Waylander

11

Waylander dismissed the two female servants and rose from the bath, brushing flower petals from his body. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked to a full-length mirror and shaved slowly. His shoulder ached, the muscles were tense and knotted from the battle at Masin and an ugly bruise was flowering along his ribs. He pressed it lightly and winced. Ten years ago such a bruise would have long since vanished; ten years before that, no bruise would have flowered at all.

Time was a greater enemy than any he had faced.

He stared into his own dark brown eyes, then scanned the fine lines of his face and the grey hair fighting for dominance at his temples. His gaze flickered down. The body was still strong, but the muscles were looking stretched and thin, he thought. Not many years left for a man in his occupation.

Waylander poured himself some wine and sipped it, holding it on his tongue and enjoying the sharp, almost bitter flavour.

The door slid open and Cudin entered; he was short and fat, sweat shining on his face. Waylander nodded a greeting. The merchant was followed by a young girl carrying clothing. She laid it on a gilded chair and left the room with eyes downcast, which Cudin hovered, rubbing his hands nervously.

'Everything as you requested, my dear fellow?'

'I will also need a thousand in silver.'

'Of course.'

'Have my investments gone well?'

'Well, these are hard times, But I think you will find the interest has been substantial. I have lodged the greater part of the eight thousand in Ventria, for the spice trade, so the war should not affect it. You may collect it at Isbas, at the bank of Tyra.'

'Why so nervous, Cudin?'

'Nervous? Not I – it is the heat.' The fat man licked his lips and tried to smile, but he was not successful.

'Someone has been looking for me, yes?'

'No … yes. But I told them nothing.'

'Of course not; you know nothing of my movements. But I shall tell you what you promised them – you said that you would let them know if ever I called on you. And you told them about the bank at Tyra.'

'No,' whispered Cudin.

'Do not be afraid, merchant, I do not blame you. You are not a friend and there is no reason to risk yourself for me; I would not expect it. Indeed, I would think you a fool if you did. Have you informed them yet of my arrival?'

The merchant sat down beside the pile of clothing. His flesh seemed to sag as if the muscles of his face had suddenly ceased to function.

'Yes, I sent a messenger into Skultik. What can I say?'

'Who came to you?'

'Cadoras the Stalker. Gods, Waylander, he has the eyes of Hell. I was terrified.'

'How many men did he have with him?'

'I do not knoow. I remember he said "they" would be camped at the Opal Creek.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Five days. He knew you were coming.'

'Have you seen him since?'

'Yes. He was in a tavern, drinking with the giant outlaw – the one who looks like a bear. You know him?'

'I know him. Thank you, Cudin.'

'You will not kill me?'

'No. But had you not admitted it to me …'

'I understand. Thank you.'

'There is nothing to thank me for … Now on another matter – there are two children recently brought to Skarta, now lodged with the Source priests. Their names are Krylla and Miriel. You will see they are looked after? There is also a woman, Danyal; she too will have need of money. For this service you will keep the interest from my investments. You understand?'

'Yes. Krylla, Miriel, Danyal. I understand.'

'I came to you, Cudin, because of your reputation for honest dealings. Do not fail me.'

The merchant backed from the room and Waylander moved to the clothing. A fresh linen shirt lay at the top of the pile and he lifted it to his face; it smelled of roses. Slipping it on, he tied the cuffs. Next was a pair of black troos in thick cotton, and then a woollen-backed leather jerkin and a pair of thigh-length black riding boots. Moving to the window, he hefted his mailshirt and placed it over his shoulders. The rings were freshly greased, the metal cold to his body. He dressed swiftly, buckling on his knife-belt and sword. His crossbow lay on the broad bed with a fresh quiver of fifty bolts; he clipped both to his belt and left the room.

Outside in the hall the girl waited and Waylander gave her four silver pieces. She smiled and moved away, but he called her back when he saw the bruise on her upper arm.

'I am sorry for being rough on you,' he said.

'Some men are worse,' she replied. 'You didn't know you were doing it.'

'No. I did not.' He gave her another silver piece.

'You cried in your sleep,' she said softly.

'I am sorry if it wakened you. Tell me, does Hewla still live in Skarta?'

'She has a cabin north of the town.' The girl was frightened, but she gave Waylander directions and he left the merchant's house, saddled his horse and rode north.

The cabin was badly built; the unseasoned wood was beginning to warp and mud had been pushed into the cracks. The main door was poorly fitted and a curtain had been hung behind it so as to cut down the draughts. Waylander dismounted, tethered his horse to a stout bush and knocked on the door. There was no answer and he moved inside warily.

Hewla was sitting at a pine table staring into a copper dish filled to the brim with water. She was old and almost bald, and even more skeletal than the last time Waylander had visited her two years before.

'Welcome, Dark One,' she said, grinning. Her teeth were white and even, strangely out of place amidst the ruin of her face.

'You have come down in the world, Hewla.'

'All life is a pendulum. I shall return,' she answered. 'Help yourself to wine – or there is water if you prefer.'

'Wine will be fine,' he said, filling a clay goblet from a stone carafe and sitting opposite her.

'Two years ago,' he said softly, 'you warned me against Kaem. You spoke of the death of princes, and of a priest with a sword of fire. It was pretty, poetic and meaningless. Now it has meaning … and I wish to know more.'

'You do not believe in predestiny, Waylander. I cannot help you.'

'I am not a fatalist, Hewla.'

'There is a war being waged.'

'You surprise me.' His tone was ironic.

'Close your mouth, boy!' she snapped. 'You learn nothing while your lips flap.'

'I apologise. Please go on.'

'The war is on another plane, between forces whose very nature we do not understand. Some men would call these forces Good and Evil, others refer to them as Nature and Chaos. Still others believe the power is of one Source that wars on itself. But whatever the truth, the war is real. I myself tend towards the simplistic: good and evil. In this struggle there are only small triumphs and no final victory. You are now a part of this war – a mercenary who has changed sides at a crucial time.'

'Tell me of my quest,' said Waylander.

'I see the global view does not excite your interest. Very well. You have allied yourself with Durmast, a brave decision. He is a killer without conscience and in his time has slain men, women and babes. He is without morality, neither evil nor good – and he will betray you, for he has no understanding of true friendship. You are hunted by Cadoras, the Scarred One, the Stalker, and he is deadly for, like you, he has never been bested with the sword or the bow. The Dark Brotherhood seek you, for they desire Orien's armour and your death, and the Ventrian emperor has ordered a team of assassins against you for killing his nephew.'

'I did not kill him,' said Waylander.

'No. The deed was arranged by Kaem.'

'Go on.'

Hewla gazed into the bowl of water. 'Death is being drawn to you from every side. You are trapped at the centre of a web of fate and the spiders are closing in.'

'But will I succeed?'

'It depends on your definition of success.'

'No riddles, Hewla. I have no time.'

'That is true. Very well then, let me explain about prophecy. Much depends on interpretation, nothing is clear-cut. If you were to take your knife and hurl it into the forest, what chance would you have of hitting the fox that killed my chickens?'

'None at all.'

'That is not strictly true. The law of probability says you might kill it. And that is the size of your task.'

'Why me, Hewla?'

'Now that is a question I have heard before. If I could lose a year for every time it has been asked, I would be sitting before you as a virgin beauty. But it was honestly asked and I will answer it. You are nothing in this game but a catalyst. Through your actions a new force has been birthed in the world. This was born the moment you saved the priest. It is invulnerable and immortal and will ride through the centuries until the end of time. But no one will remember you for it, Waylander. You will fade into the dust of history.'

'I care nothing for that. But you have not answered my question.'

'True. Why you? Because you alone have the chance, slim as it is, to change the course of this nation's history.'

'And if I refuse?'

'A pointless question – you will not.'

'Why so sure?'

'Honour, Waylander. You are cursed with it.'

'Do you not mean blessed?'

'Not in your case. It will kill you.'

'Strange. I thought I would live for ever.'

He stood to leave, but the old woman raised her hand.

'I can give you one warning: beware the love of life. Your strength is that you care not about death. The powers of Chaos are many and not all of them involve pain and sharp blades.'

'I do not understand you.'

'Love, Waylander. Beware of love. I see a red-haired woman who could bring you grief.'

'I shall not see her again, Hewla.'

'Maybe,' grunted the old woman.

As Waylander stepped from the cabin, a shadow flickered to his left and he dived forward as a sword blade whistled over his head. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled to his knees, his knife flashing through the air to take his attacker under the chin. The wounded man sank to his knees, tearing the blade loose, blood gushing from his throat as he toppled forward. Waylander swung round, scanning the trees, then rose and walked to the corpse. He had never seen the man before.

He cleaned his knife and sheathed it as Hewla stepped into the doorway.

'You are a dangerous man to know,' she said grinning.

His dark eyes fixed on her wrinkled face, 'You knew he was here, you crone.'

'Yes. Good luck on your quest, Waylander! Walk warily.'

Waylander rode east through the darkest section of the forest, his crossbow primed and his dark eyes scanning the undergrowth for movement. Above him the branches interlaced and shafts of sunlight splayed the trees. After an hour he turned north, the tension growing within him causing his neck to ache.

Cadoras was not a man to be taken lightly. His was a name spoken in whispers in the darkest alleyways of forbidden cities: Cadoras the Stalker, the Dream Ender. It was said that none could match him for cunning and few for cruelty, but Waylander dismissed the more wild stories, for he knew how legend could add colour to the whitest of deeds.

For he, of all men, could understand Cadoras.

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 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?'

'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.

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?'

'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.'