Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf ds-5

by David A. Gemmell

  'Don't even think of it,' said Waylander softly.

  'You read thoughts?'

  'I don't need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn't make it – trust me on that. Are you Notas?'

  Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their compositions. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. 'No. I am of the Wolves.'

  'You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.'

  'You have walked among the Tent-people?'

  'Many times. Both as friend and enemy.'

  'What was the name the Nadir gave you?' enquired Belash.

  The man smiled thinly. 'They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.'

  Belash nodded. 'You rode with the giant, Ice-eyes. There are songs about you – dark songs, of dark deeds.'

  'And they are true,' admitted the man.

  'What happens now?'

  'I haven't decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.'

  'Why do you think I would not kill you, once my strength has returned?'

  'The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull I would say that Morak has terminated your employ­ment. What would you gain by killing me?'

  'Nothing,' agreed Belash. Except the honour of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the Mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure? Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.

  Waylander moved forward. 'Can you walk?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then follow me.' The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.

  Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.

  6

  The table was forty feet long and three feet wide, and had once been covered by fine linens and decorated with golden plates and goblets. The finest of foods had graced the plates, and nobles had carved their meats with knives of gold. Now there was no fine linen, and the plates were of pewter, the goblets of clay. Bread and cheese lay upon the plates, cool spring water in the goblets. At the table sat twenty-eight priests in white robes. Behind each priest, glittering in the lantern light, was a suit of armour, a bright silver helm, a shining cuirass and a scabbarded sword. And against each suit of armour rested a long wooden staff.

  Ekodas sat at the head of the table, Dardalion beside him.

  'Let me present my own arguments,' pleaded Ekodas.

  'No, my son. But I will do them justice, I promise you.'

  'I did not doubt that, sir. But I cannot do justice to yours.'

  'Do your best, Ekodas. No man can ever ask for more than that.' Dardalion lifted a finger to his lips, then closed his eyes. All heads bowed instantly and the union began. Ekodas felt himself floating. There was no sight, no sound, no feeling. Just warmth. He sensed Vishna, and Magnic, Palista, Seres … all the others flowing all around him.

  'We are One,' pulsed Dardalion.

  'We are One,' echoed the Thirty.

  And the prayer-song began, the great hymn to the Source, mind-sung in a tongue unknown to any of them, even Dardalion. The words were unfathomable, but the sensations created by the sounds produced a sweet magic, filling the soul with light.

  Ekodas was transported back to his childhood, to see again the tall, gangling dark-haired youth with the violet eyes, working behind his father in the fields, planting the seed, gathering the harvest. Those were good days, though he did not know it at the time. Shunned by the other youths of the village he had no friends, and no one to share his small joys, his discoveries. But now, as he soared within the hymn he saw the love his parents gave him, despite their fears at his Talent. He felt the warm hugs from his mother, and his father's calloused hand ruffling his hair.

  And such was the power of the hymn he could even see, without hate, the Vagrian soldiers attacking his home, watch the axe that dashed his father's brains to the floor, the plunging knife that snatched his mother from life. He had been in the barn when the Vagrians rode in. His parents had been slain within the first minute of the raid. Ekodas had leapt from the high hay-stall and run towards the soldiers. One turned and lashed out with a sword. It cut the boy's shoulder and neck, glancing up to slash across his brow.

  When he awoke he was the only living Drenai for miles around. The Vagrians had even butchered the farm animals. All the buildings were burning, and a great pall of smoke hung over the land. He walked the two miles to the village on the third day after the raid. Bodies lay every­where, and though the smoke was gone now, great flocks of crows circled in the sky. He gathered what food remained – a half-charred side of ham, a small sack of dried oats –and found a shovel which he carried back to his home, digging a deep grave for his parents.

  For a year he had lived alone, gathering grain, edible roots and flowers that could be made into soups. And in that year he saw no one. In the day he would work. At night he would dream, dream of flying through the night sky, of soaring above the mountains in the clean light of the stars. Such dreams!

  One night as he circled and soared a dark shape had materialised before him. It was a man's face, black hair waxed close to the skull, high slanted eyes, long braided sideburns that hung far below the chin.

  'Where are you from, boy?' asked the man.

  Ekodas had been frightened. He backed away, but the face swelled and a body appeared, long arms reaching out for him. The hands were scaled and taloned, and Ekodas fled. Other dark shapes appeared, like the crows above the village, and they called out to him. Far below he saw the little shelter he had created for himself from the unburnt timber of the barn. Down, down he flew, merging with his body and snapping awake, his heart beating wildly. In the heartbeat between dream and awakening he was sure he had heard triumphant laughter.

  Two days later a traveller came by, a slender man with a gentle face. He walked slowly, and when he sat he winced with pain, for there was a stitched wound in his back.

  'Good morning, Ekodas,' he had said. 'I am Dardalion – and you must leave this place.'

  'Why? It is my home.'

  'I think you know why. Zhu Chao has seen your spirit soaring. He will send men to bring you to him.'

  'Why should I trust you?'

  The man smiled and reached out his hand. 'You have the Talent, the gift of the Source. Touch me. Find, if you can, a spark of evil.'

  Ekodas gripped the hand, and in an instant Dardalion's memories flowed through him, the great Siege of Purdol, the battles with the Brotherhood, the journey with Waylander, the terrible memories of bloodshed and death.

  'I will come with you, sir.'

  'You will not be alone, my boy. There are nine like you so far. There will be more.'

  'How many more?'

  'We will be Thirty.'

  The prayer-hymn ended. Ekodas felt the coldness of separation, and the awareness of flesh and sinew, the cold breeze from the open window blowing against his bare legs. He shivered and opened his eyes.

  Dardalion stood. Ekodas glanced up at the Abbot's slender, ascetic face.

  'My brothers,' said Dardalion, 'behind you stands the armour of the Thirty. Beside it is the staff of the Source priest. Tonight we will decide where our destiny lies. Do we wear the armour and find the Source in a battle to the death against the forces of evil, or do we go our separate ways in peace and harmony? Tonight I speak for the latter. Ekodas will argue the former. At evening's end you will each stand and make your decisions. You will either take up the staff or the sword. May the Source guide us in our deliberations.'

  He was silent then for several moments, and then he began to speak of the binding power of love, and the changes it wrought in the hearts of men. He spoke of the evil of hatred and greed and lust, pointing out, with great force, the folly of believing that swords and lances could eradicate evil. He spoke of rage and the demons that lay waiting within every human soul; demons
with whips of fire that could impel a good man to rape and murder. Ekodas listened with growing astonishment. All his own arguments, and more, flowed from the Abbot.

  'Yes love,' continued Dardalion, 'can heal the wounds of hatred. Love can eradicate lust and greed. Through love a man of evil can come to repentance and find redemption. For the Source abandons no man.

  'Each of us here has been blessed by the Source. We have Talents. We can read minds, we can soar. Some can heal wounds with a touch. We are gifted. We could walk from here and spread our message of love throughout the realm.

  'Many years ago I found myself in a terrible predica­ment. The Dark Brotherhood were reforming, seeking out gifted children, drawing them into their evil ways. Those who resisted were sacrificed to the forces of dark­ness. I decided then that I too would seek out those with talent, training them, building a new Thirty to stand against evil. While doing so I came upon two sisters, children of tragedy. They lived with a widower, a strong man, fearless and deadly. But they were lost in the soulless grey of the Void, hunted by demonic powers and by two of the Brotherhood. I fought them off and saved the spirits of these children, bringing them to their home. And then I returned to my body and I rode for their cabin. The Brotherhood killers knew where to find them, and I sought to warn their father.

  'But when I arrived he was unconscious, having filled his belly with strong wine, trying to erase his grief at the death of his wife. The children were alone. While at the cabin I sensed the imminent arrival of the two men. I could feel their lust for violence and death travelling before them like a red mist. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  'I did something then that I have always regretted. I took a small double crossbow from the unconscious man, and I loaded it. Then I stepped out to wait for the killers. During the Vagrian Wars I had killed with the sword, but I had sworn never to take another human life. As I waited I prayed they would be turned back by the very threat of the bow.

  'But they came on, and they laughed at me, for I was known to them. I was a Source priest, a preacher of love. They mocked me and drew their swords. This bow I held had killed many men and it had power, dread power, in its ebony stock. The men advanced. My arm came up. And the first bolt flew. The first man died. The second man turned to run. Without thinking I shot him through the back of the neck. I felt like leaping into the air with joy. I had saved the children. Then the enormity of the deed came home to me, and I fell to my knees, hurling the crossbow from me.

  'At Dros Purdol the first Thirty had fought against demons and the spirits of evil. But none of them – save myself– had ever lifted a sword against a human foe. And they died unresisting when the enemy breached the walls. Yet I, in one moment, had betrayed all we stood for.

  'I had not only taken human life, I had robbed two men of any chance of redemption.

  'I went back in to the children and I took them in my arms. My spirit went into both of them, closing the doorways to their Talent, robbing them of their Source-given gift so that the Brotherhood would not find them again. I put them in their bed and soothed them to sleep. Then I dragged the bodies from the clearing, burying them in a shallow grave.

  'I have been haunted by that day, and not an hour of my life has passed without my thinking of it. I want none of you to face those regrets. And the surest way I know of avoiding such pain would be if each of you takes up the Source staff.' Dardalion sat down and Ekodas saw that the Abbot's hands were trembling.

  The young priest took a deep breath and rose. 'Brothers, there is not a word spoken by the Abbot with which I disagree. But that alone does not make his argument true. He spoke of love generating love, and hatred breeding more hatred. We all agree with that – and if that was all there was to discuss, there would be no need for me to speak. But it is infinitely more complex. I have been asked to present an argument with which I fundamentally dis­agree. Is Ekodas right and his argument wrong? Is the argument a good one and Ekodas' judgement flawed? How can I know? How can any of us know? So let us examine a broader picture.

  'We sit here safe, within a circle of swords held by other men. Recruits at Delnoch, lancers at the Skein Pass, infantry at Erekban; all preparing to fight and perhaps to die to protect their families, their land and, yes, all of us. Are they evil? Will the Source deny them the gift of eternity? I would hope not. This world was created by the Source, every animal, every insect, plant and tree. But for one to live another usually dies. It is the way of all things. When the rose rises up it blocks the light that feeds the smaller plants, smothering them. For the lion to prosper the deer must die. All the world is in combat.

  'Yes we sit safe. And why? Because we allow the responsibility – aye and the sin – to sit with other men.' He paused and stared at the listening priests, proud Vishna, the former Gothir nobleman, the fiery Magnic, whose eyes registered his surprise at the apparent change in the speaker, the slender, witty Palista, who was watching with a look of wry amusement.

  Ekodas smiled. 'Ah, my brothers, if the argument were purely that we become warrior priests it would be the more easy to raise moral objections. But that is not the reality. We were gathered here because the Dark Brotherhood is abroad in the world, ready to bring chaos and despair to these and other lands. And we know, through the memories of our Father Abbot, what these men are capable of. We know that ordinary warriors cannot stand against their vile powers.'

  He paused again and sipped water from his goblet of clay. 'The Lord Abbot talked of slaying the men who came for the children – but what was the alternative? To allow two innocent babes to be sacrificed? Whose purpose would that have served? As for the men and their redemption, who is to say where their souls travelled, and what hopes of redemption lie there?

  'No, the Abbot has cause to regret only one aspect of that terrible day – the joy he felt at the killings. For that is the central point to this argument. As warrior priests we must fight – if fight we must – without hatred. We must be defenders of the Light.

  'This Source-made world is in delicate balance, and when the scales of evil outweigh those of the good, what should we do? We were given gifts by the Source, gifts which enable us to stand against the Brotherhood. Do we deny those gifts? Many are the men who could take up the staff. Many are the priests who could – and will – journey the world with their gospels of love.

  'But where are the Warriors of Light who can stand against the Brotherhood? Where are the Source Knights who can turn aside the spells of evil?' He spread his hands. 'Where, save for here? Not one of us can say with certainty that the path we choose is the right one. But we judge a rose by its bloom and by its fragrance. The Brotherhood seeks to rule, and by so doing, to usher in a new age of blood. We seek to see men living in peace and harmony, free to love, free to father their sons and daughters, free to sit in the evenings and watch the glory of the sunset, content that evil is far from them.

  'We know where evil lies and, with pure hearts, we should stand against it. If it can be turned aside by love, so be it! But if it comes seeking slaughter and pain, then we should meet it with sword and shield. For that is our purpose. For we are the Thirty!' He sat down and closed his eyes, his emotions surging, his thoughts suddenly con­fused.

  'Let us pray,' said Dardalion, 'and then let each man choose his path.'

  For some minutes there was silence, then Ekodas saw Vishna rise and draw his silver sword, laying it on the table before him. Magnic followed, the grating rasp of steel blade on steel scabbard sawing through the silence. One by one the priests drew the swords, until only Dardalion and Ekodas were left. Dardalion waited and Ekodas smiled thinly. He stood, his eyes locked to the Abbot's level gaze.

  'Did you trick me, Father?' pulsed Ekodas.

  'No, my son. Did you convince yourself?'

  'No, Dardalion. I still believe that to fight evil with its own weapons is folly and will lead merely to more hatred, more death.'

  'Then why did you present the argument with such power?'

&
nbsp; 'Because you asked me to. And I owe you everything.'

  'Then take up the staff, my son.'

  'It is too late for that, Father.' Ekodas reached out and curled his fingers around the hilt of the silver longsword. The blade hissed into the air, catching the light from the many lanterns.

  'We are One!' shouted Vishna.

  And thirty swords were raised high, glittering like torches.

  * * *

  Karnak strode through the cheering troops, smiling and waving. Three times he stopped to exchange a few words with individual soldiers whose names he remembered. It was this common touch that endeared him to the men, and he knew it. Behind him walked two officers of his general staff. Gan Asten, a former low-ranking officer promoted by Karnak during the civil war, was now one of the most powerful commanders in the Drenai army. Beside him was Dun Galen, nominally Karnak's aide, but in reality the man whose network of spies kept Karnak's hand on the reins of power.

  Karnak reached the end of the line and stooped to enter the tent. Asten and Galen followed him. The two guards extended their lances across the opening, signalling that the Lord Protector was not to be disturbed, and the soldiers drifted back to their campfires.

  Inside Karnak's smile vanished. 'Where in the devil's name is he?' he snapped.

  The skeletally thin Galen shrugged. 'He was in the palace and reportedly told his guards he would be visiting friends. That was the last they saw of him. Later, when his room was searched they found he had taken several changes of clothing and had also stolen gold from Varachek's vault – some two hundred Raq. Since then there has been no sign.'

  'He was living in fear of Waylander,' said Asten. 'Every sound in the night, every banging shutter.'

  'Waylander is a dead man!' roared Karnak. 'Could he not trust me with that? By Shemak's balls, he's one man. One!'