Waylander

24

Below the ramparts Gellan, Jonat and one hundred warriors waited, listening to the sounds of battle from above. All were dressed in the black armour of the Vagrian Hounds, blue capes over gilded breastplates. Gellan alone wore the officer's helm with its white horsehair plume.

It was almost midnight and the attack wore on. Gellan swallowed hard and tightened the helm's chinstrap.

'I still say this is madness,' whispered Jonat.

'I know – at this moment I'm inclined to agree with you.'

'But we'll go anyway,' muttered Jonat. 'One of these days someone is going to listen to my advice and I'll probably die of the shock!'

A Drenai soldier ran down the battlement steps, a bloody sword in his hand.

'They're retreating,' he said. 'Get ready!'

The man crouched on the steps, watching the ramparts.

'Now!' he shouted. Gellan waved his arm and the hundred soldiers followed him up the steps and over the wall. Ladders and ropes were still in place and Gellan took hold of a wooden slat and glanced down. Three men were still on the ladder and almost at the foot of the wall. Swinging his leg over the ramparts, he began to descend. Behind him some of the soldiers were waving their swords, pretending combat to fool any watchers in the Vagrian camp; Gellan found it unconvincing. Swiftly he climbed to the ground and waited for his men to join him. They they began the long walk to the Vagrian camp.

Several enemy soldiers joined them, but there was no conversation. The men were bone-weary and demoralised following another grim, fruitless day.

Gellan nicked a glance at Jonat. The man was tense, yet his face was set and, as always, he had pushed his bitterness aside and was ready to give his all for the job in hand.

All around them men were sitting down by camp-fires, and to the right a unit of cooks were preparing a hot meal in three bubbling cauldrons.

The aroma swamped Gellan's sense and his dry mouth suddenly swam with saliva. No one at Purdol had eaten for three days.

The daring plan had been Karnak's. Masquerading as Vagrians, a party of Drenai warriors would raid the warehouse and carry back precious food to the starving defenders. It had sounded fine when sitting around the great table of the Purdol hall. But now walking through the enemy camp, it seemed suicidal.

An officer stepped out of the darkness.

'Where are you going?' he asked Gellan.

'None of your damned business,' he replied, recognising the rank of the man by the bronze bars on his epaulettes.

'Just a moment,' said the officer in a more conciliatory manner, 'but I have been told no one is to enter the eastern quarter without authorisation.

'Well, since we are due to be guarding the docks, I would appreciate you telling me how we can accomplish that without being there.'

'Third wing are on dock duty,' said the man. 'I have it written down.'

'Fine,' said Gellan. 'In that case I shall ignore the First General's instructions and take my men back for some rest. But in case he asks me why I did so what is your name?'

'Antasy, sixth wing,' replied the officer, snapping to attention, 'But I'm sure it won't be necessary to mention my name. Obviously there's been an error in the orders.'

'Obviously,' agreed Gellan, swinging away from him. 'Forward!'

As the men trooped wearily past the officer and on through the winding streets of the dockside, Jonat moved up alongside Gellan.

'Now comes the difficult part,' he said softly.

'Indeed it does.'

Ahead of them a party of six soldiers was stationed at the front of a wooden warehouse. Two were sitting on empty boxes while the other four were playing dice.

'On your feet!' bellowed Gellan. 'Who is in charge here?'

A red-faced young warrior ran forward, dropping the dice into a pouch at his side.

'I am, sir.'

'What is the meaning of this?'

'I'm sorry, sir. It was just … we were bored, sir.'

'Little chance of worrying about boredom with a hundred stripes on your back, boy!'

'No, sir.'

'You are not from my wing, and I do not intend getting involved with endless bickering and bureacracy. Therefore I shall overlook your negligence. Tell me, are your friends at the back also engaged in dice?'

'I don't know, sir.'

'How many men are there?'

Ten, sir.'

'When are you due for relief?'

The man glanced at the sky. 'Two hours, sir.'

'Very well. Open the warehouse.'

'I beg your pardon, sir?'

'Are you hard of hearing as well as negligent?'

'No, sir. It is just that we have no key.'

'You mean the key has not been sent?'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'The First General,' said Gellan, slowly and with infinite patience, 'has ordered us to transfer certain goods from this warehouse to his quarters. Your second officer … what is his name?'

'Erthold, sir.'

'Yes – Erthold – was due to meet me here, or to leave the key. Where is he?'

'Well...

'Well what?'

'He is asleep, sir.'

'Asleep,' said Gellan. 'Why did I not consider such a possibility? A group of men lounging while on duty. Playing dice, no less, so that a hundred armed men could march up without being seen. Where else would the officer be but asleep? Jonat!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Be so good as to break open the door.'

'Yes, sir,' said Jonat joyously as with two other soldiers he ran forward. Within seconds they had splintered the side door, entered the building, lifted the bar of the main doors and pushed them wide.

Gellan waved his troops forward and the men surged into the warehouse.

'Erthold will be furious, sir,' said the soldier. 'Should I send someone to wake him?'

'As you please,' replied Gellan, smiling. 'But he might ask who gave permission for the man to leave his post. Is that your role?

'You think it would be best not to disturb him?' asked the man.

'I leave that to you.'

'It would probably be best,' said the soldier, looking to Gellan for signs of approval. Gellan walked away from him, but turned as he heard the pounding of running feet. Ten men were sprinting from the rear of the warehouse with swords in hand.

They saw Gellan and halted. Three men saluted nervously and the others followed suit.

'Get back to your posts,' ordered Gellan.

The men glanced at their leader, who shrugged and waveed them away.

'I'm sorry about all this, sir,' he said, 'but I am grateful to you for not taking us to task over the dice.'

'I have played on duty myself from time to time,' said Gellan.

The Drenai, heavily laden, began to leave the warehouse. Jonat supervised the food-gathering, making sure that only dried food was taken: flour, dried fruit, jerked meat, oats and salt.

He had also found a small medical store at the back and had packed three pouches of herbs he felt sure Evris would find useful.

Closing the great doors and replacing the bar, he was the last to leave. The men were standing in marching file, bulging packs upon their shoulders.

Jonat approached the sentry leader.

'I don't want anyone entering the warehouse, despite the broken door. If one drop of that spirit is consumed, there'll be trouble!' He winked broadly.

The man saluted and Gellan led the men back towards the Vagrian camp.

The column wound through deserted streets, on past the tents and the sentries, and out on to the broken ground before the fortress. There, glancing to his right, Gellan saw a sight that froze his blood.

In a dip beyond a row of houses hidden from the fort, three great machines were under construction. He had seen them in use while on a visit to Ventria. They were ballistae, great catapults capable of hurling huge rocks against a castle wall. The carnage would be intolerable once these were completed. The parts must have been sent from Vagria, round the Lentrian Horn, to be assembled here. He tapped Jonat on the shoulder and pointed to the work being undertaken by lantern light.

Jonat swore, then looked into Gellan's face. 'You are not thinking … ?'

'Take the men back to Purdol, Jonat. I'll see you later.'

'You can't...

'No arguments. Get moving!'

Dardalion returned to the fortress and his sleeping body. His eyes flickered open and he swung his legs from the bed. Sadness engulfed him and he covered his face with his hands and wept.

He had watched Waylander's dying body being hauled into the mountain and had sensed the hunger of the mountain dwellers.

Astila entered the room silently and sat beside the weeping priest.

'Waylander is dead,' Dardalion told him.

'He was your friend,' said Astila. 'I am so sorry.'

'I do not know how friendship is judged under such circumstances. We were comrades, I suppose. He gave me new life, new purpose. From his gift of blood came The Thirty.'

'Did he fail in his quest?'

'Not yet. The Armour is safe at present, but a lone woman is carrying it across Nadir lands. I must reach her.'

'It is impossible, Dardalion.'

The warrior priest smiled suddenly. 'Everything we have attempted so far has seemed impossible at the outset.'

Astila closed his eyes. 'The men are coming back with food,' he said. 'Baynha reports there are no losses, but the officer has not yet returned.'

'Good. What of the Brotherhood?'

'There has been no attack tonight.'

'Are they marshalling their forces, or have we beaten them, I wonder?'

'I do not think they are beaten, Dardalion.'

'No,' said Dardalion sadly. That would be too much to hope for.'

Sensing that his leader wished to be alone, Astila left the room and Dardalion wandered to the high window to gaze out at the distant stars.

He felt a sense of calm as he looked into eternity, and Durmast's face loomed in his mind. He shook his head, remembering his own sense of shock as he had sped to Raboas anxious to observe Waylander. He had arrived to see the assassin being tortured and the giant Durmast confronting the Brotherhood.

With all his power, Dardalion had focused a shield over Durmast, blocking the mind spell of the man Tchard. But he could not prevent the terrible swords from plunging into the giant. He had listened as Waylander and Durmast spoke, and a great sorrow touched him as the giant talked.

'Do you think his power could not work against me because I am the Chosen One?'

Dardalion wished with all his heart that it could have been true, that it was not simply a case of happenstance: one man, one spirit in the right place at the right time.

Somehow, he felt, Durmast deserved more than that.

Dardalion found himself wondering whether the Source would accept Durmast. Did a lifetime of petty evil weigh more than a moment of heroism? Somehow it should, and yet …

The priest closed his eyes and prayed for the souls of the two men. Then he smiled. But what would such men make of the peaceful paradise promised by the ancients? An eternity of song and praise! Would they not prefer an end to existence?

One of the old religions promised a hall of heroes, where strong men were welcomed by warrior maidens who sang songs of the deeds of the brave.

Durmast would probably prefer that.

Dardalion stared at the moon … and trembled.

A single question lanced through his mind.

What is a miracle?

The simplicity of the answer dazzled him, as it leapt from the depths of his intellect to cover the unbidden question.

A miracle is something that happens unexpectedly at the moment it is needed. No more than that. No less.

His rescue of Durmast had been a miracle, for Durmast could never have expected such aid. And yet, why had Dardalion been on hand at just the right moment?

Because I chose to find Waylander, he told himself.

Why did you so choose?

The enormity of it all overcame the priest and he stepped back from the window and sat down on the bed.

Durmast had been chosen many years ago, even before his birth. But without Waylander, Durmast would have remained a killer and a thief. And without Dardalion, Waylander would have been nothing more than a hunted assassin.

It was all a pattern, created from an interweaving series of apparently random threads.

Dardalion fell to his knees, overcome with a terrible shame.

Gellan sat beyond the glare of the lanterns and watched the engineers constructing the ballistae. Some two hundred men were at work, hoisting the giant arms of the catapults into place and hammering home the wooden plugs against the resistance bar. At the top of each arm was a canvas pouch in which could be placed boulders weighing almost a quarter of a ton. Gellan had no real idea of the range of the Vagrian machines, but in Ventria he had seen rocks hurled hundreds of feet.

The ballistae were placed on wooden frames with two huge wheels at each corner. They would be hauled before the walls, probably in front of the gate tower.

The bronze-studded gates of oak had so far withstood all assaults. But they would not stand against these engines of destruction.

Gellan glanced at the fortress, silver-white now in the moonlight. The last of the men had been lifted to the ramparts; by now the food would be stored and bronze cauldrons would be sitting atop the cooking fires, bubbling with oats and meat.

Gellan wished he had said goodbye to Jonat. Somehow it seemed churlish to have sent him on his way without a word of farewell.

Pushing himself to his feet he walked boldly into the work area, stopping to study the constructions –peering into the massive joints and marvelling at the scale of the carpentry. He walked on, ignored by all, until he came to a storage hut. Stepping inside, he located the barrels of lantern oil and several buckets.

Removing his helm and breastplate, he filled the buckets with oil and carried them outside, placing them in front of the hut. When he had filled six buckets, he found an empty jar which he also filled with oil. Taking a lantern from a nearby post, he walked to the furthest of the siege engines and calmly poured oil into the wide joint that pinned the huge arm to the frame.

Then he moved to a second engine and emptied the jug over the wood. Pulling the glass from the lantern, Gellan held the flame to the saturated joint. Fire leapt from the frame.

'What are you doing?' screamed an engineer. Gellan ignored him and walked to the first engine, touching the flame to the oil.

The man grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round, but Gellan's dagger slid between his ribs. Men were running now towards the engines.

'Quick!' shouted Gellan. 'Get water. Over there!'

Several men obeyed instantly, sweeping up the buckets Gellan had left by the hut.

A searing sheet of flame roared into the sky as the oil splashed on to the blaze. A second flare, though not quite as spectacular, streamed from the other machine.

With no time to destroy the third of the ballistae, Gellan backed away from the blazing engines, disbelieving his luck.

It had been so simple, but then he had moved about in an unhurried way and had thus escaped attention. Now he would make it to the fortress and enjoy a good meal.

He turned to run – and found himself facing a score of armed men, led by a dark-haired officer carrying a silver-steel sabre.

The officer walked forward, raising a hand to halt his soldiers. 'Gellan, isn't it?' he asked.'

Slowly Gellan drew his own sword. 'It is.'

'We met two years ago when I was the guest of honour at the Silver Swords tourney in Drenan. You won, I believe.'

Gellan recognised the man as Dalnor, a Vagrian swordsman and aide to the general Kaem.

'It's pleasant to see you again,' said Gellan.

'I take it that you are not considering surrender?'

'The thought had not occurred to me. Do you wish to surrender?'

Dalnor smiled. 'I watched you fence, Gellan. You were very good – but suspect, I thought. There are certain gaps in your defences. May I demonstrate?'

'Please do.'

Dalnor stepped forward and presented his sword. Gellan touched blades and the two men sprang back and began to circle one another. Dalnor's slender sabre flicked forward, to be parried instantly; he in turn swiftly countered the riposte and the two men stepped apart.

Behind them the engines blazed and the duel was fought in the giant shadows cast by the flames.

The sabres clashed and sang time and again, with no wounds apparent on the warriors. First Dalnor feinted left and with a flick of the wrist scythed his blade to the right. This move Gellan blocked and countered with a stabbing thrust to the belly. Dalnor sidestepped, pushing the sword clear, then backhanded a cut to Gellan's head. Gellan ducked.

Again the sabres crossed and this time Dalnor feinted high and plunged his blade through Gellan's side above the right hip. The sabre landed through flesh and muscle and slid clear in a fraction of a second.

'You see, Gellan?' said Dalnor. 'The gap is in your low defence – you are too tall.'

'Thank you for pointing it out. I will work on it.'

Dalnor chuckled. 'I like you, Gellan. I wish you were a Vagrian.'

Gellan was weary and lack of food had sapped his strength. He did not answer, but presented his blade once more and Dalnor's eyebrows rose.

'Another lesson?' He stepped forward and the blades came together. For several seconds the duel was even, then Gellan made a clumsy block and Dalnor's sword slid between his ribs. Instantly Gellan slammed his fist round the blade to trap it in his body, then his own sabre licked out, slicing across Dalnor's jugular.

Dalnor fell back, gripping his throat.

Gellan fell forward, dropping his sabre.

'I enjoyed the lesson, Vagrian,' he said.

A Vagrian ran forward, cleaving his sword through Gellan's neck. Dalnor raised a hand as if to stop him, but his lifeblood frothed and bubbled from his throat and he fell beside the dead Drenai swordsman.

Beyond the scene the ballistae burned, a black plume of smoke rising above the grey fortress and curling like a huge fist above the defenders.

Kaem surveyed the wreckage after dawn. Two engines were destroyed.

But one remained.

It would be enough, Kaem decided.