Waylander

by David Gemmell

  Waylander the Slayer, the Soul Stealer, the Chaos Blade.

  Saga-poets sang dark songs about the wandering assassin, the stranger, the Waylander, choosing always to finish their tale-telling with Waylander's exploits as the fires guttered low and the tavern dwellers prepared for a walk home in the dark. Way­lander had sat unnoticed in more than one inn while they entertained the crowds with his infamy. They would begin their performances with stories of golden heroes, beautiful princesses, courageous tales

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  of shadow-haunted castles and silver knights. But as the hours passed they introduced an edge of fear, a taste of terror, and men would walk out into dark­ened streets with fearful eyes which searched the shadows for Cadoras the Stalker, or for Waylander.

  How the poets would dance with glee when they heard that Cadoras had been paid to stalk the Slayer!

  Waylander turned west along the line of the Delnoch mountains until he entered a large clearing where some thirty wagons were waiting. Men, women and children sat at breakfast fires while the giant Durmast walked among the groups collecting his payments.

  Once out of the trees, Waylander relaxed and cantered in to the camp-site. He removed the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings; clipping the weapon to his belt, he slid from the saddle. Durmast - two leather saddlebags drooped over one huge shoulder - spotted him and waved. Moving to a nearby wagon, he heaved the bags inside and wandered back to Waylander.

  'Welcome,' he said, grinning. 'This war is making for good business.'

  'Refugees?' queried Waylander.

  'Yes, heading for Gulgothir. With all their worldly possessions.'

  'Why do they trust you?'

  'Just stupidity,' said Durmast, his grin widening. 'A man could get rich very quickly!'

  'I don't doubt it. When do we leave?'

  'We were only waiting for you, my friend. Gulgo­thir in six days, then the river east and north. Say three weeks. Then Raboas and your Armour. Sounds easy, does it not?'

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  'As easy as milking a snake. Have you heard that Cadoras is in Skultik?'

  Durmast's eyes opened wide in mock surprise. 'No!'

  'He is hunting me, so I am told.'

  'Let us hope he does not find you.'

  'For his sake,' said Waylander. 'How many men do you have?'

  Twenty. Good men. Tough.'

  'Good men?'

  'Well no, scum as a matter of fact. But they can fight. Would you like to meet some of them?'

  'No, I have just eaten. How many people are you taking?'

  'One hundred and sixty. Some nice-looking women among them, Waylander. It should be a ple­asant few days.'

  Waylander nodded and glanced around the camp. Runners all of them, yet he felt pity for the families forced to trust a man like Durmast. Most of them would escape with their lives, but they would arrive in Gulgothir as paupers.

  He transferred his gaze to the tree-lined hills to the south. A flash of light caught his eye and for some time he stared at the distant slopes.

  'What is it?' asked Durmast.

  'Perhaps nothing. Perhaps sunlight on a piece of quartz.'

  'But you think it is Cadoras?'

  'Who knows?' said Waylander, leading his horse away from the wagons and settling down in the shade of a spreading pine.

  High in the hills, Cadoras replaced the long glass in its leather container and sat back on a fallen tree.

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  He was a tall, thin man, black-haired and angular. A scar ran from his forehead to his chin, cutting across his lips and giving him a mocking devil's smile. The eyes were cloudy grey and cold as winter mist. He wore a black mailshirt, dark leggings and riding boots, and by his hips hung two short swords.

  Cadoras waited for an hour, watching the wagons hitched to oxen and then assembled into a north-pointing line. Durmast rode to the head of the column and led the way towards the mountains and the Delnoch Pass. Waylander rode at the rear.

  A sound from behind him caused Cadoras to turn sharply. A young man emerged from the bushes, blinking in surprise as he saw the knife in Cadoras' raised hand.

  'He didn't come,' said the man. 'We waited where you said, but he didn't come.'

  'He came - but he circled you.'

  'Vulvin is missing. I sent Macas to find him.'

  'He will find him dead,' said Cadoras.

  'How can you be sure?'

  'Because I wanted him dead,' said Cadoras, walk­ing away and staring after the wagons. Gods, why did they give him such fools? Bureaucrats! Of course Vulvin was dead. He had been ordered to watch the cabin of Hewla, but on no account to tackle Waylander. Why not, he had asked, he is only a man? Cadoras had known the fool would do some­thing foolish, but then Vulvin was no loss.

  An hour later Macas returned - short and burly, with a petulant mouth and a permanently surly manner. He moved to Cadoras, ignoring the younger man.

  'Dead,' he said simply.

  'Did you kill the old woman?'

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  'No. She had two wolves with her - they were eating Vulvin.'

  'And you did not want to disturb their lunch?'

  'No, Cadoras, I did not want to die.'

  'Very wise. Hewla would have struck you dead in an instant; she has rare powers. By the way, there were no wolves.'

  'But I saw them

  'You saw what she wanted you to see. Did you ask her how Vulvin died?'

  'I did not have to. She said it was pointless sending jackals after a lion - told me to tell you that.'

  'She is right. But you jackals were part of the contract. Mount up.'

  'You do not like us, do you?' asked Macas.

  'Like you, little man? What is to like? Now mount up.'

  Cadoras walked to his horse and swung smoothly into the saddle. The wagons were out of sight now and he eased his mount out on to the slope, sitting back in the saddle and keeping the beast's head up.

  'Don't make it too easy, Waylander,' he whisper­ed. 'Do not disappoint me.'

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  12

  When Karnak entered the council chamber, the twenty officers stood and saluted. Waving them to their seats, the general moved to the head of the table and removed his cloak, draping it over the chair behind him.

  Turdol is ready to fall,' he declared, his blue eyes scanning the grim faces around the table. 'Gan Degas is old, tired and ready to crack. There are no Source priests at Purdol and the Gan has received no news for more than a month. He believes he is alone.'

  Karnak waited, allowing the news to sink in and gauging the rising tension. He watched Gellan, noting the sustained absence of emotion. Not so young Sarvaj, who had leaned back with disappoint­ment etched into his features. Jonat was whispering to Gellan, and Karnak knew what he was saying; he was harping on past mistakes. Young Dundas waited expectantly, his belief in Karnak total. The general glanced around the table. He knew every man pre­sent, their weaknesses and their strengths - the offi­cers prone to melancholy and those whose reckless courage was more dangerous than cowardice.

  'I am going to Purdol,' he said, judging the mo­ment. A gasp went up from the men and he lifted his hand for silence. There are three armies ranged against us, with Purdol taking the lion's share. If the

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  fortress falls it will release 40,000 men to invade Skultik. We cannot stand against such a force. So I am going there.'

  'You will never get in,' said one officer, a bearded Legion warrior named Emden. 'The gates are sealed.'

  'There is another way,' said Karnak. 'Over the mountains.'

  'Sathuli lands,' muttered Jonat. 'I've been there. Treacherous passes, ice-covered ledges - it is impassable.'

  'No,' said Dundas, rising to his feet. 'Not impass­able - we have more than fifty men working to clear the way.'

  'But the mountains do not lead into the fortress,' protested Gellan. There is a sheer cliff rising from the back of Purdol. It would be impossible to climb down.'

  '
We are not going over the mountain,' said Karnak. 'We are going through it. There is a deep honeycomb of caves and tunnels and one tunnel leads through to the dungeons below the main Keep; at the moment it is blocked, but we will clear it. Jonat is right: the way is difficult and there will be no room for horses. I intend to take a thousand men, each bearing sixty pounds of supplies. Then we will hold until Egel breaks out of Skultik . . .'

  'But what if he doesn't?' demanded Jonat.

  'Then we retreat through the mountains and disperse into small raiding groups.'

  Sarvaj raised his hand. 'One question only, gen­eral. According to the fortress specifications, Purdol should be manned by 10,000 men. Even if we get through, we will only raise the defenders to a sixty-per-cent complement. Can we thus hold?'

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  'Only architects and bureaucrats work in numbers, Sarvaj. The first wall at Purdol has already fallen, which means that the harbour and the docks are already held by the Vagrians and allowing them to ship in supplies and troops. The second wall has only two gates and they are holding firm. The third wall has but one gate - and after that there is the Keep. A strong force could hold Purdol for at least three months; we will not need more than that.'

  Gellan cleared his throat. 'Have we any idea,' he said, 'as to losses at Purdol?'

  Karnak nodded. 'Eight hundred men. Six hundred dead, the rest too badly wounded to fight.'

  'And what of Skarta?' asked Jonat. 'There are Drenai families here depending on us for protection.'

  Karnak rubbed at his eyes and let the silence grow. This was the question he had feared.

  'There is a time for hard decisions, and we have reached it. Our presence here may give the people hope, but it is false hope. Skarta is indefensible. Egel knows it, I know it - and that is why he raids the west, to keep the Vagrians on the move, to disconcert them and hopefully to prevent a large-scale invasion here. But we are pinning down troops desperately needed elsewhere. We will leave a token force of some 200 men . . . but that is all.'

  'The people will be wiped out,' said Jonat, rising to his feet, his face flushed and angry.

  'They will be wiped out anyway ,' started Karnak, 'should the Vagrians attack. At the moment the enemy waits for Purdol to fall and they won't risk entering the forest. Holding Purdol is the best chance for Skarta and the other Skultik towns. Egel will be left with just under 4,000 men, but there are

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  others coming in from the mountains of Skoda. We must win him time.'

  'I know what you are thinking: that it is madness. I agree with you! But the Vagrians have all the advantages. Every major port is in their hands. The Lentrian army is being pushed back. Drenan has fallen and the routes to Mashrapur are closed. Purdol alone holds against them. If it falls before Egel breaks clear, we are finished and the Drenai will be wiped out. The Vagrian farmers are being offered choice Drenai lands, merchants are planning for the day when all of our lands will be part of Greater Vagria. We are doomed people unless we take our fate in our hands and risk everything.

  'Quite simply, my friends, there is no more room for manoeuvre. Bereft of choices, we must hold the tiger by the throat and hope that he weakens before we tire. Tomorrow we ride for Purdol.'

  Deep down Gellan knew the venture was perilous, moreover a tiny spark of doubt told him that Kar-nak's real reason for wanting to aid Purdol owed more to personal ambition than to strategic sanity. And yet ...

  Was it not better to follow a charismatic leader to the gates of Hell, rather than a mediocre general to a dull defeat?

  The meeting ended at dusk and Gellan wandered to his tiny room to pack his few possessions into canvas and leather saddlebags. There were three shirts, two sets of woollen leggings, a battered lea­ther-covered hand-written Legion manual, a jew­elled dagger and an oval wooden painting of a blonde woman and two young children. He sat down on the bed, removed his helmet and studied the portrait. When it had been presented to him he had

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  L

  disliked it, feeling it failed to capture the reality of their smiles, the joy of their lives. Now he saw it as a work of rare genius. Carefully he wrapped the painting in oilskin and placed it in a saddlebag between the shirts. Lifting the dagger, he slid it from its scabbard; he had won it two years before when he became the first man to win the Silver Sword six times.

  His children had been so proud of him at the banquet. Dressed in their best clothes, they had sat like tiny adults, their eyes wide and their smiles huge. And Karys had spilt not one drop of soup on her white dress, a fact she pointed out to him all evening. But his wife, Ania, had not attended the banquet; the noise, she had said, would only make her head ache.

  Now they were dead, their souls lost to the Void. It had been hard when the children died, bitter hard. And Gellan had retreated into himself, having nothing left with which to comfort Ania. Alone she had been unable to cope and eighteen days after the tragedy she had hung herself with a silken scarf . . . Gellan had found the body. Plague had claimed his children. Suicide took his wife.

  Now all he had was the Legion.

  And tomorrow it would head for Purdol and the gates of Hell.

  Dardalion waited silently for his visitor. An hour ago the Drenai general Karnak had arrived at the meadow, and had sat outlining his plan to aid Purdol. He had asked if Dardalion could help him, by keeping at bay the spirits of the Dark Brotherhood. 'It is vital we arrive unnoticed,' said Karnak. 'If

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  there is the merest whisper of my movements, the Vagrians will be waiting for us.'

  'I will do what I can, Lord Karnak.'

  'Do better than that, Dardalion. Kill the whoresons.'

  After he had gone, Dardalion knelt on the grass before his tent and bowed his head in prayer. He had stayed thus for more than an hour when the Abbot came and knelt before him.

  Dardalion sensed his presence and opened his eyes. The old man looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed and sorrowful.

  'Welcome, Lord Abbot,' said Dardalion.

  'What have you done?' asked the old man.

  'My Lord, I am sorry for the pain you feel, but I can only do what I feel is right.'

  'You have sundered my brotherhood. Twenty-nine priests are now preparing for war and death. It cannot be right.'

  'If it is wrong, we will pay for it, for the Source is righteous and will suffer no evil.'

  'Dardalion, I came to plead with you. Leave this place, find a far monastery in another land and return to your studies. The Source will show you the path.'

  'He has shown me the path, my lord.'

  The old man bowed his head and tears fell to the grass.

  'I am powerless, then, against you?'

  'Yes, my lord. Whereas I am not against you at all.'

  'You are now a leader, chosen by those who would follow you. What title will you carry, Dardalion. The Abbot of Death?'

  'No, I am not an abbot. We will fight without hate

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  and we will find no joy in the battle. And when it is won - or lost - we will return to what we were.'

  'Can you not see the folly in your words? You will fight evil on its own ground, with its own weapons. You will defeat it. But will that end the war? It may stop the Brotherhood, but there are other brother­hoods and other evils. Evil does not die, Dardalion. It is a weed in the garden of life. Cut it, burn it, uproot it, yet will it return the stronger. This path of yours has no ending - the war merely changes.'

  Dardalion said nothing, the truth of the Abbot's words hammering home to him.

  'In this you are right, my lord. I see that. And I see also that you are correct when you name me "Abbot". We cannot merely become Soul Warriors. There must be order and our mission must be finite. I will consider your words carefully.'

  'But you will not change your immediate course?'

  'It is set. What I have done, I have done in faith and I will not go back on it, any more than you will break your own faith.'

 
'Why not, Dardalion? You have already broken faith once. You took an oath that all human life -all life, indeed - would be sacred to you. Now you have slain several men and have eaten meat. Why should one more act of "faith" concern you?'

  'I cannot argue with that, my lord,' said Darda­lion. 'The truth of it grieves me.'

  The Abbot pushed himself to his feet. 'I hope that history does not recall you and your Thirty, Dardalion, though I fear that it will. Men are always impressed by acts of violence. Build your legend carefully, lest it destroy all we stand for.'