Waylander

19

The wood was not large, but within it was a hollow where Waylander could build a fire. He was cold through, and though recovering fast from his ordeal still felt the effects of the fever caused by his tortured skin. For three days he had rested within the cave; then he had journeyed north, meeting a small group of Notas who sold him some foul-smelling salve which he smeared across his shoulders and upper back. While he was with them, a young woman had tended to the wound at his temple and the old Notas leader had given him a new name: Oxskull. Using a bronze mirror, Waylander had examined the wound. It was a swelling, purple and gross, the skin split across it in a jagged line. He remembered the sword-blade crashing against his head, and realised that it must have turned and struck him semi-flat. The swelling in his eye had reduced considerably, but he still found his vision troubled by harsh sunlight, which caused the eye to water heavily.

The Notas leader – a wizened, jovial ancient – examined his head, pressing and pushing.

'No crack, Oxskull. You live.'

'How far to Raboas?'

'Five days if you travel without care. Seven if your eyes are open.'

The girl moved forward with a pitcher of stone cooled water and bathed Waylander's head. She was petite and pretty, her hands gentle.

'My youngest wife,' said the old man. 'Good, yes?'

'Good,' agreed Waylander.

'You carry many weapons, Oxskull. You are fighting a war?'

Waylander nodded. 'It would displease me to think I will leave here with less than I arrived.'

'Your black horse is ferocious,' countered the ancient leader. 'He bit my eldest son in the shoulder.'

'He is of uncertain temper. When your people gather my possessions back into one place, I will put them in my blanket roll. The horse will not bite me.'

The old man chortled and dismissed the girl, but his face lost its smile as the tent-flap settled back into place and he and the stranger were alone.

'You are a hunted man, Oxskull. Many, many riders seek you.'

'I know this.'

'Some Nadir. Some Southriders.'

'I know this also.'

'The Southriders wear black cloaks and their eyes are cold. They are like a cloud across the sun and our children fear them – the young are so perceptive.'

'They are evil men,' said Waylander. 'Their promises are dust, but their threats are sworn in blood.'

'This I know,' said the Notas leader. 'They promised gold for knowledge and death for silence.'

'When they return, tell them I was here.'

'This I would have done anyway. Why do they seek you? Are you a king in exile?'

'No.'

'What then?'

Waylander spread his hands. 'A man makes many enemies.'

The old man nodded grimly, his dark eyes fixed on the assassin.

'You know why I have lived this long?' he asked, leaning sideways and pouring a goblet of Lyrrd for his guest.

Waylander shrugged, accepting the goblet and drank deeply.

'Because I am blessed. I see things within the mist of minds. I walk the spirit roads and view the births of mountains. Nothing is hidden from me. The Southriders worship the darkness and feed on the hearts of babes. They swallow the long green leaf and soar on the night winds. But you they cannot find. These men, who could hunt the smallest bat within a night-dark cavern, cannot find a rider on an arid plain. When I close my eyes I can see all things – the children playing beyond the tent, your horses cropping the grass, my youngest wife telling my oldest that she fears my touch for it reminds her of death. And yet I cannot see you, Oxskull. Why is that?'

'I don't know.'

'You speak the truth. But I know. Somewhere you have a friend – a friend of great power who has laid a charm over your spirit. Only with true eyes can you be seen.'

'I have such a friend.'

'Does he sit in a fortress under siege?'

'He may. I do not know.'

'He is in great danger.'

'I cannot help him.'

'You are the key, I think.'

'We shall see. How long ago did these riders come?'

'Did they say they would return?'

'They did not say … but I know. They will ride into my camp at sunset.'

'From which direction?'

'From the east. Your journey to the north will avoid them – but only for now. Your paths will cross and nothing can change that. You need more friends, Oxskull – alone, you are lost.' The old Notas closed his eyes and shivered. When a sudden cool breeze sprang up within the tent, guttering the candles, he shook and trembled, his eyes flaring open.

'You must go from here and I must move camp,' he said, fear shining in his dark slanted eyes.

'What do you see?'

'Your enemies are powerful indeed. They have opened the ninth gate of Hell and the Shapeshifters are unleashed. You must ride far and fast, Oxskull.'

'What are the Shapeshifters?'

'I can tell you nothing more. Time is gone and every heartbeat brings us closer to destruction. Bear this in your soul: Do not try to fight them. Run! They are power and they are death. Run!'

The old man sprang to his feet and raced from the tent. Waylander could hear his shouted orders and the edge of panic in his voice. Finding that his possessions had been placed in a neat pile beside his horse, he packed them swiftly and rode from the camp, leaving Cadoras' mount in payment for the aid they had given him.

Now, camped some eight miles away, he pondered the old man's words: 'Do not fight. Run.'

But what were they, these Shapeshifters? Why could he not kill them? Did they lack a beating heart? What manner of thing could survive an encounter with Waylander the Slayer?

The old man was no coward. He had sensed the evil of the Brotherhood riders, but was not cowed by them. Yet this new threat had all but unmanned him. Why move his camp? Waylander added sticks to the blaze and warmed his hands. The night breeze rustled the branches of the trees, while in the distance a wolf howled.

The assassin looked to his weapons, honing the blades of his throwing knives. Then he checked his crossbow, a beautiful weapon designed to his specifications and fashioned by a Ventrian armourer. The stock was polished ebony and the two triggers were dulled bronze. The crafting of the weapon was beyond compare, and Waylander had paid the man a fortune in opals. That they were stolen gems took nothing from the gift and the armourer had blinked in astonishment when Waylander poured them into his outstretched hands.

'You are an artist, Aries, and this is a masterpiece.'

Suddenly Waylander's horse whinnied in terror and the assassin came smoothly to his feet, stringing the crossbow swiftly and slipping two bolts in place. The animal was tugging at the reins, seeking to pull them clear of the low-hanging branch to which they were tied. Its ears were flat to its skull and its eyes wide with fear.

'Do not fight. Run! ' The old man's words hammered at him.

Scooping his blanket from beside the fire, Waylander rolled it and ran to his horse. It took some seconds to tighten the saddle cinch and settle the blanket in place, then he tugged the reins loose and vaulted into the saddle. He was almost thrown as the horse sprang to a gallop, then they were clear of the wood and racing north.

Waylander swivelled in the saddle – behind him several dark shapes had emerged from the wood. He blinked, but a cloud obscured the moon and they faded into darkness. He fought to control the mad gallop, hauling on the reins. It was madness to race across the Steppes in darkness. A pothole, a rabbit's burrow, a large rock – all could bring down his horse with a broken leg.

After about a mile the horse began to lose his wind and Waylander dragged him to a halt, then walked him gently. The beast's sides were lathered, his breathing ragged. Waylander stroked the long neck and whispered soothing words. He glanced back, but could see nothing. He had caught only a brief glimpse of his pursuers, but his memory was of huge men in wolfskin cloaks, running bent double. He shook his head – it must have been a trick of the light, for their speed was awesome. Now travelling at a more sedate pace, he stripped the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings.

Whatever men were behind him, they were on foot and would not catch him this night.

He dismounted and led his horse on towards the north, pausing only to wipe him clear of lather. 'I think you saved my life,' he whispered, stroking the velvet neck.

The clouds cleared and the moon shone silver above the distant mountains as Waylander walked the horse for about a mile before stepping into the saddle once more.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned, drawing his cloak tightly about him. The need to sleep rose in him like a warm blanket around his mind.

A night owl swooped overhead, then dropped like a stone with talons outstretched … a tiny rodent squealed as the owl struck.

A dark shadow moved to Waylander's right and he swung in the saddle, yet saw nothing but a screen of low bushes. Instantly alert, he glanced left to see two dark shapes emerging from the long grass at terrifying speed. His horse reared and came down running as Waylander's boots hammered into its side. Then it sprinted away with Waylander leaning low in the saddle.

A figure loomed ahead and the horse swerved. When the figure leapt, Waylander's blood chilled as he saw the demonic face, fangs bared, hurtling towards him. The assassin's fist lashed out to catch the creature on the side of the head; the horse's shoulder cannoned into the beast, sending it sprawling. This time Waylander made no effort to check its mad rush into the night. His own fear was as great, his mind filled with the image of those terrible red eyes and the dripping fangs. His heart was drumming against his chest as he rode. No wonder the old man was so desperate to move his camp – he was taking it away from Waylander's scent.

Three miles further on, Waylander regained control of himself. The horse had begun to tire badly and was now barely cantering. He slowed it and glanced back.

There was nothing to be seen, but he knew they were there; loping along his trail, smelling his fear. He searched the horizon for some hiding-place, but none was in sight. So he pushed on, knowing the beasts would run him down, for his horse was weary and, though faster on the short sprint, could not stay ahead on a long chase.

How many of the beasts were there? He had seen at least three. Three was not so terrible – surely he could handle three? He doubted it.

Anger flared in him. Dardalion had told him he was serving the Source, but what kind of a god left a man in such peril? Why did all the strength remain with the enemy?

'What do you want from me?' he shouted, staring up at the sky.

Ahead, a low line of hills rose gently from the plain; there were no trees and little cover in sight. Slowly his horse plodded up the slope and at the top Waylander pulled on the reins and studied his back trail. At first he could see nothing, then in the distance he glimpsed them – six dark shapes running together, hugging his trail. Only minutes separated them now.

Waylander strung his crossbow, slipping the bolts into place. Two of the beasts he could take swiftly, maybe a third with his sword.

He glanced over the brow of the hill and saw the river below, winding towards the mountains like a silver ribbon. At the foot of the hills was a shack and beyond it a small ferry. Hope rose within him and he urged the horse onward.

Halfway down the hill he began to shout for the ferryman.

A lantern flared in the window of the shack and a tall man walked out into the night.

'Take me across the river,' said Waylander.

I'll take you in the morning,' replied the man. 'You can bed down in the house.'

'In the morning we'll be dead. There are six beasts from Hell just behind me. If you have family in the house, get them on the ferry.'

The man held up his lantern. He was tall, with wide shoulders and a thick black beard; his eyes, though slanted, gave evidence of his mixed blood. 'You'd better explain,' he said.

'Believe me, there is no time. I will give you twenty silver pieces for the crossing, but if you don't move fast I'll make a try at swimming the river.'

'You won't make it – the current is too strong. Wait here.'

The man walked back into the house and Waylander swore at his lack of speed. Several minutes later he emerged leading three children; one held a rag-doll clutched to her face. He led them to the ferry, lifting the bar to allow Waylander's horse to scramble aboard. The assassin dismounted and locked the bar in place, then unhooked the ropes from the jetty as the ferryman moved to the front, took a firm hold on the lead rope and pulled. The ferry inched forward and the man leaned harder into the rope as Waylander stood at the stern, watching the hillside.

The creatures came into sight and burst into a run.

The ferry was still only yards from the jetty.

'By all the Gods, what are they?' shouted the ferryman, letting go of the rope.

'Pull if you want to live!' screamed Waylander and the man seized the rope, throwing his full weight against it. The creatures plunged down the slope and on to the jetty, in the lead a giant with glittering eyes. Talons outstretched, it reached the end of the jetty and sprang. Waylander tugged on the first trigger and the crossbow bolt flew into the beast's mouth, punching through the bone above the throat and skewering the brain. The creature crashed against the bar, snapping it in two. Waylander's horse reared and whinnied in terror as a second beast leapt. A second bolt bounced from its skull and it hit the ferry and staggered. Waylander ran forward and leapt feet-first, his boots hammering into its chest so that it catapulted from the ferry into the swirling water of the river.

The other beasts howled in rage as Waylander came to his feet and snapped two bolts into place. He loosed one across the twenty-foot gap, watching it thud home in a fur-covered chest. The creature roared in anger, then plucked the bolt free and hurled it into the river.

A taloned hand fastened on Waylander's ankle. Dropping the crossbow, he dragged his sword from its scabbard and sliced downwards with all his strength. The blade bit deep into the creature's arm, but did not break the bone. Three times more Waylander hacked at the limb, until at last the talons loosened. Dragging his foot clear, he jumped back.

The creature rolled to its back, the crossbow bolt jutting from its mouth and blood pumping from its mutilated arm. It was lying on the edge of the ferry and Waylander ran forward and kicked it clear; the body sank like a stone.

'Where else can they cross?' asked Waylander

'About twenty miles upstream, fifteen down. What were they?'

'I don't know. I don't want to know.'

The children were huddled in the far corner of the ferry, too frightened for tears.

'You had better see to them,' said Waylander. I'll pull for a while.' The man left the rope and knelt by his children, talking to them in a low voice, taking them into his arms. Opening a chest fixed near the front of the ferry, he removed blankets and the children lay down on the deck, cuddled together.

It took just over an hour to cross the river, and Waylander was deeply grateful that he had not been forced to swim it. Out in the centre the current was too powerful for human endeavour.

The ferryman moved to the front, lifting a mooring rope as the jetty loomed. A second shack was built beyond the jetty and he and Waylander carried the now sleeping children inside, laying them on two beds pushed together by the far wall. The man prepared a fire and the two of them sat together as the blaze crackled to life.

'It's bad enough with the tribes,' said the ferryman suddenly, 'but now I think I'll move.'

'The beasts are hunting me. I do not think they will return to trouble you.'

'All the same, I have the children to think of – this is no place for them.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Three years. We moved when my wife died. I had a farm near Purdol, but raiders wiped me out –took all my seed-corn and the winter food store. So I set up here, helping an old Notas. He died last year, fell overboard.'

'The tribes don't bother you?'

'Not as long as I keep the ferry operating. But they don't like me. Mixed blood!'

'You are taller than most Nadir,' Waylander observed.

'My mother was a Vagrian woman. My father was Notas, so at least I'm in blood feud with no one. I hear there's a war in the south?'

'Yes.'

'And you are Waylander.'

'The riders have been, then. Which were they, Nadir or Vagrian?'

'Both,' said the man. 'But I won't betray you; I owe you four lives.'

'You owe me nothing – in fact the reverse. I led the creatures to you. When the riders come back, tell them what happened. Tell them I rode north.'

'Why should I do that?'

'Two reasons. First it is the truth, and second they know already where I am heading.'

The man nodded and stirred the blaze to fresh life before adding more fuel.

'If they know, why do you travel there? They will be waiting.'

'Because I have no choice.'

'That is nonsense. Life is all about choice. From here you can ride in any direction.

'I gave my word.'

The ferryman smiled in understanding. 'That I cannot argue with. Nor would I try. But I am intrigued by it – what could make a man give such an oath?'

'Stupidity cannot be ruled out,' said Waylander.

'But you are not stupid.'

'All men are stupid. We plan as if we will live for ever. We think our efforts can match the mountains. But we fool ourselves – we count for nothing and the world never changes.'

'I detect bitterness, Waylander. But your deeds do not match your words. Whatever quest you are engaged upon must count. Else why risk your life?'

'Whether I succeed or fail, within a hundred years – maybe less – no one will remember the deed. No one will care. I can bring an hour's sunshine to a mountain-side; if I fail, it will bring an hour's rain. Does the mountain care?'

'Perhaps not,' said the ferryman, 'but you care. And that is enough. There is too little caring in the world – too much greed and violence. I like to see things grow. I like to hear laughter.'

'You are a romantic, ferryman.'

'My name is Gurion,' said the man, extending his hand.

Waylander took it and grinned. 'And I was once called Dakeyras.'

'You too are a romantic, Dakeyras, because only romantics stay true to their word despite the world. It ought to make us stronger, but it does not. Honour is a weighty chain that slows us down.'

'A philosopher and a romantic, Gurion? You should be a teacher, not a ferryman.'

'What is your quest, Dakeyras?'

'I seek the Armour of Bronze.'

'For what purpose?'

'There is a Drenai general named Egal and I am to deliver it to him. It will aid him in his war.'

'I have seen it.'

'You have been to Raboas?'

'Once, many years ago. It is a chamber deep in the caves. But it is guarded.'

'By the Nadir?'

'No, by creatures far worse – werebeasts that live in darkness at the centre of the mountain.

'How then did you see it?'

'I was with my wife's people, the Wolfshead; there were fifty of us. It was a marriage ceremony: the Khan's youngest son. He wanted to see the legendary Armour.'

'I am surprised the Nadir did not remove it.'

'They could not,' said Gurion. 'Did you know? It does not exist.'

'Speak plainly, man.'

'The Armour is an image; you can pass your hands through it. The real Armour is said to be hidden somewhere in the mountain, but no man knows where. All that can be seen is a ghostly, shimmering vision and that is why it is worshipped.'

Waylander said nothing. He stared into the fire, lost in thought.

'I thought you knew where the real Armour was hidden,' said Gurion.

Waylander chuckled and shook his head, then he began to laugh. Gurion turned away as the sadness touched him.

'Curse all romantics,' said Waylander as the laughter left him. 'May they rot in seven hells!'

'You don't mean that,' said Gurion.

Waylander swept his fingers through his hair and stood.

'I cannot begin to tell you how tired I am. I feel I am drowning in a sea of quicksand, and my friends are helping me by tying rocks to my legs. You understand? I am a killer, who kills for money. Does that sound romantic? I am a hunter of men. Yet here I am being hunted … by men and beasts, and spirits of the dark. According to my friend Dardalion, my quest serves the Source. You have heard of the Source?' Gurion nodded. 'Well, let me tell you, my friend, that serving the Source is not easy. You cannot see him or hear him, and certainly he offers no help in his own cause.'

'He led you to my ferry,' offered Gurion.

Waylander chuckled. 'My enemies can soar into the night like invisible demons, conjure wolf-creatures from Hell and read minds. On our side is a God that can lead a man to a ferry!'

'And yet you still live.'

'For now, Gurion. Tomorrow is another day.'