Waylander

by David Gemmell

  A single bugle blast pierced the battle clamour and the Vagrians pulled back out of bowshot.

  'Clear away the bodies!' shouted Jonat.

  Waylander retrieved his crossbow and counted the remaining bolts. Twelve. He climbed down to the courtyard and began searching the bodies, reclaim­ing fifteen bolts that were usable.

  Dardalion sat with his back to the northern wall, dizzy and unable to stand. Waylander strolled over and knelt by his side.

  'Drink,' he said.

  Dardalion weakly pushed the canteen away. 'I feel sick.'

  'You cannot sit there, priest; they'll be back within minutes. Get yourself to the Keep.'

  Dardalion pulled his legs under him and struggled to rise. Waylander pulled him upright.

  'Can you stand?'

  'No.'

  'Lean on me, then.'

  'I did not perform too well, Waylander.'

  'You killed your first man in combat. It is a start.'

  Together they made their way to the Keep and Waylander laid the priest down on a bench table. Danyal ran forward, her face white with shock.

  'He's not dead, merely dazed,' said Waylander. Ignoring him she moved to Dardalion, pulling his helm clear and examining the shallow cut to his head where the helm had dented.

  A bugle blast echoed over the plain.

  Waylander cursed softly and made for the door.

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  To free himself from pain and dizziness Dardalion released his spirit and soared, passing through the walls of the Keep and out into the bright midday sunshine.

  The battle below raged on. Waylander, back on the battlements, took aim carefully and loosed bolt after bolt into the oncoming Vagrians. Jonat, full of near-maniacal energy, gathered to him twenty warriors and rushed the Vagrians who had cleared the wagons. On the battlements to left and right, Drenai archers picked their targets with care. On the eastern wall the enemy had gained a foothold by climbing the pitted outer ramparts. Here three men fought hard to hold the tide and Dardalion floated towards them.

  At the centre of the three stood a middle-aged officer whose swordplay was exquisite. Not for him the wild hacking, the fanatic attack; he fought with subtle grace and style, his sword flickering into play and scarcely seeming to touch his opponents. But down they went, choking on their own blood. His face was calm, even serene, thought Dardalion, and his concentration intense.

  Through his spirit eyes the priest could see the flickering auras that marked the mood of each man. Bright red pulsed the colours on all but two of the combatants.

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  The officer glowed with the blue of harmony, and Waylander with the purple of controlled fury.

  More Vagrians cleared the battlements of the east­ern wall, while Jonat and his men were being forced back from the breach on the western wall. Way­lander, his bolts exhausted, drew his sword and leapt from the ramparts to the wagon below, crashing into several Vagrian soldiers and bowling them from their feet. He came up swinging his sword, killing two before they could recover their balance. A third died even as he swung his sword into play. Waylander blocked the cut and tore open the man's throat with a downward sweep.

  Back in the Keep, Danyal took the sisters up the winding stair to the tower and then sat them with their backs to the ramparts. From here the sound of battle was muted, and she took the sisters in her arms.

  'You are very frightened, Danyal,' said Krylla.

  'Yes, I am. You'll have to look after me,' answ­ered Danyal.

  'Will they kill us?' asked Miriel.

  'No ... I don't know, little one.'

  'Waylander will save us; he always does,' stated Krylla.

  Danyal closed her eyes and Waylander's face filled her mind: the dark eyes, deep-set under fine brows, the angular face and square chin, the wide mouth with the faintly mocking half-smile.

  The scream of a dying man echoed above the clamour of the battle.

  Danyal released the children and stood leaning out over the crenellated wall.

  Waylander stood with a little knot of men trying to fight their way back to the Keep, but they were

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  almost surrounded. She could look no more and slumped down beside the girls.

  Inside the Keep Dardalion roused himself and groped for his swords. He felt less groggy now, awareness of imminent death overriding the pain. He moved to the doors and hauled them open. Out­side the sun was so bright it brought tears to his eyes; blinking, he saw four men rush towards him.

  Fear swamped him, but instead of forcing it back, he released it, hurling it with terrible power at the four soldiers. The mind blast staggered them. One fell clutching at his heart and died within seconds; another dropped his sword and ran screaming towards the breach. The remaining two - stronger men than most - merely backed away.

  Dardalion advanced on the main group, eyes wide and startlingly blue, pupils almost invisible. Growing in strength, he hurled his fear into the blue-cloaked mass of attackers. Men screamed as it hit them and panic swept through the Vagrians like a plague. They swung round, ignoring the swords of the Drenai and faced the silver warrior advancing on them. A man at the front dropped to his knees shaking uncontroll­ably, then he pitched forward unconscious.

  Later, under the most intensive questioning, not one Vagrian soldier could describe the terror he had felt, nor the awful menace that produced it ... though most could recall the silver warrior who shone like white fire and whose eyes radiated death and despair.

  The Vagrians broke and ran, dropping their wea­pons behind them.

  The Drenai watched in awe as Dardalion followed them to the breach, his swords in his hands.

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  'Gods of Light,' whispered Jonat. 'Is he a sorcerer?'

  'It looks that way,' said Waylander.

  The men broke ranks and ran to the priest, pound­ing him on the back. He staggered and almost fell, but two of the warriors hoisted him to their shoulders and he was carried back to the Keep. Waylander smiled and shook his head.

  'Dak?' said a voice. 'Is it you?' And Waylander swung round to face Gellan. The officer looked older, his hair was thinning and his eyes were tired.

  'Yes, it is me. How are you, Gellan?'

  'You haven't changed a jot.'

  'Nor you.'

  'What have you been doing with yourself?'

  'I've travelled a fair deal. I see you stayed with the Legion - I thought you wanted to be married and gone.'

  'I married and stayed,' said Gellan and Waylander read the pain in the man's face, though Gellan fought to disguise it. 'It is good to see you. We will talk later, there is much to do.'

  Gellan left him then, but the man who had first spoken to Waylander remained.

  'You are old friends?' asked Sarvaj.

  'What? Yes.'

  'How long since you've seen him?'

  'Twenty years.'

  'His children died in the plague at Skoda and his wife killed herself soon after.'

  Thank you for telling me.'

  'He's a good officer.'

  'He always was, better than he knew.'

  'He was going to retire this year - he had bought a farm near Drenan.'

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  Waylander watched Gellan directing the men to aid the wounded and clear away the bodies of the slain. Others he sent to the battlements to watch for the Vagrians.

  Leaving Sarvaj in mid-sentence, Waylander strolled back to the western wall ramparts to collect his crossbow. He found a Drenai warrior sitting beside it - the man who had saved him earlier with a well-timed arrow. In no mood for conversation, Waylander stepped past him and picked up the weapon.

  'Drink?' asked the man, offering Waylander a canteen.

  'No.'

  'It's not water,' said the soldier, grinning.

  Waylander sipped it and his eyes bulged.

  'They call it Lentrian Fire,' commented Vanek.

  'I can see why!'

  'It makes fo
r sweet dreams,' said Vanek, stretch­ing out and resting his head on his arms. 'Wake me if they come back, will you?'

  The Vagrians had retired out of bowshot and were massed together listening to their general. Way­lander could not hear his words, but the gestures spoke most powerfully. He sat on a tall grey horse, his white cloak billowing in the afternoon breeze; his fist was being waved about extravagantly, and the men were cowed. Waylander scratched his chin and took a long swallow of Lentrian Fire.

  What spell had the priest cast, he wondered, that could so demoralise such excellent fighting men? He glanced at the sky and raised the canteen to the clouds.

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  'Maybe you have some power after all,' he acknowledged.

  He drank deeply and sat down abruptly, his head spinning. Then with great care he replaced the stopper in the canteen and laid it at his side.

  Stupid, he told himself. The Vagrians would be back. He chuckled. Let Dardalion handle them! He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. The sky was bright and clear, but dark shapes wheeled and dived over the fort.

  'You can smell the death, can you?' said Way-lander, and the raucous cries of the crows floated back to him on the wind. Waylander shivered. He had seen these birds feast before, tearing eyes from sockets and squabbling over juicy morsels from still-warm corpses. He transferred his gaze to the courtyard.

  Men were working to clear away the bodies. The Vagrians were dumped outside the breach, while the Drenai dead were laid side by side against the northern wall with their cloaks over their faces. Twenty-two bodies were laid out. Waylander coun­ted the remaining men. Only nineteen were in view - not enough to hold the fort against another charge. A shadow fell across him and he glanced up to see Jonat carrying a small bundle of his bolts.

  'I thought you might need these,' said the under-officer. Waylander accepted them with a lopsided grin.

  'Drink?' he asked.

  'No. Thank you.'

  'It's not water,' said Waylander.

  'I know, I recognised Vanek's canteen! Dun Gellan would like to see you.'

  'He knows where I am.'

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  Jonat squatted down and smiled grimly. 'I like you, Dakeyras. It would be unseemly if I had three men drag you into the Keep - unseemly and ridiculous.'

  'True. Help me up.'

  Waylander's legs were unsteady, but with an effort he walked alongside Jonat, through the main hall to a small room at the rear. Gellan was sitting on a pallet bed with quill in hand, completing his reports.

  Jonat saluted and backed out of the door, pulling it closed behind him. For want of a better place, Waylander sat on the floor with his back to the wall.

  'I was wrong,' said Gellan. 'You have changed.'

  'We all change. It's part of the process of dying.'

  'I think you know what I mean.'

  'You tell me - it's your fort.'

  'You're cold, Dak. We were friends once. Bro­thers. Yet out there you greeted me like a one-time acquaintance.'

  'So?'

  'So tell me what's happened to you.'

  'If I want confession, I can find a temple. And besides, you have more important problems to con­sider. Like an army waiting to destroy you.'

  'Very well,' said Gellan sadly, 'we might forget our past friendship. Tell me of your friend. What vast powers does he have - and from where does he come by them?'

  'Damned it I know,' said Waylander. 'He is a Source priest. I stopped some men from torturing him to death, since when he has been a positive burden to me. But I have not seen any evidence of powers before today.'

  'He could be valuable to us.'

  'He certainly could. Why don't you talk to him?'

  'I shall. Will you be coming to Skultik?'

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  'Probably. If we survive.'

  'Yes, if we survive. Well, if you do, do not carry that crossbow.'

  'It is a good weapon,' said Waylander.

  'Yes, and very unusual. All officers have been told to watch for a man bearing such a weapon; it is said he killed the King.'

  Waylander said nothing, but his dark eyes met Gellan's gaze and the assassin looked away. Gellan nodded. 'Go now, Dakeyras. I wish to speak to your friend.'

  'Everything is not always as it seems,' said Waylander.

  'I do not want to hear it. Go now.'

  As Waylander left, the door opened and Darda-lion entered. Gellan stood to receive him, offering his hand. The priest shook it. The clasp was firm, but not strong, thought Gellan.

  'Sit down,' said Gellan, offering Dardalion the bed. 'Tell me about your friend.'

  'Dakeyras or Danyal?'

  'Dakeyras.'

  'He rescued me ... all of us. He has proved a fine friend.'

  'Have you always known him as Dakeyras?'

  'Of what concern is that to you, sir?'

  Then you did know him by another name?'

  'I shall not divulge it to you.'

  'I have already spoken to the children,' said Gellan.

  'Then you do not need me to corroborate.'

  'No. I knew Dakeyras once - or thought I did. A man of honour.'

  'He has shown himself to be such a man over the last few days,' said Dardalion. 'Let that suffice.'

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  Gellan smiled and nodded. 'Perhaps. Tell me about yourself and the dread powers you showed today.'

  'There is little I can tell you. I am ... was ... a priest of the Source. I have some powers of Travel and communication.'

  'But what made the enemy run?'

  'Fear,' said Dardalion simply.

  'Of what?'

  'Merely fear. My fear hurled into their minds.'

  'Make me feel fear,' said Gellan.

  'Why?'

  'So that I may understand?'

  'But I feel no fear at this time. I have nothing to use.'

  'Will the enemy return? Can you tell me that?'

  'I do not think that they will. There is a man among them - his name is Ceoris - who is urging them to attack, but they are afraid. Given time he will convince them, but within the hour your reinforcements will be here.'

  'Who is coming?'

  'A large man named Karnak. He has four hundred riders with him.'

  'That is good news indeed. You are a useful man to know, Dardalion. What are your plans?'

  'Plans? I have no plans. I have not thought . . .'

  'We have priests in Skultik - more than two hun­dred. But they won't fight like you do - if they did, the Drenai could gain much. Using your powers, magnified a hundredfold, we could set entire Vagrian armies fleeing before us.'

  'Yes,' said Dardalion wearily, 'but that is not the way of the Source. I became what I am from weak­ness. Were I as strong as so many of my brother

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  priests I would have resisted - even as they do -such abuses of power. I cannot ask them to become what they loathe. The true power of the Source has always lain in the absence of power. Can you understand that?'

  'I am not sure that I can.'

  'It is like holding a spear to the chest of an enemy, then laying it aside. Even as he kills you - if such he does - he knows that he does not do it by his strength, but by your choice.'

  'But - to continue with your analogy - you are still dead, yes?'

  'Death is not important. You see, the Source priests believe that for life to exist there must be harmony created by balance. For every man who lives to steal or kill, there must be another who lives to give and save. Tidal love was the name they gave it at my temple; my Abbot used to teach it often. In a merchant's shop, the merchant gives you too many coins in change. You keep the coins, marvel­ling at your good fortune. But when you have gone he realises his mistake and is angry, both with him­self and with you. So the next man who comes into the shop he cheats, to gain back his money. This man in turn realises later and he is angry, and perhaps takes out his anger on someone else. So the tide goes out, each wave affecting more and more people.r />
  'The Source teaches us to do only kind deeds - to be honest and living, giving good for evil, to bring the tide back in.'