Waylander ds-3

by David A. Gemmell

  'What regiment are they?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Describe their armour.'

  'Blue cloaks, black breastplates and helms that cover their faces.'

  'Are the visors clear or embossed?'

  'On the forehead is an image of a snarling wolf.'

  'Thank you, Dardalion. Excuse me.' Sarvaj rose from the table and returned to the battlements, where Gellan was supervising the distribution of arrows to the men: quivers of fifty shafts allocated to each archer.

  Sarvaj removed his helm and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  'You trust this man?' asked Gellan, after Sarvaj had given him the news.

  'I would say that he is honest. I could be wrong.'

  'We will know within the hour.'

  'Yes. But if he's right we are up against the Hounds.'

  'They are men, Sarvaj; there's nothing supernatural about them.'

  'It is not the supernatural that worries me,' said the soldier. 'It is the fact that they always win.'

  Waylander unsaddled his horse, stowing his saddlebags inside the Keep. Then he took his weapons to the decaying battlements of the western wall. Six throwing knives and two quivers of bolts for his crossbow he left leaning against the ramparts. Then he saw Dardalion and Sarvaj standing at a wagon below the eastern wall; here the wagons had been drawn in a line to create a pen for the oxen.

  Waylander strolled across the courtyard. Dardalion had put aside the sword and scabbard he had taken from the dead robber and had selected a sabre of blue steel. The broadsword had been too heavy for the slender priest. Sarvaj produced a breastplate from under the tarpaulin. It was wrapped in oilskin, and when he brought it out into the sunshine it shone like silver.

  'A Vagrian officer of the Blue Riders,' said Sarvaj.

  'Made to order. Try it on.' Delving deeper into the depths of the wagon, he pulled clear a large parcel. Ripping it open he discovered a white cloak, trimmed with leather.

  'You'll stand out like a dove among crows,' said Waylander, but Dardalion merely grinned and swept the cloak over his shoulders. Shaking his head, Waylander climbed on to the wagon where he selected two short swords of blue steel in matching black scabbards; these he threaded to his belt. The edges were dulled and he moved away to the battlements to hone them.

  When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion's thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.

  'You look ridiculous,' said Waylander.

  'Most probably. But will it serve?'

  'It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.'

  'I do feel rather foolish.'

  'Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.'

  'No. I can't explain why, but this is right.'

  'Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!'

  'Will you not get yourself some armour?'

  'I have my mailshirt. I don't intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.'

  'I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,' said Dardalion.

  'Gods of Mercy!' snapped Waylander. 'It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There's nothing I can teach you – just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!'

  'By the way, I told Sarvaj – the soldier who greeted us – that your name was Dakeyras.'

  'It does not matter. But thank you anyway.'

  'I am sorry that saving me has brought you to this,' said Dardalion.

  'I brought myself to this; don't blame yourself. Just try to stay alive, priest.'

  'I am in the hands of the Source.'

  'Whatever. Keep the sun to your back – that way you'll blind them with your magnificence! And get yourself a canteen of water – you'll find war dries the throat.'

  'Yes, I'll do that now. I …'

  'No more speeches, Dardalion. Fetch yourself some water and position yourself down there by the wagons. That is where the action will be.'

  'I feel I ought to say something. I owe you my life … But the words are all trapped inside me.'

  'You need say nothing. You are a good man, priest – and I am glad I saved you. Now, for pity's sake, go away!'

  Dardalion returned to the courtyard and Waylander strung his crossbow, testing the strings for tension. Satisfied, he laid it gently on the stone rampart. Then, taking a short length of rawhide, he tied back his hair at the nape of the neck.

  A young, bearded soldier approached. 'Good morning, sir. My name is Jonat. This is my section.'

  'Dakeyras,' said Waylander, extending his hand.

  'Your friend looks dressed for a royal banquet.'

  'It was the best he could find. But he'll stand firm.'

  'I am sure that he will. Do you intend to stay up here?'

  'That is what I had in mind,' said Waylander drily.

  'It is just that this is the best spot to cover the gap and I would prefer to place one of my archers here.'

  'I can understand that,' said Waylander, picking up his crossbow and drawing back the upper string. Snapping a bolt in place, he glanced down at the wagon blocking the ruined gate; the wagon tongue had been pushed up, making a cross with the oxen bar. Waylander pulled back the lower string, slipping a bolt into position.

  'How wide would you say the bar is?' asked Waylander.

  'Narrow enough to make a difficult target,' agreed Jonat.

  Waylander's arm came up and a black bolt flashed through the air to punch its way through the right-hand bar. A second bolt thudded into the left side.

  'Interesting,' commented Jonat. 'May I try it?'

  Waylander handed him the weapon and Jonat turned it over in his hands. It was beautifully constructed. Loading only one arrow, Jonat sighted on the centre tongue and let fly. The arrow glanced from the wood and hit the cobblestones of the courtyard, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

  'Nice weapon,' said Jonat. 'I would love to practise with it.'

  'If anything happens to me, you can have it,' said Waylander.

  Jonat nodded. 'You'll be staying here, then?'

  'I think so.'

  Suddenly from the eastern wall came a shout of warning and Jonat ran to the battlement steps, joining the stream of men rushing to see the enemy. Waylander settled back against the ramparts; he had seen armies before. He took a swig from his canteen and swished the warm water around his mouth before swallowing it.

  On the eastern wall Gellan and Sarvaj were joined by Jonat.

  Out on the plain some six hundred Vagrian horsemen came into view and two scouts rode from the enemy ranks, galloping their horses to the western wall. Then they returned. For several minutes nothing happened as the Vagrian officers dismounted and sat together at the centre; then one rose and remounted.

  'Talk time,' muttered Sarvaj.

  The officer rode to the eastern wall, his hand raised. Lifting his helm from his head, he called out: 'I am Ragic. I speak for the Earl Ceoris. Who speaks for the Drenai?'

  'I do,' shouted Gellan.

  'Your name?'

  'It is no business of yours. What do you have to say?'

  'As you can see, you are vastly outnumbered. The Earl Ceoris offers you the opportunity to surrender.'

  'On what conditions?'

  'Once your weapons have been surrendered, you will be free to go.'

  'Very generous!'

  'Then you agree?'

  'I have heard of the Earl Ceoris. It is said that his word is given as lightly as the promise of a Lentrian whore. The man has no honour.'

  'Then you refuse?'

  'I don't deal with jackals,' said Gellan.

  'That is a decision you will live to rue,' shouted the herald, pulling on
the reins and spurring his horse back to the enemy line.

  'I think he is probably right about that,' muttered Jonat.

  'Ready the men,' sad Gellan. 'The Vagrians have no ropes or siege equipment and that means they must attack the breach. Sarvaj!'

  'Sir.'

  'Leave only five men per wall. The rest to go with Jonat. Do it now!'

  Sarvaj saluted and moved from the battlements. Jonat followed him.

  'We should have cut and run,' said Jonat.

  'Give your mouth a rest,' snapped Sarvaj.

  The Vagrians heeled their horses to the right and cantered round to face the western wall, then advanced until they were just beyond bowshot. Dismounting, the men thrust their lances into the earth and tied their mounts to them; then lifting shields and drawing swords, they advanced slowly.

  Dardalion watched them come and licked his lips. His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his cloak. Jonat grinned at him. 'Handsome whoresons, aren't they?'

  Dardalion nodded. The men around him were tense and the priest realised he was not alone in his fear. Even Jonat's eyes were burning more brightly and his face was set. Dardalion glanced up to where Waylander sat with his back to the wall, setting out crossbow bolts before him. He alone was not watching the advancing soldiers. A man to the right loosed a shaft that sailed towards the Vagrians; an enemy soldier lifted his shied and the arrow glanced from it.

  'Hold until I order it!' bellowed Jonat.

  With a sudden roar the Vagrians charged. Dardalion swallowed hard and drew his swords.

  With the enemy a bare thirty feet from the breach Jonat bellowed, 'Now!' Shafts hammered into the advancing line, but most were turned aside by the brass-rimmed round shields. Others glanced from black helms, but several of the enemy fell as the barbed shafts cut into unprotected necks.

  A second volley sliced home as the Vagrians gained the breach. And this time more than a dozen warriors fell back. Then they were at the wagons. A burly soldier clambered over the wooden frame with sword raised, but Waylander's bolt punched through his helm above his right ear and he fell without a sound. A second bolt skewered the neck of the soldier behind him.

  Jonat had placed his defenders well. A dozen knelt on the northern battlements loosing shaft after shaft into the enemy as they struggled to clear the wagons, while twenty more archers stood in the courtyard picking off the enemy with ease. The bodies mounted, but still the Vagrians pushed on.

  Waylander heard a scrabbling noise behind him and swung round to see a hand grasp the ramparts as a Vagrian soldier pulled himself over the wall. Another followed … and another. Waylander cocked his bow and fired and the first soldier pitched backwards and rolled from the battlements. The second took a bolt through the shoulder, but ran on, screaming his hatred. The assassin dropped his bow and dragged his sword from its scabbard, blocking a downward cut; then he kicked out to catch the man in the groin. As the soldier staggered Waylander hammered a blow to his neck and with blood gushing from the wound, the man toppled to the courtyard below.

  Waylander dropped to his knees as another warrior aimed a vicious blow to his head. He stabbed upwards feeling the blade sink into the man's groin. Waylander kicked him from the battlements and faced another soldier, but the man suddenly pitched forward with an arrow jutting from the back of his neck. A Drenai soldier stepped from the doorway of the tower, bow in hand; he grinned at Waylander and limped forward.

  Below, four Vagrians finally burst through the crossfire and leapt into the courtyard. Jonat killed the first with a reverse cut to the neck. Dardalion ran forward, heart pounding, and thrust his sword at an enemy warrior. The man brushed the blade aside and crashed his shield into the priest. Dardalion fell back, tripping on the cobbles. The Vagrian lashed out and the priest rolled clear as the blade clanged against the stones. Pushing himself to his feet, Dardalion drew his second sword and faced the warrior. The man advanced, his sword stabbing towards Dardalion's groin. The priest parried the blade with his right-hand sword, stepped forward and thrust his left-hand blade into the man's throat; blood bubbled from under the black helm and he fell to his knees.

  'Look out!' yelled Waylander, but Dardalion's sword came up too late and a second Vagrian soldier ran forward crashing a blow to his head. The blade glanced from the silver helm and thundered to his shoulder. Dazed, he stumbled back and the Vagrian moved in for the kill.

  Jonat despatched another man, then swung to see Dardalion in trouble. He ran forward and leapt feet-first at the attacker, catapulting him from his feet.

  Jonat scrambled up and threw himself on the man's back; then, drawing a slender dagger, he tore the man's helm clear and cut his throat.

  A single bugle blast pierced the battle clamour and the Vagrians pulled back out of bowshot.

  'Clear away the bodies!' shouted Jonat.

  Waylander retrieved his crossbow and counted the remaining bolts. Twelve. He climbed down to the courtyard and began searching the bodies, reclaiming fifteen bolts that were usable.

  Dardalion sat with his back to the northern wall, dizzy and unable to stand. Waylander strolled over and knelt by his side.

  'Drink,' he said.

  Dardalion weakly pushed the canteen away. 'I feel sick.'

  'You cannot sit there, priest; they'll be back within minutes. Get yourself to the Keep.'

  Dardalion pulled his legs under him and struggled to rise. Waylander pulled him upright.

  'Can you stand?'

  'No.'

  'Lean on me, then.'

  'I did not perform too well, Waylander.'

  'You killed your first man in combat. It is a start.'

  Together they made their way to the Keep and Waylander laid the priest down on a bench table. Danyal ran forward, her face white with shock.

  'He's not dead, merely dazed,' said Waylander. Ignoring him she moved to Dardalion, pulling his helm clear and examining the shallow cut to his head where the helm had dented.

  A bugle blast echoed over the plain.

  Waylander cursed softly and made for the door.

  8

  To free himself from pain and dizziness Dardalion released his spirit and soared, passing through the walls of the Keep and out into the bright midday sunshine.

  The battle below raged on. Waylander, back on the battlements, took aim carefully and loosed bolt after bolt into the oncoming Vagrians. Jonat, full of near-maniacal energy, gathered to him twenty warriors and rushed the Vagrians who had cleared the wagons. On the battlements to left and right, Drenai archers picked their targets with care. On the eastern wall the enemy had gained a foothold by climbing the pitted outer ramparts. Here three men fought hard to hold the tide and Dardalion floated towards them.

  At the centre of the three stood a middle-aged officer whose swordplay was exquisite. Not for him the wild hacking, the fanatic attack; he fought with subtle grace and style, his sword flickering into play and scarcely seeming to touch his opponents. But down they went, choking on their own blood. His face was calm, even serene, thought Dardalion, and his concentration intense.

  Through his spirit eyes the priest could see the flickering auras that marked the mood of each man. Bright red pulsed the colours on all but two of the combatants.

  The officer glowed with the blue of harmony, and Waylander with the purple of controlled fury.

  More Vagrians cleared the battlements of the eastern wall, while Jonat and his men were being forced back from the breach on the western wall. Waylander, his bolts exhausted, drew his sword and leapt from the ramparts to the wagon below, crashing into several Vagrian soldiers and bowling them from their feet. He came up swinging his sword, killing two before they could recover their balance. A third died even as he swung his sword into play. Waylander blocked the cut and tore open the man's throat with a downward sweep.

  Back in the Keep, Danyal took the sisters up the winding stair to the tower and then sat them with their backs to the ramparts. From here the sound of battle was muted, and she to
ok the sisters in her arms.

  'You are very frightened, Danyal,' said Krylla.

  'Yes, I am. You'll have to look after me,' answered Danyal.

  'Will they kill us?' asked Miriel.

  'No … I don't know, little one.'

  'Waylander will save us; he always does,' stated Krylla.

  Danyal closed her eyes and Waylander's face filled her mind: the dark eyes, deep-set under fine brows, the angular face and square chin, the wide mouth with the faintly mocking half-smile.

  The scream of a dying man echoed above the clamour of the battle.

  Danyal released the children and stood leaning out over the crenellated wall.

  Waylander stood with a little knot of men trying to fight their way back to the Keep, but they were almost surrounded. She could look no more and slumped down beside the girls.

  Inside the Keep Dardalion roused himself and groped for his swords. He felt less groggy now, awareness of imminent death overriding the pain. He moved to the doors and hauled them open. Outside the sun was so bright it brought tears to his eyes; blinking, he saw four men rush towards him.

  Fear swamped him, but instead of forcing it back, he released it, hurling it with terrible power at the four soldiers. The mind blast staggered them. One fell clutching at his heart and died within seconds; another dropped his sword and ran screaming towards the breach. The remaining two – stronger men than most – merely backed away.

  Dardalion advanced on the main group, eyes wide and startlingly blue, pupils almost invisible. Growing in strength, he hurled his fear into the blue-cloaked mass of attackers. Men screamed as it hit them and panic swept through the Vagrians like a plague. They swung round, ignoring the swords of the Drenai and faced the silver warrior advancing on them. A man at the front dropped to his knees shaking uncontrollably, then he pitched forward unconscious.

  Later, under the most intensive questioning, not one Vagrian soldier could describe the terror he had felt, nor the awful menace that produced it … though most could recall the silver warrior who shone like white fire and whose eyes radiated death and despair.

  The Vagrians broke and ran, dropping their weapons behind them.