Waylander

by David Gemmell

  '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

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  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.'

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  '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.

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  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

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  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

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  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 badly 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

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  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 ad bitterness.

  But - and this was so galling - he was right. When Niallad's militia plan had first been put forward, the men in the Legion had bitterly opposed it. All the evidence indicated that the Vagrians were preparing for invasion. But Niallad claimed that the Vagrians themselves feared an attack from a strong Drenai army, and that his gesture would promote a lasting peace and a growth in trade.

  'They should have roasted the bastard over a hot fire,' said Jonat.

  'Who?' asked Sarvaj.

  'The King, Gods rot his soul! The word is that he was killed by an assassin. They should have taken him in chains through the empire so that he could see the results of his stupidity.'

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  'He did what he thought was best,' said Sarvaj. 'He had the best motives.'

  'Oh yes,' mocked Jonat. 'The best motives! He wanted to save money. Our money! If one good thing has come out of this war, it is that the noble class is gone for good.'

  'Perhaps. But then Gellan is a nobleman.'

  'Yes?'

  'You don't hate him, do you?'

  'He's no better than the rest.'

  'I thought you liked him.'

  'I suppose he's not a bad officer. Too soft. But underneath he still looks down on us.'

  'I've never noticed it,' said Sarvaj.

  'You don't look hard enough,' responded Jonat.

  A horseman galloped into the grove and the men lurched to their feet with hands on sword-hilts. It was the scout, Kapra.

  Gellan walked from the trees as the man dis­mounted. 'Anything to the east?' he asked.

  "Three gutted villages, sir. A few refugees. I saw a column of Vagrian infantry - maybe two thousand. They made camp near Ostry, by the river.'

  'No sign of cavalry?'

  'No, sir,'

  'Jonat!' called Gellan.

  'Yes, sir.'

  The infantry will be expecting supplies. Take two men and scout to the east - when you see the wagons, get back here as fast as you can.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Kapra get yourself some food and then take a fresh mount and move out with Jonat. We will wait here for you.' »

  Sarvaj smiled. The difference in Gellan was start-

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  ling now that the prospect of action loomed - his eyes were bright and alive and his voice curt and authoritative. Gone was the habitual stoop and the casually distant manner.

  Egel had sent them out to find supplies to feed his beleaguered force, and so far they had been riding for three days without success. Villages had been wantonly destroyed and food stores taken or burnt. Cattle had been driven off and sheep poisoned in their fields.

  'Sarvaj!'

  'Sir?'

  'Get the horses picketed and separate the men into five groups. There's a hollow past the thicket there and room for three fires - but none to be lit until the north star is clear and bright. You understand?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Four men to stand watch, change every four hours. You pick the places.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Gellan smoothed his dark moustache and grinned boyishly.

  'Let them be carrying salt beef,' he said. 'Pray for salt beef, Sarvaj!'

  'And a small escort. It might be worth praying for a Ten.'

  The smile faded from Gellan's face. 'Unlikely. They'll have at least a Quarter, maybe more. And then there will be the cartsmen. Still, cross that river when we reach it. When the men are resting, organ­ise a sabre check; I want no blunted weapons when we ride.'

  'Yes, sir. Why don't you get some rest?'

  'I'm fine.'

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  'It wouldn't do any harm,' Sarvaj urged.

  'You're fussing round me like an old woman. And don't think I don't appreciate it - but I am all right now, I promise.' Gellan smiled to hide the lie, but it did not fool Sarvaj.

  The men were glad of the rest and without Jonat the mood lightened. Sarvaj and Gellan sat apart from the troop, chatting lightly about the past. Care­ful to avoid bringing up subjects which would remind Gellan of his wife and children, Sarvaj talked mainly of regimental memories.

  'Do you mind if I ask you a question?' he said suddenly.

  'Why should I?' answered Gellan.

  'Why did you promote Jonat?'

  'Because he's talented - he just doesn't realise it yet.

  'He doesn't like you.'

  'That doesn't matter. Watch him - he'll do well.'

  'He brings the men down, lessens morale.'

  'I know. Be patient.'

  'He's pushing for us to run north - to break out of Skultik.'

  'Stop worrying about it, Sarvaj. Trust me.'

  I trust you, thought Sarvaj. I trust you to be finest swordsman in the Legion, to be a caring and careful officer and to be a firm friend. But Jonat? Jonat was a snake and Gellan was too trusting to see it. Given the time, Jonat would start a mutiny which would spread like a prairie fire through the dispirited ranks of Egel's army.

  That night, as Gellan lay under his cloak away from the fire, he fell into a deep sleep and the dreams returned. He woke with a start and the tears flowed, though he swallowed the sobs that ached to be loose.

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  As he stood up and wandered away from camp, Sarvaj turned over and opened his eyes. 'Damn!' he whispered.

  Towards dawn, Sarvaj arose and checked the sentr­ies. This was the worst time of the night for concen­tration, and often a man who could stand a shift from dusk until midnight would find it impossible on another night to stay awake from midnight to dawn. Sarvaj had no idea what caused this phenomenon, but he knew what cured it; a man found sleeping on duty was lashed twenty times, and for a second offence the sentence was death. Sarvaj had no wish to see his men hung, so he made a name for himself as a nightwalker.

  On this night, as he crept soundlessly through the wood, he found all four men alert and watchful. Pleased, he made his way back to his blankets where he found Gellan waiting for him. The officer looked tired, but his eyes were bright.

  'You haven't slept,' said Sarvaj.

  'No, I was thinking about the convoy. What we can't steal, we must destroy; the Vagrians must be taught to suffer. I don't understand the way they are conducting this war. If they left the farming villages alone there would always be sufficient supplies, but by raping and killing and burning they are making the land a wilderness. And it will turn on them. Come winter they will be on short rations and then, by all the Gods, we'll hit them.'

  'How many wagons do you think there'll be?'

  'For a force of two thousand? No fewer than twenty-five.'

  'So,' said Sarvaj, 'if we take the convoy without loss we'll have around twenty escort riders, and three

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  days in the open back to Skultik. That's asking for a lot of luck.'

  'We are entitled to a little , my friend,' replied Gellan.