Waylander

3

Wearily Dardalion pushed himself to his feet. The stitches pulled tight against the skin of his chest and the bruises around his ribs made him wince. Even were he a warrior, he could not have stood alone against even one of the men walking slowly towards him.

Leading them was the man who had filled him with fear the night before, smiling as he approached. Behind him, advancing in a half-circle, were six soldiers with their long blue cloaks fastened over black breastplates. Their helms covered their faces and only their eyes were visible through rectangular slits in the metal.

Behind Dardalion Danyal had turned away from the warriors and put her arms around the children, pulling them in close to her so that, at the very least, they would be spared the terror of the kill.

The priest felt a terrible hopelessness seep into him. Only days before, he had been willing to bear torture – torture and death. But now he could feel the children's fear, and he wished he had a sword or bow to defend them.

The advancing line stopped and the lead warrior swung away from Dardalion, staring across the hollow. Dardalion looked back.

There in the fading red glow of dusk stood Waylander, his cloak drawn close about him. The sun was setting behind him and the warrior was silhouetted against the blood-red sky – a still figure, yet so powerful that he laid a spell upon the scene. His leather cloak glistened in the dying light and Dardalion's heart leapt at the sight of him. He had seen this drama played out once before and knew that beneath his cloak Waylander carried the murderous crossbow, strung and ready.

But even as hope flared, so it died. For where before there had been five unsuspecting mercenaries, here there were seven warriors in full armour. Trained killers. The Vagrian Hounds of Chaos.

Waylander could not stand against such as these.

In those first frozen moments Dardalion found himself wondering just why the warrior had come back on such a hopeless mission. Waylander had no cause to give his life for any of them – he had no beliefs, no strongly-held convictions.

But there he stood, like a forest statue.

The silence was unnerving, more so for the Vagrians than for Dardalion. The warriors knew that in scant seconds lives would be lost, death would strike in the clearing and blood seep through the soft loam. For they were men of war who walked with death as a constant companion, holding him at bay with skill or with rage, quelling their fears in blood-lust. But here they were caught cold … and each felt alone.

The dark priest of the Brotherhood licked his lips, his sword heavy in his hand. He knew that the odds favoured his force, knew with certainty that Waylander would die if he gave the word to attack. But the double-edged knowledge held a second certainty … that the moment he spoke, he would die.

Danyal could stand the suspense no longer and, twisting round, she saw Waylander. Her movement caused Miriel to open her eyes and the first thing the child saw were the warriors in their helms.

She screamed.

The spell broke …

Waylander's cloak flickered and the dark priest of the Brotherhood pitched backwards with a black bolt through one eye. For several seconds he writhed and then was still.

The six warriors stood their ground, then the man in the centre slowly sheathed his sword and the others followed suit. With infinite care they backed away into the gathering darkness of the trees.

Waylander did not move.

'Fetch the horses,' he said quietly, 'and gather the blankets.'

An hour later they were camped in high ground in a shallow cave; the children were sleeping and Danyal lay awake beside them as Dardalion and the warrior sat together under the stars.

After a while Dardalion came into the cave and stirred the small fire to life. The smoke drifted up through a crack in the roof of the cave, but still their small shelter smelt of burning pine. It was a comforting scent. The priest moved to where Danyal lay and, seeing she was awake, sat beside her.

'Are you well?' he asked.

'I feel strange,' she admitted. 'I was so prepared for death that all fear left me. Yet I am alive. Why did he come back?'

'I do not know. He does not know.'

'Why did they go away?'

Dardalion leaned his back against the cave wall, stretching his legs towards the fire.

'I am not sure. I have given much thought to it and I think perhaps it is the nature of soldiers. They are trained to fight and kill upon a given order – to obey unquestioningly. They do not act as individuals. And when a battle comes it is usually clear-cut: there is a city which must be captured or a force which must be overcome. The order is given, excitement grows – dulling fear – and they attack in a mass, drawing strength from the mob around them.

'But today there was no order and Waylander, in remaining still, gave them no cause to fire their blood.'

'But Waylander could not have known they would run away,' she insisted.

'No. He didn't care.'

'I don't understand.'

'In truth I am not sure that I do. But I sensed it during those moments. He didn't care … and they knew it. But they cared, they cared very much. They didn't want to die and they were not charged up to fight.'

'But they could have killed him … killed us all.'

'Could have, yes. But they didn't – and for that I am thankful. Go to sleep, sister. We have won another night.'

Outside Waylander watched the stars. He was still numbed from the encounter and ran the memories through time and again.

He had found their camp deserted and had followed them, a growing fear eating at him. Dismounting below the woods, he had made his way to the clearing, only to see the Hounds advancing. He had strung his crossbow, and then stopped. To advance was to die and every instinct screamed at him to go back.

Yet he had advanced, throwing aside years of caution, to give away his life for a nonsense.

Why in the name of Hell had they walked away?

No matter how many times he considered it, an answer always eluded him.

A movement to his left jerked him from his reverie and he turned to see one of the children walking from the cave. She looked neither to right nor left. Waylander went to her and touched her lightly on the arm, but she moved on, unaware of him. Stooping, he lifted her. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped to his shoulder. She was very light in his arms as he walked back to the cave, ready to lay her beside her sister. But then he stopped in the cave mouth and sat with his back against the wall, drawing her close with his cloak about her.

For several hours he stayed quietly, feeling the warmth of her breath against his neck. Twice she woke, then snuggled down once more. As dawn lightened the sky he took her back into the cave and laid her beside her sister.

Then he returned to the cave mouth …

Alone.

Danyal's scream snatched Waylander from sleep, his heart pounding. Rolling to his feet with knife in hand he ran into the cave to find the woman kneeling beside Dardalion's still form. Waylander dropped to his knees and lifted the priest's wrist. The man was dead.

'How?' whispered Danyal.

'Damn you, priest!' shouted Waylander. Dardalion's face was white and waxen, his skin cold to the touch. 'He must have had a weak heart,' said Waylander bitterly.

'He was fighting the man,' said Miriel. Waylander turned to the child, who was sitting at the back of the cave holding hands with her sister.

'Fighting?' he asked. 'Who was he fighting?' But Miriel looked away.

'Come along, Miriel,' urged Danyal. 'Who was he fighting?'

'The man with the arrow in his eye,' she said.

Danyal turned to Waylander. 'It was just a dream; it means nothing. What are we to do?'

Waylander did not reply. Throughout the questioning of the child he had held on to Dardalion's wrist and now he felt the weakest of pulses.

'He is not dead,' he whispered, 'Go and talk to the child. Find out about the dream – quickly, now!'

For some minutes Danyal sat quietly with the girl, then she returned. 'She says that the man you killed took hold of her and made her cry. Then the priest came and the man shouted at him; he had a sword and was trying to kill the priest. And they were flying – higher than the stars. That is all there is.'

'He feared this man,' said Waylander, 'believing he had demonic powers. If he was right, then maybe death did not stop him. Perhaps even now he is being hunted.'

'Can he survive?'

'How?' snapped Waylander. The man won't fight.' Danyal leaned forward, placing her hand on Waylander's arm. The muscles were tensed and quivering. 'Take your hand from me, woman, or I'll cut it off at the wrist. No one touches me!' Danyal jerked back with green eyes ablaze, but she mastered her anger and moved back to the children.

'Damn you all!' hissed Waylander. He took a deep breath, quelling the fury boiling inside him. Danyal and the children sat quietly, watching him intently. Danyal knew what was tormenting him: the priest was in danger and the warrior, for all his deadly skill, was powerless. A battle was taking place in another world and Waylander was a useless bystander.

'How could you be so stupid, Dardalion?' whispered the warrior. 'All life fights to survive. You say the Source made the world? Then he created the tiger and the deer, the eagle and the lamb. You think he made the eagle to eat grass?'

For some minutes he lapsed into silence, remembering the priest as he had knelt naked by the robbers' clothes.

'I cannot wear these, Waylander …'

He transferred his grip from the priest's arm to his hand and as their fingers touched, there came an almost imperceptible movement. Waylander's eyes narrowed. As he gripped the priest's hand more firmly, Dardalion's arm jerked spasmodically and his face twisted in pain.

'What is happening to you, priest? Where in Hell's name are you?'

At the name of Hell Dardalion jerked again, and moaned softly.

'Wherever he is, he is suffering,' said Danyal, moving forward to kneel beside the priest.

'It was when our hands touched,' said Waylander. 'Fetch the crossbow, woman – there, by the cave mouth.' Danyal moved to the weapon and carried it to Waylander. 'Put it in his right hand and close his fingers about it.' Danyal opened Dardalion's hand, and curled his fingers around the ebony hilt. The priest screamed; his fingers jerked open and the crossbow clattered to the ground. 'Hold his fingers around it.'

'But it is causing him pain. Why are you doing this?'

'Pain is life, Danyal. We must get him back into his body – you understand? The corpse-spirit cannot touch him there. We must draw him back.'

'But he is a priest, a man of purity.'

'So?'

'You will sully his soul.'

Waylander laughed. 'I may not be a mystic, but I do believe in souls. What you are holding is merely wood and metal. Dardalion will be stung by it, but I do not believe his soul is so fragile that it will kill him. But his enemy will – so you decide!'

'I believe that I hate you,' said Danyal, opening Dardalion's hand and forcing him to grip the ebony handle once more. The priest twisted and screamed. Waylander pulled a knife from his belt and sliced a cut across the flesh of his forearm. Blood oozed and then gushed from the wound. As Waylander held his arm over Dardalion's face, blood spattered to his skin, flowed over his closed eyes and down – cours­ing over his lips and into his throat.

A last terrible scream ripped from the priest and his eyes snapped open. Then he smiled, and his eyes closed again. A deep shuddering breath swelled his lungs and he slept. Waylander checked his pulse –it was strong and even.

'Sweet Lord of Light!' said Danyal. 'Whyl Why the blood?'

'According to the Source no priest shall taste blood, for it carries the soul,' explained Waylander softly. 'The weapon was not enough, but the blood brought him back.'

'I don't understand you. And I do not wish to,' she said.

'He is alive, woman. What more do you want?'

'From you, nothing.'

Waylander smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Taking a small canvas sack from his saddlebag, he removed a length of linen bandage and clumsily wound it around the shallow cut in his arm.

'Would you mind tying a knot in this?' he asked her.

'I'm afraid not,' she answered. 'It would mean touching you and I do not want my hand cut off at the wrist!'

'I am sorry for that. It should not have been said.'

Without waiting for a reply, Waylander left the cave, tucking the bandage under its own folds as he went.

The day was bright and cool, the mountain breezes sharp with the snow of the Skoda peaks as Waylander walked to the crest of a nearby hill and gazed into the blue distance. The Delnoch mountains were still too far off to be seen by the naked eye.

For the next three or four days the trail would be easy, moving from wood to forest to wood, with only short stretches of open ground. But thereafter the Sentran Plain would lie before them, flat and formless.

To cross that emptiness unobserved would take more luck than a man had any right to ask. Six people and two horses! At the pace they must travel they would be on the Plain for nigh a week – a week without fires or hot food. Waylander scanned the possible trails to the north-east, towards Purdol, the City by the Sea. It was said that a Vagrian fleet had berthed at the harbour mouth, landing an army to besiege the citadel. If that were true – and Waylander thought it likely – then Vagrian outriders would be scouring the countryside for food and supplies. To the north-west was Vagria itself and the citadel of Segril, but from here troops were pouring into the Drenai lands. The Sentran Plain was due north, and beyond it Skultik forest and the mountains said to be the last Drenai stronghold west of Purdol.

But did Egel still hold Skultik?

Could anyone hold together the remnants of a defeated army against the Hounds of Chaos? Waylander doubted it … yet beyond the doubts there was a spark of hope. Egel was the most able Drenai general of the age, unspectacular but sound – a stern disciplinarian, unlike the courtiers King Niallad normally placed in charge of his troops. Egel was a northerner, uncultured and at times uncouth, but a man of charisma and strength. Waylander had seen him once during a parade in Drenan and the man had stood out like a boar amongst gazelle.

Now the boar had gone to ground in Skultik.

Waylander hoped he could hold, at least until he delivered the woman and the children.

If he could deliver them.

Waylander killed a small deer during the afternoon. Hanging the carcass from a nearby tree, he cut prime sections and then carried the meat back to the cave. It was growing dark when he arrived and the priest still slept. Danyal set the fire while Waylander rigged a rough spit to roast the venison. The children sat close to the fire, watching the drops of fat splash into the flames – their stomachs tight, their eyes greedy. Lifting the meat from the spit, Waylander laid it to rest on a flat rock to cool; then he sliced sections for the children and lastly Danyal.

'It is a little tough,' complained the woman.

'The deer saw me just as I loosed the shaft,' said Waylander. 'Its muscles were bunched to run.'

'It tastes good all the same,' she admitted.

'Why is Dardalion still asleep?' asked Miriel, smiling at Waylander and tipping her head to one side so that her long fair hair fell across her face.

'He was very tired,' answered the warrior, 'after his tussle with the man you saw.'

'He cut him into little bits,' said the child.

'Yes, I'm sure he did,' said Danyal. 'But children shouldn't make up stories – especially nasty stories. You'll frighten your sister.'

'We saw him,' said Krylla and Miriel nodded agreement. 'When you were sitting with Dardalion, we closed our eyes and watched. He was all silver and he had a shining sword – he chased the bad man and cut him into little bits. And he was laughing!'

'What can you see when you close your eyes?' asked Waylander.

'Where?' asked Miriel.

'Outside the cave,' said the warrior softly.

Miriel closed her eyes. 'There's nothing out there,' she said, her eyes still closed.

'Go further down the trail, near the big oak. Now what do you see?'

'Nothing. Trees. A little stream. Oh!'

'What is it?' asked Waylander.

'Two wolves. They're jumping by a tree – like they're dancing.'

'Go closer.'

'The wolves will get me,' Miriel protested.

'No, they won't – not with me here. They won't see you. Go closer.'

'They are jumping after a poor little deer that's in the tree; he's hanging there.'

'Good. Come back now, and open your eyes.'

Miriel looked up and yawned. 'I'm tired,' she said.

'Yes,' said Waylander softly. 'But tell me first – like a bedtime story – about Dardalion and the other man.'

'You tell him, Krylla. You're better at telling stories.'

'Well,' said Krylla, leaning forward, 'the nasty man with the arrow in his eye caught hold of Miriel and me. He was hurting us. Then Dardalion came and the man let us go. And a big sword appeared in the man's hand. And we ran away, didn't we, Miriel? We went and slept in your lap, Waylander. And we were safe there. But Dardalion was being cut a lot and he was flying very fast. And we couldn't catch up. But we saw him again, when you and Danyal were holding him. He seemed to grow very tall, and silver armour covered him up, and his robes caught fire and burned away. Then he had a sword and he was laughing. The other man's sword was black –and it broke, didn't it, Miriel?

'Then he fell on his knees and began to weep. And Dardalion cut off his arms and legs and he just disappeared. After that Dardalion laughed even more. Then he disappeared and came home to where his body lives. And we are all right now.'

'Yes, we are all right now,' agreed Waylander. 'I think it is time to sleep now. Are you tired, Culas?' The boy nodded glumly.

'What is wrong, boy?'

'Nothing.'

'Come, tell me.'

'No.'

'He's angry because he cannot fly with us,' said Miriel, giggling.

'No, I'm not,' snapped Culas. 'Anyway, you are making it up.'

'Listen, Culas,' said Waylander, 'I can't fly either and it doesn't worry me. Now let's stop the arguing and sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.' With the children huddled together by the far wall, Danyal moved alongside Waylander.

'Were they speaking the truth, do you think?' she asked.

'Yes, for Miriel saw where I hid the deer.'

'Then Dardalion did kill his enemy?'

'It would appear so.'

'It makes me feel uneasy – I don't know why.'

'It was a spirit of evil. What else would you expect a priest to do? Bless it?'

'Why are you always so unpleasant, Waylander?'

'Because I choose to be.'

'In that case, I don't suppose you have many friends.'

'I don't have any friends.'

'Does that make you lonely?'

'No. It keeps me alive.'

'And what a life it must be for you, full of fun and laughter!' she mocked. 'I'm surprised you're not a poet.'

'Why so angry?' he asked. 'Why should it affect you?'

'Because you are part of our lives. Because for as long as we live, you will remain in our memories. Speaking for myself, I would have preferred another saviour.'

'Yes, I have seen the arena-plays,' said Waylander. 'The hero has golden hair and a white cloak. Well, I am not a hero, woman –I am a man trapped in the priest's web. You think he has been sullied? Well, so have I. The difference is that he needed my darkness to survive. But his Light will destroy me.'

'Will you two never stop rowing?' asked Dardalion, sitting up and stretching his arms.

Danyal ran to his side. 'How do you feel?'

'Ravenous!' He threw aside the blanket and moved to the fire, casually spearing two strips of venison with the spit. Laying it in place, he added fuel to the dwindling blaze.

Waylander said nothing, but sadness settled on him like a dark cloak.