Waylander

20

Dardalion turned away from Astila and leaned on the broad-silled window. Like all the windows of the Keep it tapered from a broad base to a narrow slit, built for defence rather than for view or light. An archer could loose a shaft to the left, right or centre, covering a wide angle of attack; whereas the attackers could gain no access to the Keep through it nor, unless by a freak of chance, loose their arrows past the crack. Dardalion leaned on his elbows and stared at the ramparts below.

Once more blood and death stalked the walls, but the defenders were holding. Beyond the wall lay the charred remains of two Vagrian siege towers, blackened corpses scattered about them. A third siege tower was being hauled slowly towards the ramparts, and the defenders waited with oil and fire. Beyond the towers a second Vagrian army sat and waited the command to attack. Dardalion blinked and transferred his gaze to the grey stone of the window.

'Why will you not hear me, Dardalion?' asked Astila.

Dardalion turned. 'I hear you, my brother, but I cannot help you.'

'We need you here. We are dying. Seven now have gone to the Source and we need your strength.'

'Waylander also needs me. I cannot desert him.'

'We are losing heart, Dardalion.' Astila slumped to the narrow bed and sat with his head in his hands. For the first time Dardalion noticed the fatigue in the blond priest: the bowed shoulders, the purple smears under the once bright eyes. He left the window and sat beside Astila.

'I can only do so much, and there is so much to do. I truly believe that Waylander's quest is the answer for the Drenai. I cannot explain why. But through all my prayers the Armour returns to haunt me and night after night I see it shining in that dark cave. Yet despite its importance we have only one man seeking it for us. One man, Astila! And ranged against him are the Brotherhood, the Nadir, and now unholy creatures … He has no chance without me. Try to understand. Please try.'

Astila said nothing for a moment, then looked up and met Dardalion's gaze. His bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.

'You are the leader and I will follow you to death and beyond. But I tell you the end is very close. I say this without arrogance, but I am the strongest of the brothers and yet I am finished. If I travel the night, I shall not return. If that is your wish, so be it. But believe me, Dardalion, it is The Thirty or Waylander. I stand by your judgement.'

Dardalion laid his arm on Astila's shoulder. 'I also am at the limits of my power. It costs me greatly to hold the shield over Waylander. And I cannot break it, not even for you.'

'I understand,' said Astila dully. 'I will go and prepare for the night.'

'No. We must accept that we have lost the greater battle – merely put a shield on Karnak and those of his officers we can cover.'

'The Brotherhood will have the run of the fortress.'

'So be it. These are strong men, Astila. Good men. They will stand, even against the despair-clouds.'

'You believe that? Truly?'

'What else is there to believe when we are bereft of choice? Some will falter, some will die. Others will fight back. I cannot believe that evil will triumph. I cannot.'

'It has triumphed elsewhere and now the land is in ruins.'

'It has not triumphed here, Astila.'

'The war is not yet over, Dardalion.'

Jonat's sleep was plagued with bad dreams and he awoke with a start. He had seen his dead father dance as they cut him down from the gallows tree, his face purple, his tongue distended. Yet still he danced as the nobles laughed and threw copper coins – the nobles, dining on larks' tongues while his father begged for bread; paying more for a goblet of wine than his family saw in a month. Jeering, mocking.

He sat up, shivering. High on the walls Karnak walked with Gellan and Dundas. Jonat spat.

If only they had listened to him a year ago, the Vagrians would never have invaded. But the nobles thought differently. Cut down the Legion. Throw soldiers out of honest work. Let them starve, for the farms could not support them all. And who cared about the common soldier? No one. Least of all silk-robed noblemen with their gem-encrusted swords. What would they do if all the common soldiers went home? Both Vagrian and Drenai? Would the nobles fight among themselves? No. The game would be over, the fun spoiled.

He was jerked from his thoughts by Gellan's arrival. The officer sat down beside him.

'I saw you were awake. Mind if I join you?'

'Why not?'

'How are you faring?'

'Well enough.'

'I wish I was. I don't think I can handle too many days like today. You ever feel like that?'

'Sometimes. It'll pass, sir – when the first attack comes tomorrow.'

'I hope so. You did well today, Jonat; you held them together when all seemed lost. Not many men could have done that. It's a gift and I saw it in you from the first. I'm proud of you – I mean that. That's why I promoted you.'

'Not because I was a rabble-rouser?' snapped Jonat.

'No. You were what you were because you cared. You cared about the Legion, the real Legion, the men. And you had drive and energy and you commanded respect. An officer needs respect. The title is nothing unless the man is right. You were right. You are right.'

'But not right by birth,' said Jonat.

'I neither know nor care about your ancestry, but if it matters to you then let me tell you that my father was a fishmonger. No more than that. And I am proud of him, because he slaved to give me an education.'

'My father was a drunk – he was hung for riding a nobleman's horse.'

'You are not your father.'

'Damned right I am not! And I tell you this: I'll never serve another king.'

'Nor I. But that's a battle for another day. Now I am going to get some sleep.'

As Gellan stood, Jonat grinned. 'Was your father really a fishmonger?'

'No, he was an earl. I just said it to annoy you.'

'I would sooner believe that.'

'So would I. Good night, Jonat.'

'Good night, sir.'

'By the way, Dardalion says the priests can no longer hold back the power of the Brotherhood. He says to watch out for signs of despair among the men – the enemy will work on the weak. So keep an eye out.'

'I will.'

'I know. I have no worries about your section.'

Gellan moved away into the darkness and chuckled softly. His father had owned five fishing fleets and Gellan wondered how the earl would have relished the title of fishmonger.

Waylander slept for an hour, then saddled his horse and bade farewell to the ferryman. The night was clear and the distant mountains loomed like the wall at the end of the world.

'Take care,' offered Gurion, extending his hand.

'And you, my friend. Were I you, I'd head back across the river. Those beasts are hunting me – they'll not be back to trouble you.'

For three days he rode warily, covering his tracks as best he could, angling along swift-moving streams and over rocky slopes, disguising both his scent and his spoor. But he doubted his efforts would do more than delay his demonic pursuers. Added to this, he had to watch out for human foes.

Twice he stopped at Notas camps and once shared a meal with a small group of hunters. The four men had greeted him coolly and considered robbing him. But there was something about the tall southlander which kept them at bay – not his bow, his knives or his sword, more a calculating look in his eyes and a subtle confidence in his stance. So they had fed him and watched him depart with evident relief.

At nightfall a larger band of Nadir descended on the hunters, questioning them at length before killing them horribly.

The bodies were discovered the following day by nine Brotherhood warriors whose arrival disturbed the vultures. The riders did not stay long.

Towards dusk the first of the Shapeshifters came upon the scene, drawn by the scent of blood. Saliva dripped from its maw and its red eyes gleamed. The vultures scattered as it approached, their great wings flapping to lift their bloated bodies from the ground. Through superhuman efforts they made their way to the branches of surrounding trees, where they glowered down at the new invaders.

The other wolf-beasts emerged from the undergrowth and approached the remains. One pushed its snout into the bloody carcasses and, overcome by hunger, closed its jaws upon a piece of meat and bone. Then it coughed and spat the flesh from its mouth. Its howl rent the air.

And the four beasts loped towards the north.

Forty miles on, Waylander was close to the southern edge of the mountain range. Here the Steppes were jagged, deep canyons appearing and slashing across the land like a gigantic knife-cut. Trees and streams abounded within the canyons and, here and there, deserted huts and houses dotted the landscape. Wild sheep and goats grazed on the slopes, while to the north-east Waylander saw a herd of wild horses cropping grass beside a waterfall.

Urging his mount onward, he descended the slope into a shaded wood.

The land here was good, richer than the arid Steppes, the thick, black earth as fertile as any on the Sentran Plain. Yet there were no farms. No grain or wheat, nor fruit trees, nor golden corn.

For the Nadir were a nomadic race: hunters, warriors and killers who built nothing, caring little for the bleakness of their future. 'Conquer or die' was the most common phrase among the tribes. Though ultimately, Waylander realised, the phrase should have been conquer and die.

What future could there be for a people of no foundation?

Where were the books, the poems, the architecture, the philosophy? All the vast panoply of civilisation?

The Nadir were doomed – the future dust of history, bonded by blood and war and skimming across the surface of the planet like a vicious storm.

What purpose did they serve, he wondered? Scattered tribes full of hate, warring one upon the other, they could never be welded into one people.

That, at least, was a small blessing, for it meant that never would the tribesmen trouble the peoples of the south. But then they had troubles enough of their own.

Waylander made a brief camp in a cave at the far side of the canyon. Taking a stiff brush from his saddlebag, he worked to ease the burrs from his horse's back and then led him to water. He prepared a small fire and made some broth from his dried meat before snatching two hours' sleep. Back in the saddle, he started on the long climb out of the canyon. He studied his back trail often and now, for the first time since leaving the ferry, he saw his pursuers. As he crested the skyline to the north, they were entering the canyon from the south.

There appeared to be about twenty Nadir riders.

Waylander rode on. They were some four hours behind him, but he would increase that distance during the night.

He did not fear the pursuit, but ahead of him towered Raboas, the Sacred Giant, and here was the end of the journey where hunter and hunted were destined to meet.

His thoughts swung to Cadoras. Why had the assassin thrown his life away to rescue a man he hardly knew, a man he was pledged to kill? What had prompted an ice-cool killer to act in such a way?

Then he chuckled.

What had prompted Waylander to rescue Dardalion? Why had he fought so hard to protect Danyal and the children? Why was he now riding towards the certainty of the grave in such a foolhardy and impossible quest?

Danyal's face floated before his eyes, to be replaced in an instant by the bearded, heavy features of Durmast. He remembered once more the vision in the fire, but could not bring himself to believe it. Yet had not Durmast killed women? Children?

The horse plodded on and the sun sank beyond the western horizon. The night air was chill and Waylander pulled his cloak from his saddle roll and swept it over his shoulders. With the coming of night, his fear of the wolfbeasts grew. Where were they now?

His eyes flicked from left to right, and he swung in the saddle to study his back trail in the fast fading light. Hefting his crossbow, he resisted the temptation to load it. Lengthy stress on the metal arms would weaken the weapon, and for these beasts he needed it at full strength.

The moon blazed her white light as the clouds cleared, illuminating a thickly wooded hillside. Waylander had no wish to enter the trees during dark, but the tree-line stretched on far to the west and east. With a whispered curse, he flicked the reins and rode on.

Once inside the wood, he found his heart beating faster and his breathing increasing in speed as panic struggled to overcome him. Moonlight blazed ahead, silver shafts shining through the breaks in overhead branches. His horse's hooves thudded dully on the soft loam, and to the left a badger broke through the undergrowth and ambled across his trail, its fur bathed in light which turned it to silver armour. Waylander swore and gave in to the temptation to load his crossbow.

Suddenly a wolf's howl shattered the silence of the night. Waylander jerked and one of his bolts flew from the crossbow, slicing up through the branches overhead.

'You dolt!' he told himself. 'Get a grip, man!'

Slipping a second bolt home, he re-strung the bow. The howling came from some distance to the east, and from the sound Waylander guessed that a wolf-pack had cornered its quarry – possibly a stag – and the last battle was under way. The wolves would have chased the beast for many miles, tiring it and sapping the strength from its great muscles. Now it was at bay.

Waylander rode on, but the wolves fell silent and the assassin knew that the prey had eluded them once more. He dragged on the reins, not wishing to cross the line of the chase. His horse whinnied and tried to turn, but Waylander hauled him back.

A running figure emerged from the trees some thirty paces ahead. He was wounded, and dragged his left foot; in his hands was a huge wooden club. A wolf burst into view and leapt. The man turned, the club flashing in the moonlight to crunch against the wolfs ribs, stoving them in. It landed with a thud ten feet away from him.

He was big, bigger than any man Waylander had ever seen, and he appeared to be wearing a gruesome mask decorated with a white sphere at the forehead. The lower part of the mask had a lipless mouth, lined with fangs. Waylander could not see him clearly, but he did not look like a Nadir.

More wolves came into sight and the man bellowed his fury and frustration, then limped to a tree and turned to face the pack. They spread out in a cautious semi-circle and crept in upon him. Suddenly one darted from the right and he turned to meet it. Immediately another beast sprinted from the left and leapt. The man fell back as the jaws snapped shut just short of his throat. He lashed out with his club, but a third wolf ran forward.

A crossbow bolt flashed through its neck, and it slumped to the ground.

Waylander yelled at the top of his voice and spurred the horse into a gallop. The wolves scattered, but not before a second beast died with a bolt through its brain. The man at the tree sagged and fell forward. Waylander sprang from the saddle and tied the reins to a stout bush. He reloaded the crossbow and scanned the undergrowth. The wolves were gone … for now.

He moved to the man, who was now kneeling, his hand clamped to a badly bleeding wound on his upper arm.

'You are lucky, my friend,' said Waylander.

The man looked up … and Waylander blanched.

He was wearing no mask. He had but a single eye at the centre of his forehead, wherein were two pupils each rimmed with gold iris. His nose was missing; two membrane-covered slits stretched beneath his eye. And his mouth was nightmare.

Shaped like an upturned V, it was lined with fangs sharp as arrow points. Once Waylander had seen a huge white fish with a mouth such as this, and he had never forgotten it. It had filled him with fear at the time, and made him vow never to enter the sea.

But this?

His crossbow was ready and he contemplated stepping back and loosing both bolts into the man-creature before it could attack him. But his great round eye closed and he slid to the ground.

It was almost too good an opportunity to miss and Waylander backed to his horse, ready to ride away. But he could not. Some contrariness in his nature made him stop and return to the wounded thing.

As he had with Dardalion so long before, Waylander stitched the wounds to the creature's arm and leg and then bandaged them as best he could. He was naked, but for a moth-eaten loincloth of old fur, and Waylander wrapped him in a blanket and prepared a fire. After an hour the creature's eyes opened and he sat up. Waylander offered him some dry meat and he took it without a word. The fangs closed on it and it disappeared.

'Can you talk?' asked Waylander.

The great eye merely looked at him. Waylander shrugged and passed more jerked beef which vanished instantly into the cavernous mouth.

'Can you understand me?'

The creature nodded.

'I cannot stay to help you. I am being hunted. Beasts and men. You understand?'

The creature lifted his hand and pointed south.

'That's right, they are coming from the south. I must go, but I will leave you food.'

Waylander walked to his horse, stood for a moment and then unpacked his blanket roll, removed two long hunting knives which were bone-handled and razor-sharp. He took them back to the fire. 'Here. You may need these.' The man-creature reached out. His fingers were incredibly long, the nails curved into dark talons which curled around the bone hilts as he raised the knives to his eye. His reflection came back at him and he blinked and looked away; then he nodded and pushed himself to his feet, towering over Waylander.

The assassin swallowed hard. It was difficult to read the expression on the monster's face, but Waylander was uncomfortably aware of the two knives in his hands.

'Goodbye, my friend,' he said, forcing a smile.

He went to his horse and stepped into the saddle, wrenching the reins clear of the bush. The creature moved forward, its jaws moving and a low grunting noise issuing forth which caused Waylander's mount to back away. The creature's head tilted to one side with the effort he was making.

'Udai rend,' he said. Not understanding, Waylander nodded and moved away.

'Urbye vrend.'

Understanding at last, Waylander turned in the saddle and waved.

'Goodbye, friend,' he called and rode into the darkness.