Waylander

by David Gemmell

  'You make loud noises, Karnak, but few men fear a yapping dog.'

  True, but you fear me, little man,' said Karnak equably. 'Now - you have twenty seconds to clear

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  your men from the gate. After that the air will be thick with arrows and death. Go!'

  Kaem turned on his heel to find himself staring at several hundred warriors - the cream of his force -and the full humiliation struck him like a blow. He was inside the fortress with the gates open, yet he could not order the attack for every archer had his bow bent and the shaft aimed at himself. And to save himself - and save himself he must - he had to order them to withdraw. His stock would sink among the men and morale would be severely dented.

  He swung back, his face purple with fury. 'Enjoy your moment, Drenai! There will be few such high­lights from now on.'

  'Fifteen seconds,' said Karnak.

  'Back!' shouted Kaem. 'Back through the gates.'

  The sound of mocking laughter followed the Vagrian general as he shouldered his way through his troops.

  'Close the gates,' yelled Karnak, 'and then get ready for the whoresons!'

  Gellan moved alongside Karnak. 'What did you mean about warehouses and killing?'

  'Dardalion told me that was the plan. Kaem had promised Degas that the men would be unharmed; it was a foul lie and exactly what you would expect from Kaem, but Degas was too weary to see it.'

  'Speaking of weariness,' said Gellan, 'having spent more than ten hours burrowing through rock below the dungeons, I am feeling a little weary myself.'

  Karnak thumped him hard between the shoulder-blades. 'Your men worked well, Gellan. The Gods only know what would have happened had we arrived an hour later. Still, it is good to know we are riding a lucky horse, eh?'

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  'Lucky, general? We have burrowed our way into a besieged fortress and have angered the most powerful general on the continent. Tell me what's lucky.'

  Karnak chuckled. 'He was the most powerful gen­eral on the continent, but he suffered today. He was humiliated. That won't help him; it wi'l open a little tear in his cloak of invincibility.'

  Jonat stalked the wall shouting at the fifty men under his command. They had been disgraced that morn­ing, breaking in panic as the Vagrians cleared the wall beside the gate tower. With ten swordsmen, Jonat had rushed in to plug the gap and by some miracle the rangy, black-bearded Legion rider had escaped injury though six of his comrades had died beside him. Karnak had seen the danger and run to Jonat's aid, swinging a huge double-headed battle-axe, followed by a hundred fighting men. The battle by the gate tower was brief and bloody, and by the end of it the men of Jonat's section had returned to the fighting.

  Now, with dusk upon them and the sun sinking in fire, Jonat lashed them with his tongue. Beyond his anger the tall warrior knew the cause of their panic, even understood it. Half the men were Legion war­riors, half were conscripted farmers and merchants. The warriors did not trust the farmers to stand firm, while the farmers felt out of their depth and lost within the mad hell of slashing swords and frenzied screams.

  What was worse, it had been the warriors who had broken.

  'Look around you,' shouted Jonat, aware that other soldiers were watching the scene. 'What do

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  you see? A fortress of stone? It is not as it appears - it is a castle built of sand and the Vagrians lash at it like an angry sea. It stands only so long as the sand binds together. You understand that, you dolts? Today you fled in terror and the Vagrians breached the wall. Had it not been retaken swiftly they would have flowed into the courtyard behind the gates and the fortress would have become a giant tomb.

  'Can you not get it through your heads that there is nowhere to run? We fight or we die.

  'Six men died beside me today. Good men - better men than you. You think of them tomorrow when you want to run.'

  One of the men, a young merchant, hawked and spat. 'I did not ask to be here,' he said bitterly.

  'Did you say something, rabbit?' hissed Jonat.

  'You heard me.'

  'Yes, I heard you. And I watched you today, sprinting away from the wall like your backside was on fire.'

  'I was trying to catch up with your Legion soldi­ers,' snapped the man. 'They were leading the retreat.' An angry murmur greeted his words, but this fell to silence as a tall man moved along the battlements. He placed his hand on Jonat's shoulder and smiled apologetically.

  'May I say a few words, Jonat?'

  'Of course, sir.'

  The officer squatted down amongst the men and removed his helm. His eyes were grey-blue and showed the weariness of six days and nights of bitter struggle. He rubbed at them wearily, then looked up at the young merchant.

  'What is your name, my friend?'

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  'Andric,' replied the man suspiciously.

  'I am Gellan. What Jonat said about a castle of sand was a truth to remember and was well put. Each one of you here is vital. Panic is a plague which can turn a battle, but so is courage. When Jonat led that suicidal counter-charge with only ten men, you all responded. You came back - I think you are the stronger for it. Beyond these walls is an enemy of true malevolence, who has butchered his way across Drenai lands slaying rnen, women and children. He is like rabid animal. But he stops here, for Dros Purdol is the leash around the mad dog's neck and Egel will be the lance that destroys him. Now I am not one for speeches, as Jonat here will testify, but I would like us all to be brothers here, for we are all Drenai and, in reality, we are the last hope of the Drenai race. If we cannot stand together on these walls, then we do not deserve to survive.

  'Now look around you and if you see a face you do not recognise, ask a name. You have a few hours before the next attack. Use them to get to know your brothers.'

  Gellan pushed himself to his feet, replaced his helm and moved away into the gathering darkness, taking Jonat with him.

  'That there is a gentleman,' said Vanek, leaning his back to the wall and loosening the chin-strap of his helm. One of the ten to fight beside Jonat, he too had come through without a scratch, though his helm had been dented in two places and now sat awkwardly on his head. 'You listen to what he said - you take it in like it was written on tablets of stone. For those of you "brothers" who don't know me -my name is Vanek. Now I am a lucky bastard and anyone who feels like living ought to stay close to

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  me. Anyone who feels like running tomorrow can run in my direction, because I am not going through those two speeches again.'

  'You think we can really hold this place, Vanek?' asked Andric, moving over to sit beside him. 'All day ships have been arriving, bringing more Vagri-ans, and now they're building a siege tower.'

  'I suppose it keeps them busy,' answered Vanek. 'As for the men, where do you think they are coming from? The more we face here, the less there are of them elsewhere. In short, brother Andric, we are bringing them together like pus in a boil. You think Karnak would have come here if he thought we could lose? The man's a political whoreson. Purdol is a stepping-stone to glory.'

  'That's a little unfair,' said a lantern-jawed soldier with deep-set eyes.

  'Maybe it is, brother Dagon, but I speak as I see. Do not misunderstand me - I respect the man, I'd even vote for him. But he's not like us; he has the mark of greatness on him and he put it there himself, if you understand me.'

  'I don't,' said Dagon. 'As far as I can see he's a great warrior and he's fighting for the Drenai same as me.'

  'Then let's leave it at that,' said Vanek, smiling. 'We both agree he's a great warrior, and brothers like us shouldn't quarrel.'

  Above them in the gate tower Karnak, Dundas and Gellan sat under the new stars and listened to the conversation. Karnak was grinning broadly as he signalled Gellan to the other side of the ramparts where their talk could not be overheard.

  'Intelligent man, that Vanek,' said Karnak softly, his eyes locked on Gellan's face.

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  Gel
lan grinned. 'Yes, he is, sir. Except for women!'

  "There isn't a man alive who knows how to deal with women,' said Karnak. 'I should know - I have been married three times and never learned a damned thing.'

  'Does Vanek worry you, sir?'

  Karnak's eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of humour in them. 'And if he does?'

  'If he did, you wouldn't be a man I follow.'

  'Well put. I like a man who stands by his own. Do you share his views?'

  'Of course, but then so do you. There are no saga-poet heroes. Each man has his own reason for being prepared to die, and most of the reasons are selfish - like protecting wife, home or self. You have bigger dreams than most men, general; there's no harm in that.'

  'I am glad you think so,' said Karnak, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  'When you do not want to hear the truth, sir, let me know. I can lie as glibly as any man.'

  'The truth is a dangerous weapon. Gellan. For some it is like sweet wine, for others it is poison, yet it remains the same. Go and get some sleep -you look exhausted, man.'

  'What was all that about?' asked Dundas as Gellan moved into the torch-lit stairwell.

  Karnak shrugged and walked to the ramparts, gazing r ut over the camp-fires of the Vagrian army around the harbour. Two ships were gliding on a jet-black sea towards the dock, their decks lined with men.

  'Gellan worries me,' said Karnak.

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  '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

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  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

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  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

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  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.

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  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 thousa
nd 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

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  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.