Waylander III: Hero In The Shadows ds-9

by David A. Gemmell

  His words did not convince them. But, then, they didn't convince him either. They moved slowly towards the trees, found the trail, then picked up the pace, Camran in the lead, Okrian just behind him. They rode for half an hour. Okrian glanced back to see two riderless horses. He shouted an alarm. Panic touched them all then and they began to ride faster, lashing their horses.

  Camran emerged from the trees and hauled on the reins. He was sweating now, and could feel his heart beating wildly. Okrian and the other two surviving men drew their swords.

  A rider on a dark horse moved slowly from the trees, his long black cloak drawn closely around him. The four warriors sat very still as he approached. Camran blinked back sweat. The man's face was strong, and somehow ageless. He could have been anywhere from his thirties to his fifties. His grey hair, lightly streaked with black, was shoulder-length, held back from his face by a black silk band tied about his brow. He was expressionless, but his dark eyes focused on Camran.

  He rode to within ten feet of them, then drew back on the reins, waiting.

  Camran felt the sting of salt sweat upon his cut brow. His lips were dry and he licked them. One grey-haired man against four warriors. The man could not survive. Why, then, the terrible fear causing Camran's belly to cramp?

  In that moment the girl threw herself from the saddle. Camran tried to grab her, missed and swung back to face the rider. In that briefest of moments the rider's cloak flickered. His arm came up. Two crossbow bolts slammed into the riders on either side of Okrian. The first pitched from the saddle, the second slumped forward, sliding over his horse's neck. Okrian heeled his mount forward and charged at the rider. Camran followed, his sabre extended.

  The man's left hand flashed forward. A shining streak of silver light sped through the air, punching through Okrian's left eye-socket and into his brain. His body tipped back, his blade flying from his hand. Camran's sabre lanced out towards the assassin, but the man swayed in the saddle, the blade missing him by mere inches. Camran swung his mount.

  Something struck him in the throat. Suddenly he couldn't breathe. Dropping his sword, his hand came up. Grabbing the hilt of the throwing knife, he dragged it clear of his flesh. Blood bubbled over his tunic. His horse reared, dumping him on the grass. As he lay there, choking on his own blood, a face appeared above his own.

  It was the girl.

  'I told you,' she said.

  The dying man watched in horror as her bound hands lifted the blood-drenched throwing knife, raising it above his face. 'This is for the women,' she said.

  And the blade swept down.

  Chapter One

  Waylander swayed in the saddle, the weight of weariness and pain bearing down on him, washing away the anger. Blood from the gash in his left shoulder had flowed over his chest and stomach, but this had halted now. The wound in his side, however, was still bleeding. He felt light-headed, and gripped the saddle pommel, taking slow, deep breaths.

  The village girl was kneeling by the dead raider. He heard her say something, then watched as she took up his throwing knife in her bound hands and rammed it into the man's face over and over again. Waylander looked away, his vision blurring.

  Fifteen years ago he would have hunted down these men and emerged without a scratch. Now his wounds throbbed and, with the fury gone, he felt empty, devoid of emotion. With great care he dismounted. His legs almost gave way, but he kept hold of the pommel and sagged against the steeldust gelding. Anger at his weakness flared, giving him a little strength. Reaching into his saddlebag he pulled out a small pouch of blue linen and moved to a nearby boulder. His fingers were trembling as he opened it. He sat quietly for a few heartbeats, breathing deeply, then unfastened his black cloak, letting it drop back to drape over the boulder. The girl came alongside him. Blood had splashed to her face, and into her long, dark hair. Waylander drew his hunting knife and cut the ropes binding her wrists. The skin beneath was raw and bleeding.

  Twice he tried to sheath his blade, but his vision was misting, and he placed the knife on the boulder beside him. The girl peered at his torn leather tunic shirt, and the bloodstains upon it. 'You are hurt,' she said. Waylander nodded. Unbuckling his belt, he reached up with his right hand and tried to pull his shirt over his head. But there was no strength left. Swiftly she stepped in, lifting the garment clear. There were two wounds, a shallow cut from the top of his left shoulder and down past the collarbone, and a deeper puncture wound that had entered just above his left hip and exited at the back. Both holes were plugged with tree moss, but blood was still oozing. Waylander reached for the crescent needle embedded in the blue linen pouch. As his fingers touched it darkness swept over him.

  When first he opened his eyes he wondered why the needle was shining so brightly, and why it was floating before his eyes. Then he realized he was staring at the crescent moon in a clear night sky. His cloak had been laid over him, and beneath his head was a pillow fashioned from a folded blanket. A fire was burning close by, and he could smell the savoury scent of woodsmoke. As he tried to move, pain erupted in his shoulder, stitches stretching against tortured flesh. He sagged back.

  The girl moved alongside him, stroking his hair from his sweat-drenched brow.

  Waylander closed his eyes and slept again, floating in a sea of dreams. A giant creature with the face of a wolf bore down upon him. He shot two crossbow bolts into its mouth. A second came at him. With no weapons to hand, he leapt at the beast, his hands grasping for its throat. It shifted and changed, becoming a slender woman whose neck snapped as his hands gripped hard. He cried out in agony, then looked around. The first dead beast had also changed. It had become a small boy, lying dead in a meadow of spring flowers. Waylander looked at his hands. They were covered in blood, which flowed up over his arms, covering his chest and neck, streaming over his face and into his mouth, choking him. He spat it out, struggling for breath, and staggered to a nearby stream, hurling himself into it, trying to wash the blood from his face and body.

  A man was sitting on the bank. 'Help me!' called Waylander.

  'I cannot,' said the man. He stood and turned away, and Waylander saw two crossbow bolts jutting from his back.

  The terrible dreams continued, dreams of blood and death.

  When he awoke it was still dark, but he felt stronger. Moving with care to protect the stitches, he rolled to his right and pushed himself to a sitting position. The second wound above his hip flared with pain and he grunted.

  'Are you feeling better?' the girl asked him.

  'A little. Thank you for helping me.'

  She laughed.

  'What is so amusing?' he asked.

  'You rode after thirteen men and suffered these wounds to come to my rescue. And you thank me? You are a strange man, Lord. Are you hungry?' He realized that he was. In fact, he was ravenous. She took a stick and rolled three large clay balls from the fire. Cracking open the first with a sharp blow she knelt down and examined the contents. Looking up at him, she smiled.

  It was a pretty smile, he thought. 'What do you have there?' he asked.

  'Pigeons. I killed them yesterday. They are a little too fresh, but there was no other food. My uncle taught me how to cook them in clay, but I have not tried it in years.'

  'Yesterday? How long have I been sleeping?'

  'On and off for three days.'

  Satisfied that the first pigeon was cooked, she cracked open the other two balls. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. Waylander felt almost sick with hunger. They waited impatiently until the meat had cooled, then devoured the birds. The flavour was strong, the texture not unlike aged beef.

  'Who is Tanya?' she asked.

  He looked at her, and his eyes were cold. 'How do you know that name?'

  'You cried out in your sleep.'

  He did not answer at first, and she did not press him. Instead she built up the fire and sat quietly, a blanket around her shoulders. 'She was my first wife,' he said at last. 'She died. Her grave is a long way from here.
'

  'Did you love her greatly?'

  'Aye. Greatly. You are very curious.'

  'How else does one find out what one wishes to know?'

  'I cannot argue with that.' She was about to speak, but he raised his hand. 'And let that be an end to questions on this matter,' he said.

  'As you will, Lord.'

  'I am not a lord. I am a landowner.'

  'Are you very old? Your hair is grey, and there are lines on your face. But you move like a young man.'

  'What is your name?' he asked her.

  'Keeva Taliana.'

  'Yes, I am old, Keeva Taliana. Older than sin.'

  'Then how is it that you could kill all those men? They were young and strong and fierce as devils.'

  Suddenly he felt weary again. She was instantly full of concern. 'You must drink lots of water,' she said. 'My uncle told me that. Loss of blood, lots of water.'

  'A wise man, your uncle. Did he also teach you to use your elbow as a weapon?'

  'Yes. He taught me many things. None of which was terribly useful when the raiders came.'

  Fetching a canteen from a saddle on the ground close by, she held it out to him. Waylander took it from her and drank deeply. 'Do not be so sure,' he said. 'You are alive. The others are not. You stayed cool and you used your mind.'

  'I was lucky,' she said, a note of anger in her voice.

  'Yes, you were. But you planted the seed of fear in the leader. For that he kept you alive.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'You told him the Grey Man was coming.'

  'You were there?'

  'I was there when he told his sergeant what you had said. I was about to slay them both when the sergeant grabbed you by the hair and dragged you back to the fire. That caught me out of position. Had you not crushed that man's nose I would not have had time to come to your aid. So, yes, you were lucky. But you made the best use of that luck.'

  'I did not see you or hear you,' she said.

  'Neither did they.' Then he lay back and slept again.

  When he awoke she was snuggled down alongside him, sleeping peacefully. It was pleasant to be this close to another human being, and he realized he had been alone too long. Easing himself away from her, he rose to his feet and pulled on his boots. As he did so, a group of crows detached themselves from the bodies of the dead and rose into the air, cawing raucously. The sound woke Keeva. She sat up, smiled at him, then moved away behind the boulders. Waylander saddled two of the horses she had tethered, the effort causing his wounds to throb.

  He was still angry about the first wound to his shoulder. He should have guessed the leader would send out a rearguard. They almost had him. The first had been crouched on a tree branch above the trail, the second hiding in the bushes. Only the scraping of the first man's boot upon the bark above had alerted him. Bringing up his crossbow he had sent a bolt into the man as he leapt. It had entered at the belly, slicing up through the heart. He had fallen almost on top of Waylander, his sword slashing across his shoulder. Luckily the man was dead as the blow struck, and there was no real force in it. The second man had lunged from the bushes, a single-bladed axe in his hand. The steeldust gelding had reared, forcing the attacker back. In that moment Waylander sent the second bolt through the man's forehead. You are getting old and slow, he chided himself. Two clumsy assassins and they almost had you.

  It had probably been this anger that had led him to attack their camp – a need to prove to himself that he could still move as he once had. Waylander sighed. He had been lucky to escape with his life. Even so, one of the men had managed to slam a blade into his hip. An inch or so higher and he would have been disembowelled, a few inches lower and the blade would have sliced the femoral artery, killing him for sure.

  Keeva returned, smiling and waving as she came. He felt a touch of guilt. He had not known, at first, that the raiders had a captive. He had hunted them purely because they raided his lands. Her rescue, though it gave him great pleasure, was merely a fluke, a fortunate happenstance.

  Keeva rolled the blankets and tied them to the back of her saddle. Then she brought him his cloak and weapons.

  'Do you have a name, Lord?' she asked. 'Apart from the Grey Man.'

  'I am not a lord,' he said again, ignoring her question.

  'Yes, Grey Man,' she said, with an impudent smile. 'I will remember that.'

  How resilient the young are, he thought. Keeva had witnessed death and destruction, had been raped and abused, and was now miles from home in the company of a stranger. Yet she could still smile. Then he looked into her dark eyes, and saw beneath the smile the traces of sorrow and fear. She was making a great effort to appear carefree, to charm him. And why not? he thought. She is a peasant girl with no rights, save those her master allows her. And these were few. If Waylander were to rape and kill her, there would be no inquest and few questions asked. In essence he owned her as if she were a slave. Why would she not seek to please him?

  'You are safe with me,' he said.

  'I know that, Lord. You are a good man.'

  'No, I am not. But you can trust my words. No further harm will come to you, and I will see you safely home.'

  'I do trust your words, Grey Man,' she replied. 'My uncle said that words were just noises in the air. Trust deeds, he told me, not words. I will not be a burden to you. I will help with your wounds as we travel.'

  'You are not a burden, Keeva,' he said softly, then heeled his horse forward. She rode alongside him.

  'I told them you were coming. I told them you would kill them. But I didn't really believe it. I just wanted them to know fear as I knew fear. Then you came. And they were terrified. It was wonderful.'

  They rode for several hours, heading south and west, until they came to an old stone road leading to a secluded fishing settlement on the banks of a wide, flowing river. There were some forty houses, many of them stone-built. The people here looked prosperous, thought Keeva. Even the children playing close by boasted tunics without patches or any sign of wear, and all wore shoes. The Grey Man was recognized instantly and a crowd gathered. The village headman, a small, portly man with thinning blond hair, pushed his way through them. 'Welcome, sir,' he said, with a deep bow. Keeva could see fear in the man's eyes, and felt the nervous tension emanating from the small crowd. The Grey Man dismounted.

  'Jonan, isn't it?'

  'Yes, sir. Jonan,' answered the little headman, bowing once more.

  'Well, be at ease, Jonan, I am merely passing through. I need some food for the rest of the journey, and my companion needs a change of clothing and a warm cloak.'

  'It will be done instantly, sir. You are most welcome to wait in my home, where my wife will prepare some refreshment. Let me show you the way.' The little man bowed once more and turned towards the crowd. He gestured once at them, and they all bowed. Keeva climbed down from the tall horse and followed the two men. The Grey Man did not show any evidence of his wounds, save that there was still dried blood on his ripped tunic.

  Jonan's house was of sand-fired brick, the frontage decorated with blackened timbers, the roof covered by red terracotta tiles. Jonan led them into a long living room. At the northern end was a large fireplace, also built with brick, and before it were set several deep leather chairs and a low table. The floor was of polished timber, adorned with attractive rugs, beautifully crafted from Chiatze silk. The Grey Man eased himself into a chair, resting his head against the high back-rest. A young blonde woman entered. She smiled nervously at Keeva and curtsied to the Grey Man.

  'We have ale, sir,' she said, 'or wine. Whatever pleases you.'

  'Just some water, thank you,' he replied.

  'We have apple juice, if that would be preferable?'

  He nodded. 'That would be very fine.'

  The headman shifted from foot to foot. 'May I sit, sir?' he asked.

  'It is your house, Jonan. Of course you may sit.'

  'Thank you.' He sank into the chair opposite. Keeva, unnoticed, sat down
cross-legged upon a rug. 'It is a great pleasure and an honour to see you, sir,' continued Jonan. 'Had we known you were coming we could have prepared a feast in your honour.'

  The woman returned, bringing a goblet of apple juice for the Grey Man and a tankard of ale for Jonan. As she backed away she glanced down at Keeva and silently gestured for her to follow. Keeva rose from the floor and walked from the room, through the hall beyond and into a long kitchen. The woman of the house was flustered, but she offered Keeva a seat at a pine table and filled a clay cup with juice. Keeva drank it.

  'We did not know he was coming,' said the woman nervously, sitting down opposite Keeva. She ran her fingers through her long, blond hair, pushing it back from her eyes, and tying it at the nape of her neck.

  'It is not an inspection,' said Keeva softly.

  'No? You are sure?'

  'I am sure. Some raiders attacked my village. He hunted them down and killed them.'

  'Yes, he is a terrible killer,' said the woman, her hands trembling. 'Has he harmed you?'

  Keeva shook her head. 'He rescued me from them. He is taking me home.'

  'I thought my heart would stop beating when he rode in.'

  'He owns this village too?' asked Keeva.

  'He owns all the lands of the Crescent. Bought them six years ago from Lord Aric, though he has been here only once in that time. We send him his taxes. In full,' she added quickly. Keeva did not respond to this. Surely no community paying full taxes could afford so many fine clothes, furniture and Chiatze rugs. Nor would they be so nervous concerning inspections. But, then, withholding taxes was, in her limited experience, a way of life among farmers and fishermen. Her brother had always managed to squirrel away one sack of grain in twenty to sell at market in order to supply small luxuries to his family, like new shoes, or a better-made bed for himself and his wife.