Waylander

10

The town of Skarta sprawled across a clearing between two hills in the south-west of Skultik. There were no walls around it, though hastily constructed defences were in evidence – loosely packed barriers of local rock built behind deep ditches. Soldiers were at work everywhere, increasing the height of the barricades or filling in the outfacing windows of perimeter homes.

But all work ceased as Karnak, now at the head of the column, led the wagons into the town.

'Welcome back, general!' shouted one man, sitting back on the wall he was building.

'Meat tonight. How does that sound?' yelled Karnak.

Back at the rear of the column Waylander rode with Dardalion.

'Another great Karnak victory,' observed Waylander. 'See how the crowds flock to him! You would think he defended Masin himself. Where is Gellan in this moment of triumph?'

'Why do you not like him?' asked Dardalion.

'I do not dislike him. But he is a poseur.'

'Do you not think he needs to be? He has a demoralised army – a force in need of heroes.'

'Perhaps.' Waylander cast his eyes over the defences. They were well planned, the ditches deep enough to prevent a force of horsemen from charging the town and the walls strategically placed to allow archers to inflict heavy losses on an attacking army. But they were useless in any long-term encounter, for they were neither high nor strong. Nor were they linked. It was not possible to turn Skarta into a fortress, and Waylander guessed the defences were more for the town's morale than for any genuine attempt to fight the Vagrians.

Once through the outer defences, the wagons pulled into the centre of Skultik. The buildings were mainly of white stone, hewn from the Delnoch mountains to the north. Mostly single-storey dwellings, the town was built around an old fort villa at the centre which now was the Hall of Council and Egel's headquarters.

Waylander reined in his horse as the column entered.

'I will find you later,' he called to Dardalion, then rode to the eastern quarter. Since his meeting with Karnak he was no longer guarded, but he still proceeded cautiously, checking several times to see if he was being followed. The houses were poorer here, the walls painted white to imitate the grand granite and marble homes of the northern quarter, but the stone was inferior quality.

Waylander rode to an inn near the Street of Weavers and left his mount in a stable at the rear. The inn was crowded, the air thick with the smell of stale sweat and cheap beer. He pushed his way through to the long wooden bar, his eyes raking the crowd; the barman lifted a pewter mug as he saw him approach.

'Ale?' he asked.

Waylander nodded. 'I am looking for Durmast,' he said.

'Many people look for Durmast. He must be a popular man.'

'He's a pig. But I need to find him.'

'Owe you money, does he?' The barman grinned, showing stained and broken teeth.

'I am ashamed to admit that he's a friend of mine.'

'Then you ought to know where he is.'

'Is he in that much trouble?'

The barman grinned again and filled Waylander's jug with frothing ale. 'If you are seeking him, you'll find him. Enjoy your drink.'

'How much?'

'Money's not worth that much here, friend. So we are giving it away.'

Waylander drank deeply. 'Tasting like this, you ought to pay people for drinking it!' The barman moved away and Waylander settled his arms on the bar and waited. After several minutes, a thin hatchet-faced young man tapped his arm.

'Follow me,' he said.

They moved through the crowd to a narrow door at the back of the inn, which opened on to a small courtyard and a series of alleys. The man's slight figure jogged ahead, cutting left and right through the maze until at last he stopped at a wide door studded with brass. There he knocked three times, waited, then twice more and the door was opened by a woman wearing a long green dress. Wearily she led them to a room at the back of the house and the young man knocked again. Then he grinned at Waylander and moved away.

Waylander placed his hand on the door-latch, then stopped. Moving to one side with his back against the wall, he flicked the latch and pushed the door open. A crossbow shaft hammered into the wall opposite, sending a shower of sparks across the corridor.

'Is that any way to greet an old friend?' asked Waylander.

'A man has to be careful among friends,' came the reply.

'You owe me money, you reprobate!'

'Come in and collect it.'

Waylander moved away from the door to the other side of the corridor. Taking two running steps, he hurled himself head-first into the room, rolling forward to his feet with knife in hand as he hit the floor.

'Game is over and you are dead!' came the voice, this time from the doorway. Waylander turned slowly. Standing behind the door was a huge bear of a man holding a black crossbow, the bolt aimed at Waylander's stomach.

'You are getting old and slow, Waylander,' commented Durmast. Lifting the bolt from the weapon, he snapped the string forward and placed the crossbow against the wall. Waylander shook his head and sheathed his knife. Then the big man moved across the room and lifted him from his feet in a bone-crushing bear hug. He planted a kiss on Waylander's forehead before releasing him.

'You stink of onions,' said Waylander.

Durmast grinned and lowered his huge frame into a leather chair. The man was even bigger than the assassin remembered, and his brown beard was shaggy and unkempt. He was dressed as always in a mixture of green and brown homespun wool which gave him the appearance of a human tree: a thing created from sorcery. Durmast was just under seven feet tall and weighed more than three large men.

Waylander had known him for eleven years and, in as much as he trusted any living man, he trusted the giant.

'Well, get to the point,' said Durmast. 'Who are you hunting?'

'No one.'

'Then who is hunting you?'

'Just about everyone. But mainly the Brotherhood.'

'You pick your enemies well, my friend. Here, read this.' Durmast delved into an untidy mass of parchment scrolls and came up with a tightly rolled package, sealed with a black circle of wax. The seal was broken. Waylander took the scroll and read it swiftly.

'Five thousand gold pieces? It makes me valuable.'

'Only dead,' said Durmast.

'Hence the crossbow greeting.'

'Professional pride. If times get tough I can always rely on you – and the price on your wolfs head.'

'I need your help,' said Waylander, pulling up a seat opposite the giant.

'Helping you will prove costly.'

'You know I can pay. You already owe me six thousand in silver.'

'Then that is the price.'

'You don't know yet what aid I need.'

'True – but that is the price anyway.'

'And if I refuse?'

The smile faded from the giant's face. 'Then I will collect the Brotherhood's bounty on you.'

'You drive a hard bargain.'

'No harder than the one you forced me to on that Ventrian mountainside when my leg was broken. Six thousand for a splint and a horse?'

'There were enemies close by,' said Waylander. 'Was your life worth so little?'

'Another man would have rescued me out of friendship.'

'But then men like us have no friends, Durmast.'

'So do you agree the price?'

'Yes.'

'Fine. What do you need?'

'I need someone to guide me to Raboas, the Sacred Giant.'

'Why? You know where it is.'

'I want to get back alive – and I shall be bringing something with me.'

'You intend to steal Nadir treasure from their holiest place? You don't need a guide, you need an army! Ask the Vagrians – they just might be strong enough. But I doubt it.'

'I need someone who knows the Nadir and is welcome in their camps. What I am seeking is not a Nadir treasure; it belongs to the Drenai. But I will not lie to you, Durmast, there is great danger. The Brotherhood will be on my train and they seek the same goal.'

'Valuable, is it?'

'It is worth more than a king's ransom.'

'And what percentage do you offer me?'

'Half of what I am receiving.'

'That's fair. What are you getting?'

'Nothing at all.'

'Are you telling me that this is something you promised to do for your sick mother on her deathbed?'

'No. I promised an old blind man on his.'

'I don't believe a word of this. You never did anything for nothing in your life. Gods, man, I saved you twice at cost to myself, yet when I was in trouble you charged me silver. Now you tell me you have become an altruist? Do not make me angry, Waylander. You would not like me angry.'

Waylander shrugged. 'I am surprising myself. There is little more I can tell you.'

'But there is. Tell me about the old man.'

Waylander leaned back. What could he tell him? In what way could he lay out the story so that Durmast would understand what had happened to him? No way at all. The giant was a killer, merciless and amoral – even as Waylander had been but a few short days before. How could he understand the shame the old man had inspired in Waylander? He took a deep breath and launched into the tale, allowing no embellishments. Durmast listened in silence, no flicker of expression on his wide features, no glint of emotion in his green eyes. At the conclusion Waylander spread his arms and lapsed into silence.

'The Drenai would pay all that they have to get the Armour?' asked Durmast.

'Yes.'

'And the Vagrians would pay more?'

'Indeed they would.'

'And you are going to do it for nothing?'

'With your help.'

'When do you plan to leave?'

'Tomorrow.'

'You know the grove of oaks to the north?'

'Yes.'

‘I’ll meet you there and we'll go out over the Delnoch Pass.'

'What about the money?' asked Waylander softly.

'Six thousand, you said. It wipes the slate clean.'

Waylander nodded thoughtfully. 'I had expected you to ask for more, considering the size of the task.'

'Life is full of surprises, Waylander.'

After the assassin had gone, Durmast called the hatchet-faced young man into the room. 'Did you hear all that?' he asked.

'Yes. Is he mad?'

'No, he's merely gone soft. It happens, Sorak. But do not underestimate him. He is one of the finest warriors I have ever seen and will prove a hard man to kill.'

'Why do we not just kill him for the bounty?'

'Because I want that Armour and the bounty.'

'So much for friendship,' said Sorak, grinning.

'You heard the man. People like us have no friends.'

Danyal took the children to a tiny schoolhouse behind the Hall of Council. It was run by three Source priests and there were more than forty children housed there, orphans of the war. A further three hundred had been billeted with the townspeople of Skarta. Krylla and Miriel seemed content enough to be left there and waved happily from the play area as Danyal walked away beside an elderly priest.

'Tell me, sister,' he asked as they halted by the wrought-iron gate, 'what do you know of Dardalion?'

'He is a priest like yourself,' she answered.

'But a priest who kills,' he said sadly.

'I cannot help you. He did what he felt was necessary to save lives – there is no evil in him.'

'There is evil in all of us, sister, and the mark of a man is how he defies the evil within. Our young men talk much of Dardalion and I fear he poses a terrible threat to our Order.'

'Or perhaps he will help to save it,' she ventured.

'If we need saving by men, then all we believe is nonsense. For if Man is ultimately more powerful than God, what need have we to worship a deity at all? But I do not wish to burden you with our problems. May the Source bless you, sister.'

She left him and wandered through the white-walled streets. Her dress was filthy and torn and she felt like a beggar under the stares of the townsfolk. A short fat man approached her, offering money, but she dismissed him with an angry glare. Then a woman touched her arm as she passed.

'Did you just come in, my dear?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'Was there a man named Vanek with your party?'

'Yes, a soldier with a limp.'

The woman looked relieved. She was plump, and once must have been pretty, but now her face was lined and she had lost several teeth on the right side of her face which gave her a lopsided appearance.

'My name is Tacia. There is a bath-house next to my home and you are welcome to use it.'

The bath-house was deserted and the main bath empty, but several tubs remained in the side rooms. Tacia helped Danyal to fill a copper tub with buckets of water from a well at the rear of the bath-house, then sat down as she removed her dress and lowered herself into the cold water.

'They do not heat the water any more,' said Tacia. 'Not since the council man left. He owned the House; he went to Drenan.'

'It is fine,' said Danyal. 'Is there any soap?'

Tacia left her and returned some minutes later carrying soap, towels and a skirt and tunic top.

‘It will be too large for you, but I can soon alter it,’ she said.

‘Are you Vanek’s wife?’

‘I was,’ she said, ‘but he lives now with a young girl from the southern quarter.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Never wed a soldier – isn’t that what they say? The children miss him; he is very good with children.’

‘Were you married long?’

‘Twelve years.’

‘Maybe you’ll get back together,’ said Danyal.

‘Maybe – if my teeth grow again and the years fall away from my face! Have you anywhere to stay?’

‘No.’

‘You are welcome to share our house. It isn't much, but it is comfortable – if you don't mind children.'

'Thank you, Tacia, but I am not sure I am staying in Skarta.'

'Where else is there to go? Purdol is ready to fall, I hear, despite the promises from Karnak and Egel. They must think we are stupid. No one is going to resist the Vagrians for long … look how swiftly they have conquered the country.'

Danyal said nothing, knowing she had no antidote to the woman's despair.

'Do you have a man?' asked Tacia.

Danyal thought instantly of Waylander, then shook her head.

'You are lucky,' said the woman. 'We fall in love with men, they fall in love with soft skin and bright eyes. I really loved him, you know. I would not have minded had he slept with her now and again. But why did he have to leave me for her?'

'I am sorry. I do not know what to say.'

'No. You'll know one day though, when that pretty red hair of yours streaks with grey and your skin gets hard. I wish I was young again. I wish I had pretty red hair and did not know how to answer an old woman.'

'You are not old.'

Tacia stood and laid the clothes on the chair. 'When you are ready, come next door. I have some supper prepared – vegetables only, I'm afraid, but we still have some spices to give it flavour.'

Danyal watched the woman leave, then poured soap into her hair and scrubbed away the dirt and grease. At last she stood and dried herself before a bronzed mirror at the far end of the room.

Somehow the sight of her beauty failed to lift her as it usually did.

Dardalion wandered to the outskirts of the town, crossing a curved stone bridge over a narrow stream. The trees were thinner here – elm and birch, slender and graceful compared with the giant oaks of the forest. Flowers bloomed by the stream, bluebells seeming to float above the ground like a sapphire mist. There was tranquillity here, thought Dardalion. Harmony.

The tents of the priests were spread in a meadow in an orderly circle. Nearby was a fresh graveyard, the mounds carpeted with flowers.

Uncomfortable in his armour, Dardalion walked into the meadow and watched the eyes of the priests turn towards him. A mixture of emotions stuck him forcefully: anguish, pain, disappointment, elation, pride, despair. He absorbed them, as he absorbed the mind-faces of those who projected the feelings, and he responded with love born of sorrow.

As he came near the priests gathered around him silently, leaving a path to the tent at the centre of the circle. When he approached an elderly man stepped from the tent and bowed deeply. Dardalion fell to his knees before the Abbot and bowed his head.

'Welcome, brother Dardalion,' said the old man softly.

'Thank you, Father Abbot.'

'Will you remove the garments of war and rejoin your brethren?'

'It is with regret that I must refuse.'

'Then you are no longer a priest and should not kneel before me. Stand as a man, freed of your vows.'

'I do not wish to be free of my vows.'

'The eagle does not pull a plough, Dardalion, and the Source accepts no half-way heroes.'

The old man reached down and gently pulled Dardalion to his feet. The young warrior priest looked into his eyes, seeking righteous anger but finding only sadness. The Abbot was very old, his face webbed with the weight of his life. Yet his eyes were bright, alive with intelligence.

'I do not wish to be free. I wish to follow a different path to the Source.'

'All paths lead to the Source, whether for judgement or joy.'

'Do not play word games with me, Father Abbot. I am no child. But I have seen great evil in the land and I will not sit by and watch it triumph.'

'Who is to say where triumph lies? What is life but a search for God? A battleground, a cesspit, a paradise? I see the pain you see and it saddens me. And where I find pain I bring comfort, and where I find sorrow I bring promises of future joy. I exist to heal, Dardalion. There is no victory in the sword.'

Dardalion drew himself upright and glanced about him, feeling the weight of the unasked questions. All eyes were on him and he sighed and closed his eyes, praying for guidance. But his prayer was unanswered, and he felt no lifting of the burden upon him.

'I brought two children to Skarta – bright, lively youngsters with rare talents. And I have seen the deaths of evil men, and know that through their deaths other innocents will know life. And I have prayed constantly about my path, and my deeds, and my future. It seems to me, Father Abbot, that the Source required balance in the world. Hunters and hunted. The weakest calf in the herd is the one to be caught by wolves. Therefore the bloodlines remain strong in the herd. But too many wolves will destroy the herd, so the huntsmen track the wolves, catching the weakest and oldest.

'How many examples do we need to show that the Source is a God of equity? Why create the eagle and the wolf, the locust and the scorpion? At every turn there is balance. Yet when we see the evil of the Brotherhood at work, and the worshippers of Chaos stain the land, we sit in our tents and ponder the mysteries of the stars. Where is the balance there, Father Abbot?'

'We seek to teach the world that our values are those to be followed. But if all followed us in celibacy, where would the world be? Mankind would cease.'

'And there would be no more war,' said the Abbot. 'No more greed, lust, despair and sorrow.'

'Yes. And no love, joy, or contentment.'

'Are you content, Dardalion?'

'No. I am heartsick and lost.'

'And were you content as a priest?'

'Yes. Sublimely so.'

'And does not that show where the error lies in your thinking?'

'It does not – rather it exposes the selfishness of my soul. We seek to be altruistic, for we yearn to be blessed by the Source. But then it is not altruism, nor love, that guides us, but self-interest. We do not spread the message of love for love's sake, but for our own futures as priests of the Source. You bring comfort to those in pain? How? How can you understand their pain? We are all cerebral men, living apart from the world of reality. Even our deaths are a moral disgrace, for we welcome them as chariot rides to paradise. Where is the sacrifice? The enemy brings us what we desire and we accept death from him as a gift. A gift of Chaos – a stained, bloody, vile gratuity from the Devil himself.'

'You speak as one who has been stained by Chaos. All that you say is plausible, yet that is the strength of the Chaos Spirit. That is why he was called the Morning Star and is now the Prince of Lies. The gullible devour his promises as he devours them. I have looked inside you, Dardalion, and I find no evil. But your very purity was your downfall, when you allowed yourself to travel with the assassin Waylander. You were too confident in your purity, and the evil of the man overcame you.'

'I do not see him as evil,' said Dardalion. 'Amoral, cruel, but not evil. You are right, though, when you say he affected me. But purity is not a cloak which can be stained in a storm. He merely made me question values I had accepted.'

'Nonsense!' snapped the Abbot. 'He fed you his blood and therefore his soul. And you became one with him, even as he now struggles against the stain you have placed on his evil. You are joined, Dardalion, like symbiotic twins. He struggles to do good, while you struggle to commit evil. Can you not see it? If we listen to you, then our Order is finished, our discipline gone to the winds of the desert. What you ask is selfishness, for you seek safety among the numbers of the Source priests. If we accept you, then we lessen your doubt. We will not accept you.'

'You speak of selfishness, Father Abbot. Then let me ask you this: if our lives as priests teach us to abhor selfishness, why do we allow the Brotherhood to kill us? For if unselfishness means giving up that which we desire in order to help others, then surely fighting the Brotherhood would achieve it? We do not want to fight, we want to die, therefore when we fight we are being unselfish and helping the innocents who would otherwise be slain.'

'Go away, Dardalion, you are tainted beyond my humble counsel.'

'I will fight them alone,' said Dardalion bowing stiffly.

As he turned the priests moved back to allow him a path, and he walked it without turning his head to see their faces, his mind closed to their emotions.

Clearing their ranks, he crossed the stone bridge and paused to stare at the stream. He no longer felt uncomfortable in the armour, and the burden was gone from his soul. The sound of footsteps caused him to turn and he saw a group of priests crossing the bridge, all of them young. The first to come was a short, stocky man with bright blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair.

'We wish to speak with you, brother,' he said. Dardalion nodded, and they formed a half-circle around him and sat down on the grass. 'My name is Astila,' said the blond priest, 'and these of my brethren have been waiting for you. Do you object to communing with us?'

'For what purpose?'

'We wish to know of your life, and the change you have undergone. We will best understand that by sharing your memories.'

'And what of the stain to your purity?'

'There are enough of us to withstand it, if such it be.'

'Then I agree.'

The group bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Dardalion shuddered as the priests flowed into his mind and he merged into the oblivion of their mass. A kaleidoscope of memories flickered and flashed. Childhood, joy and torment. Study and dreams. The mad rush of images slowed as the mercenaries tied him to the tree and went to work with their knives, and the pain returned. Then … Waylander. The rescue. The cave. The blood. The savage joy of battle and death. The walls of Masin. But through it all the constant prayers for guidance. All unanswered. Nausea swept though him as the priests returned to their bodies.

He opened his eyes and almost fell but sucking in air, he steadied himself.

'Well?' he asked. 'What did you find?'

'You were stained,' said Astila, 'in the first moments when Waylander's blood touched you. That is why you cut your opponent to pieces. But since then you have struggled – as the Abbot pointed out – to restrain the evil.'

'But you think I am wrong?'

'Yes. And yet I will join you. We will all join you.'

'Why?'

'Because we are weak, even as you are weak. Poor priests we have been, despite our struggles. I am prepared to be judged by the Source for all my deeds, and if His judgement says eternal death then so be it. But I am tired of watching my brothers slain. I am sickened by the deaths of the children of the Drenai, and I am ready to destroy the Brotherhood.'

'Then why have you not done so before now?'

'That is not an easy question to answer. I can only speak for myself, but I feared that I might become as one with the Brotherhood. For my hatred was growing – I did not know if a man could retain any purity, any sense of God. You have, so I will follow you.'

'We were waiting for a leader,' said another man.

'And you have found one. How many are we?'

'With you, thirty.'

'Thirty,' said Dardalion. 'It is a beginning.'