Waylander III: Hero In The Shadows ds-9

by David A. Gemmell

  'My name is Conae,' said the woman, relaxing a little.

  'Keeva.'

  'Did the raiders kill many in your village?'

  'Five men and three women.'

  'So many? How awful.'

  'They came in at dusk. Some of the women managed to run, taking the children with them. The men tried to fight. It was over very quickly.' Keeva shuddered at the memory.

  'Was your husband among them?'

  'I am not married. I was living in Carlis with my uncle, and when he died last year I went to work for my brother. He was killed. So was his wife. And they burned down our house.'

  'You poor girl,' said Conae.

  'I am alive,' said Keeva.

  'Were you close to your brother?'

  'He was a hard man and he treated me like a slave. His wife was little better.'

  'You could stay here,' said Conae. 'There are more young men than young girls and a pretty creature like you could find a good husband.'

  'I am not looking for a husband,' said Keeva. 'Not yet,' she added, seeing the concern on Conae's face. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a little while, then Conae smiled awkwardly and rose. 'I'll fetch you some clothes,' she said. 'For your journey.'

  As Conae left the room Keeva leant back in the chair. She was tired now, and very hungry. Am I evil not to mourn Grava's death? she wondered, picturing his broad face, and his small, cold eyes. He was a brute and you hated him, she told herself. It would be hypocrisy to pretend grief. Pushing herself to her feet, she moved across the kitchen, cutting herself a slab of bread and pouring another cup of apple juice. In the silence she could hear the conversation from the living room. Chewing the bread, she moved closer to the wall. There was a closed wooden hatch, crafted so that food could be passed from the kitchen. Putting her eye to the crack, she saw the Grey Man rise from his chair. Jonan stood also.

  'There are bodies in the woods to the north-east,' said the Grey Man. 'Send out some men to bury them, and gather whatever weapons and coin they were carrying. These you can keep. You will also find horses. These will be brought to me at my house.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'One other thing, Jonan. Your profits from smuggling are nothing to do with me. Taxes on goods shipped in from Chiatze lands are subject to the Duke's laws not mine. You should bear in mind, however, that punishment for smugglers is severe indeed. I am reliably informed that the Duke's inspectors will be sent out in the next month.'

  'You are mistaken, sir. We don't. . .' His words tailed away as he met the Grey Man's gaze.

  'If the inspectors find you guilty you will all be hanged. Then who will bring in the fish and pay me my taxes? Are you all blind here? You are a fishing settlement and yet your children wear clothes of the best wool, your women boast brooches of silver, and your own house has three rugs that would cost a year's profit from a good fishing vessel. If there are any old clothes left in this village I suggest you find them. And when the inspectors arrive make sure they are worn.'

  'It will be as you say, sir,' said Jonan miserably.

  Keeva pulled away from the hatch as Conae returned with a dress of blue wool, a pair of high-laced ankle-length shoes, and a brown woollen cloak lined with rabbit fur. Keeva put them on. The dress was a little loose, the shoes a perfect fit.

  Jonan called out for the women and they both returned to the living room. The Grey Man was on his feet. Reaching into a pouch by his side, he gave Jonan several small silver coin, in payment for the clothes.

  'That is not necessary, sir,' said Jonan.

  Ignoring him, the Grey Man turned to Conae. 'Thank you for your hospitality, lady.'

  Conae curtsied.

  The horses were outside, the saddlebags bulging with food for the journey. The Grey Man helped Keeva to mount, then stepped into the saddle.

  Without a word of farewell he rode from the settlement, Keeva following.

  Chapter Two

  They rode in silence for a little while and Keeva saw that the Grey Man's face was stern. She guessed he was angry. Even so, she noted that he studied the lands as he rode, always alert and watchful. Clouds obscured the sun and a little light rain began to fall. Keeva lifted her hood into place and drew her new fur-lined cloak about her.

  The rain passed swiftly, sunlight spearing through a break in the clouds. The Grey Man angled his horse up a shallow slope and paused at the top. Keeva drew alongside. 'How are your wounds?' she asked him.

  'Almost healed,' he said.

  'In such a short time? I don't think so.'

  He shrugged and, satisfied the way was clear of danger, heeled the steeldust forward.

  Throughout the long afternoon they rode steadily, once more entering the forest. An hour before dusk the Grey Man found a campsite beside a stream and set a fire. 'Are you angry with the villagers for cheating you?' asked Keeva, as the flames licked at the dry wood.

  'No. I am angry at their stupidity.' He looked at her. 'You were listening?'

  She nodded. The Grey Man's face softened. 'You are a canny girl, Keeva. You remind me of my daughter.'

  'Does she live with you?'

  'No, she lives far away in another land. I have not seen her in several years. She is married now to an old friend of mine. They had two sons, last I heard.'

  'You have grandsons.'

  'In a manner of speaking. She is my adopted daughter.'

  'Do you have children of your own?'

  He fell silent for a moment, and in the firelight she saw a look of deep sadness touch him. 'I had children, but they . . . died,' he said. 'Let us see what food Jonan's wife prepared for us.' Rising smoothly he moved to the saddlebags, returning with a hunk of ham and some freshly baked bread. They ate in silence. Keeva gathered more dry wood and fed the fire. The clouds had returned, but the night was not cold.

  The Grey Man removed his shirt. 'Time to draw these stitches,' he said.

  'The wounds cannot have healed,' she told him sternly. 'The stitches should remain for at least ten days. My uncle . . .'

  '. . . was a very wise man,' said the Grey Man. 'But see for yourself.'

  Keeva moved closer to him and examined the wounds. He was right. The skin had healed, and already scar tissue had formed. Taking his hunting knife, she carefully cut through the twine, pulling each stitch clear. 'I have never heard of anyone healing this fast,' she said, as he pulled on his shirt. 'Do you know magic?'

  'No. But once I was healed by a monster. It changed me.'

  'A monster?'

  He grinned at her. 'Aye, a monster. Seven feet tall, with a single eye in the centre of his forehead – an eye that had two pupils.'

  'You are making fun of me,' she chided him.

  The Grey Man shook his head. 'No, I am not. His name was Kai. He was a freak of nature – a man beast. I was dying and he laid his hands upon me and all my wounds closed, healed in a heartbeat. Ever since then I have known no sickness, no winter chills, no fevers, no boils. I think even time has slowed for me, for by now I should be spending my days sitting in a comfortable chair with a blanket around my knees. He was a fine man, Kai.'

  'What happened to him?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. Perhaps he is happy somewhere, perhaps he is dead.'

  'You have lived an interesting life,' she said.

  'How old are you?' he asked her.

  'Seventeen.'

  'Kidnapped by raiders, and taken away into the forest. There are some in years to come who will hear of this tale and say, "You have lived an interesting life." What will you say to them?'

  Keeva smiled. 'I shall agree – and they will envy me.'

  He laughed then, the sound full of good-humour. 'I like you, Keeva,' he said. Then, he added wood to the fire, stretched out and covered himself with a blanket.

  'I like you too, Grey Man,' she said.

  He did not answer, and she saw that he was already asleep.

  She looked at his face in the firelight. It was strong – the face of a fighter – and yet she could detect
no cruelty there.

  Keeva slept, and woke with the dawn. The Grey Man was already up. He was sitting by the stream and splashing water to his face. Then, using his hunting knife, he shaved away the black and silver stubble from his chin and cheeks. 'Did you sleep well?' he asked, as he returned to the fire.

  'Yes,' she told him. 'No dreams. It was wonderful.' He looked so much younger without the stubble, a man perhaps in his late thirties. She wondered momentarily how old he was. Forty-five? Fifty-five? Surely not older.

  'We should be at your settlement by noon,' he said.

  Keeva shivered, remembering the murdered women. 'There is nothing there for me. I was staying with my brother and his wife. They are both dead, the farmhouse burned.'

  'What will you do?'

  'Go back to Carlis and seek work.'

  'Are you trained in some craft or skill?'

  'No, but I can learn.'

  'I can offer you employment at my home,' he said.

  'I will not be your mistress, Grey Man,' she told him.

  He smiled broadly. 'Have I asked you to be my mistress?'

  'No, but why else are you offering to take me to your palace?'

  'Do you think so little of yourself?' he countered. 'You are intelligent and brave. I also think you are trustworthy and would be loyal. I have one hundred and thirty servants at my home, administering often to more than fifty guests. You would clean rooms, prepare beds for those guests, and help in the kitchens. For this I will pay you two silvers a month. You will have your own room and one day a week free of all duties. Think on it.'

  'I accept,' she said.

  'Then let it be so.'

  'Why do you have so many guests?'

  'My home – my palace, as you call it – houses several libraries, an infirmary and a museum. Scholars come from all over Kydor to study there. There is also a separate centre in the South Tower for students and physicians to analyse medicinal herbs and their uses, and three further halls have been set aside for the treatment of the sick.'

  Keeva remained silent for a while, then she looked into his eyes. 'I am sorry,' she said.

  'Why would you apologize? You are an attractive young woman, and I can understand why you would fear unwelcome advances. You do not know me. Why should I be trusted?'

  'I trust you,' she told him. 'Can I ask you a question?'

  'Of course.'

  'If you have a palace why are your clothes so old, and why do you ride out alone to protect your lands? Think of all you could lose.'

  'Lose?' he asked.

  'All your wealth.'

  'Wealth is a small thing, Keeva, tiny like a grain of sand. It seems large only to those who do not possess it. You talk of my palace. It is not mine. I built it, I live within it. Yet one day I will die and the palace will have another owner. Then he will die. And so it goes on. A man owns nothing but his life. He holds items briefly in his hand. If they are made of metal or stone they will surely outlive him and be owned by someone else for a short time. If they are cloth he will – with luck – outlive them. Look around you, at the trees and the hills. According to Kydor law, they are mine. You think the trees care that they are mine? Or the hills? The same hills that were bathed in sunlight when my earliest ancestor walked the earth. The same hills that will still be covered in grass when the last man turns to dust.'

  'I see that,' said Keeva, 'but with all your wealth you can have everything you want for the rest of your life. Every pleasure, every joy is available to you.'

  'There is not enough gold in all the world to supply what I want,' he said.

  'And what is that?'

  'A clean conscience,' he said. 'Now, do you wish to return to the settlement to see your brother buried?'

  The conversation was obviously over. Keeva shook her head. 'No. I don't want to go there.'

  'Then we will push on. We should reach my home by dark.'

  Cresting a hill, they began the slow descent on to a wide plain. As far as the eye could see there were ruins everywhere. Keeva drew rein and stared out over the plain. In some places there were merely a few white stones, in others the shapes of buildings could still be seen. Towards the west, against a granite cliff-face there were the remains of two high towers, which had crumbled at the base and crashed to the ground like felled trees.

  'What was this place?' she asked.

  The Grey Man gazed over the ruins. 'An ancient city called Kuan-Hador. No one knows who built it, or why it fell. Its history is lost in the mists of time.' He looked at her and smiled. 'I expect the people here once believed they owned the hills and the trees,' he said.

  They rode down on to the plain. Some way to the west Keeva saw a mist rolling between the jagged ruins. 'Speaking of mists,' she said, pointing it out to her companion. Waylander halted his horse and glanced to the west. Keeva rode alongside. 'Why are you loading your crossbow?' she asked him, as his hands slid two bolts into the grooves in the small black weapon.

  'Habit,' he said, but his expression was stern, his dark eyes wary. Angling his horse towards the south-east, away from the mist, he rode away.

  Keeva followed him and swung in the saddle to stare back at the ruins. 'How strange,' she said. 'The mist is gone.'

  He, too, glanced back, then unloaded his weapon, slipping the bolts back into the quiver at his belt. He saw her looking at him.

  'I do not like this place,' she said. 'It feels . . . dangerous,' she concluded lamely.

  'You have good instincts,' he told her.

  Matze Chai parted the painted silk curtains of his palanquin and gazed with undisguised malevolence at the mountains. Sunlight was filtering through the clouds and shining brightly upon the snow-capped peaks. The elderly man sighed and pulled shut the curtains. As he did so his dark, almond-shaped eyes focused on the back of his slender hand, seeing again the brown liver spots of age staining the dry skin.

  The Chiatze merchant reached for a small, ornate wooden box and removed a tub of sweet-smelling lotion, which he applied carefully to his hands, before leaning back against his cushions and closing his eyes.

  Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze's view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the Philosopher termed the Mirrors of Mortality. The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light; the frailty of his flesh apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.

  He leant forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as in his youth. But a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.

  The palanquin lurched to the right, as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labour, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.

  The door was opened by his Rajnee, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, the eight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.

  Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him the watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. 'How much longer?' he asked the man.

  'Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of
the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.'

  Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin he settled himself down on his cushions. 'Join me, Kysumu,' he said.

  The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long grey robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who travelled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well paid, well fed, powerful young labourers; men of little imagination but great strength.

  Matze Chai leant back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai's gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.

  'How is it you are not wealthy?' Matze Chai asked him.

  'Define wealth,' answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.

  'The ability to purchase whatever one desires, whenever one desires it.'

  'Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little food and water each day. These I can pay for.'

  Matze Chai smiled. 'Then let me rephrase the question: how is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?'

  'Gold does not interest me.'

  Matze Chai already knew this. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized Rajnee in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew that the swordsman could not be bought, and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life – indeed, among politicians of all races. Which made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back, or mock his 'stupidity'. Even though it highlighted, in glorious colour, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.