped her from the saddle and swung his horse to meet their charge. The first had died as Durmast's axe smashed his rib-cage. The second had thrust out a lance which the giant brushed aside before slashing the man's head from his shoulders. The rest of the vicious action had been so swift and chaotic that Danyal could not take it in. Durmast had charged the remaining riders and the horses had gone down in a welter of flailing hooves. He had risen first, looming like a god of war with his silver axe flashing in the sunlight. With the four men dead, he had looted their saddlebags for food and water and without a word brought her a Nadir pony. Together they had headed north into the trees.
That night, with the temperature falling, they had slept under a single blanket and Durmast, still without a word, had removed his clothes and reached for her.
Turning into him she smiled sweetly, but his eyes widened as he felt the touch of cold steel at his loins.
'The knife is very sharp, Durmast. I would suggest you calm yourself – and sleep.'
'A simple "No" would have been sufficient, woman,' he said, his blue eyes cold with anger.
'Then I shall say "No". Do you give your word not to touch me?'
'Of course.'
'Since I know your word is as strong as a withered stick, let me tell you this: If you rape me, I shall do my best to kill you.'
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