Waylander ds-3

by David A. Gemmell

  This time Karnak led to the counter-charge, swinging a double-headed battleaxe that smashed through armour, snapping ribs and disembowelling his assailants.

  Sarvaj tripped over a body and fell heavily, rapping his head against the rampart steps. Rolling on to his back, he saw a sword-blade flash towards his face.

  A second sword blocked the cut, deflecting the blade to strike the stone beside Sarvaj's head. Sarvaj rolled to his feet as Vanek killed the attacker, but there was no time for thanks as they hurled themselves once more into the fray.

  A steady thudding boom rose above the noise of clashing steel and Sarvaj knew that the battering ram was once more in place, its bronze head crashing against the reinforced oak of the gates. The sun blazed down from a clear sky and he could feel the salt of his sweat stinging his eyes.

  At noon the attack ceased and the Vagrians drew back, carrying their wounded with them, while the Drenai stretcher-bearers gathered the injured in the courtyard below. There was no longer room to carry them inside.

  Other soldiers were toiling along the ramparts carrying buckets of water from which the defenders filled their canteens. Still others were washing the blood from the ramparts and spreading sawdust on the stone.

  Sarvaj sent three men to fetch bread and cheese for the section, then sat down and removed his helmet. He remembered Vanek saving his life and looked round for the man, seeing him sitting by the wall of the gate tower. Pushing himself wearily to his feet he joined him.

  'A tough morning,' he said.

  Vanek smiled wearily. 'It will get tougher yet,' he responded.

  'Thank you for saving me.'

  'No problem. I wish someone had done the same for me.'

  Sarvaj saw that Vanek's face was grey with pain and that he was sitting in a pool of blood with one hand clenched to his side.

  'I'll get the stretcher-bearers,' said Sarvaj, half-rising.

  'No … no point. Anyway, I don't want to be eaten by rats in the night. It doesn't matter – there's no pain, which I'm told is not a good sign.'

  'I don't know what to say.'

  'Don't worry about it. Did you hear that I left my wife?'

  'Yes.'

  'Stupid. I loved her too much to bear the sight of watching her grow old. You know? I took up with a young woman. Beautiful girl. She robbed me blind and had a young lover on the side. Why do we have to grow old?'

  Sarvaj said nothing, but he drew closer for Vanek's voice was fading to a whisper.

  'A year ago I would have seen that cut coming. Too slow … killed the bastard, though. Twisted my body to trap his blade, than cut his cursed throat. I think it was the twist that killed me. You know? Gods, I wish my wife was here! Isn't that stupid? Wanting to bring her here with all the bloodshed and death? Tell her for me, Sarvaj – tell her I was thinking about her. She was so beautiful once. People are like flowers … Gods! Look at that!'

  Sarvaj swung round, but there was nothing to be seen.

  'What is it?'

  But Vanek was dead.

  'They're coming back!' yelled Jonat.

  18

  Waylander had known much pain in his life and had always considered himself capable of withstanding any torment the world could inflict. Now he knew better. His blistered skin felt as if a thousand bees swarmed upon it, stabbing and stinging, while his head throbbed to the rhythms of the waves of nausea racking his body.

  At first, as he rode away from the clearing and the dying Cadoras, the pain had been bearable but now, with the coming of night, it was insufferable. A fresh flood of agony struck him and he groaned, cursing himself for his weakness. He sat up, shivering, and moved deeper into the cave, where with trembling hands he shredded some bark for tinder and lit a small fire. His horses, tethered at the rear of the cave, whinnied and the sound ripped through him. He stood, staggered and then recovered his balance, moving to the beasts and patting their necks. Loosening the saddle cinch of his own mount, he spread a blanket over the beast's back before returning to the fire.

  Adding thicker sticks to the blaze, he felt the warmth spread through him and slowly removed his shirt, wincing as the wool pulled clear of the blisters on his shoulders. Then he opened a leather pouch at his belt and drew out the long green leaves he had picked before dusk. There was danger in using Lorassium. In small quantities it eased pain and gave rise to colourful dreams; in large quantities it killed. And Waylander had no idea how much or how little to take – or how to prepare it. He crushed a leaf in his hand and smelled it, then placed it in his mouth and chewed slowly. It was bitter and he gagged. Anger rose in him, making his head pound, and he chewed faster. When after ten minutes there was no relief, and he ate a second leaf.

  Now flame dancers leapt above the tiny blaze, twisting and pirouetting, flinging their arms high with sparks streaming from their tiny fingers, the walls of the cave creaked and swelled and Waylander chuckled as his horse grew wings and horns. The chuckle faded as he saw his own hands had become scaled and taloned. Now the fire reshaped itself into a face, broad and handsome with flaming hair.

  'Why do you seek to thwart me, man?' asked the fire.

  'Who are you?'

  'I am the Morning Star, the Lord of Dark Light.'

  Waylander leaned back and threw a stick at the face. Fire leapt from its mouth and devoured the stick; the tongue of flame, Waylander noticed, was forked.

  'I know you,' said the assassin.

  'So you should, child, you have served me for many years. I am filled with sadness that you should betray me now.'

  'I never served you. I have always been my own man.'

  'Think you so? Then we will leave it at that.'

  'No – tell me.'

  'What is there to tell, Waylander? You have hunted and killed for many years. Do you think your actions aided the Source? They served the cause of Chaos. My cause! You are mine, Waylander – you have always been mine. And in my way I have protected you from harm, turned aside the daggers in the night. Even now I protect you from the Nadir huntsmen who have sworn to eat your heart.'

  'Why would you do this for me?'

  'I am a good friend to those who serve me. Did I not send Cadoras to you in your need?'

  'I don't know. Yet I do know you are the Prince of Deceivers, so I doubt it.'

  'Harsh words, mortal. Words of death, if I so choose.'

  'What do you want from me?'

  'I want to rid you of your taint. You are less of a man since Dardalion touched you with his weakness. I can remove it – I almost did when you went hunting Butaso – but now I see it reaffirming itself like a cancer in your heart.'

  'How will you rid me of this taint?'

  'Merely say that you desire it and it will be gone.'

  'I do not desire it.'

  'You think the Source will take you? You are defiled by the blood of the innocents you have slain. Why risk death for a God who despises you?'

  'It is not for any God, it is for myself.'

  'Death is not the end, Waylander – not for such as you. Your soul will enter the Void, be lost in the darkness, but I will find it and lash it with tongues of flame for eternity. Can you understand what you are risking?'

  'I find your threats more acceptable than your promises. They are more in keeping with your reputation. Now leave me.'

  'Very well, but know this: I am not an enemy you should desire, assassin. My reach is long and my talons deadly. Your death is already set; the scenario is written in the Book of Souls and I have read it with pleasure. But there is someone you should consider – Danyal. She travels with another whose soul is mine.'

  'Durmast will not harm her,' said Waylander, though his words were empty and filled more with hope than conviction.

  'We shall see.'

  'Leave me, demon!'

  'One last gift before I go. Watch and learn!' The face shimmered and shrank, the flames surged anew and within the blaze Waylander saw Durmast chasing Danyal through a dark wood. He caught her by the banks of a
river and swung her round. She lashed at his face, but he parried the blow. Then he struck her and she fell; his hands ripped away her tunic …

  Waylander watched the scene that followed, screaming only when Durmast drew his knife across her throat. Then he passed out.

  And the pain ceased.

  Dardalion and The Thirty knelt in the open courtyard by the stables, their minds joined, their concentration honed, their spirits seeping through the timbers and gullies below the stable.

  The first rat was asleep, but its button eyes opened in alarm and it scurried away as it felt the presence of Man. Its nostrils quivered, but no scent of the enemy could be found in the dank air. It turned, filled with a terrible terror, squealed and ran for the open. More and more of its fellows joined it in the panic race for life. From gullies and drains and forgotten sewers the rats poured out into the courtyard, drawn to the circle of priests. The first rat ran to lie beside Astila, knowing only that here in the courtyard was an end to fear. Nothing could harm it while it lay thus, in the moon shadow of the Man. Others followed it and a great circle formed about the priests.

  From the ramparts above Karnak watched in fascination, while around him officers and men made the sign of the Protective Horn.

  Hundreds of rats clustered about the priests, clambering over their robes and on their shoulders. Sarvaj swallowed hard and looked away. Gellan shook his head and scratched his arm.

  Dardalion slowly raised his arm and Gellan caught the movement.

  'Open the gates. Gently now, only a foot or so!' Gellan glanced up at the soldier on the gate tower. 'What can you see?'

  'No movement from the enemy, sir.'

  As silently as they could, the soldiers by the gate removed the bronze reinforced bars from the gates and pulled them open.

  The first rat blinked and shivered as the comforting blanket of safety slipped away from him. He scampered towards the gates and the horde followed.

  The night air was cool as the black mass moved down the hill and into the silent streets of Purdol town, then on to the market squares and the pitched tents of the Vagrian army. On flowed the rats, over cobbled streets and into the tents.

  One man awoke as a black rat scampered across his face; he sat up screaming and lashing out. Then a second one fell from his shoulder, landing in his lap with its teeth plunging into his thigh. Other screams filled the night as the rats moved on. Lunging men snapped tent poles and the white canvas billowed around them; others ran from the streets to hurl themselves into the sea. A burning brazier fell and flames licked at dry canvas, while the eastern breeze fanned the blaze and sent it leaping from tent to tent.

  High on the Purdol walls Karnak's laughter echoed in the mountains, as the sounds of panic rose from the city below.

  'It's not often that visiting relatives are greeted with such a display,' said Sarvaj. Jonat chuckled.

  'Gods, what pandemonium,' said Gellan. 'Dardalion!' he called. 'Come up and view your handiwork.'

  The priest in silver armour shook his head and led The Thirty back into the hospital building, where Evris was waiting.

  'Mighty fine, young man,' he said, grasping Dardalion's hand. 'Mighty fine indeed. What can you do with cockroaches?'

  Dardalion grinned. 'I think I'll leave that for another day, Evris, if you don't mind—'

  Astila, alert as always, caught Dardalion as he fell.

  'Carry him in here,' said Evris, pushing open the door to his own room. Astila laid Dardalion on the narrow bed and removed the silver armour, while Evris lifted Dardalion's wrist. "The pulse is strong. I think he's just exhausted – how long since he slept?'

  Astila shrugged. 'I don't know, surgeon. But I have only had three hours in the last eighty. There is so much to do – so many wounded and dying. And then at night …'

  'I know. The Brotherhood stalks the darkness.'

  'We will not hold them much longer. Soon we will die.'

  'How many of them are there?'

  'Who knows?' answered Astila wearily. 'They have been reinforced. Last night we almost lost Baynha and Epway. Tonight … ?'

  'Get some rest. You are taking on too much.'

  'It is the price of guilt, Evris.'

  'You have nothing to feel guilty about, surely?'

  Astila placed his hands on the surgeon's shoulders. 'It is all relative, my friend. We are taught that life is sacred. All life. I once got out of bed and trod on a beetle – I felt somehow defiled. How do you think I feel tonight, with scores of men dying in the town below? How do you think we all feel? There is no joy for us here, and the absence of joy is despair.'

  Six men knelt before the shaman, six warriors with shining eyes and grim faces: Bodai, who had lost his right arm two years before; Askadi, whose spine was twisted following a fall from a cliff; Nenta, once a fine swordsman, now crippled with arthritis; Belikai the blind; Nontung the leper, fetched from the caves of Mithega; Lenlai the possessed, whose fits grew more frequent and who had bitten off his own tongue in a terrible spasm.

  Kesa Khan, dressed now in a robe of human scalps, gave each man a draught of Lyrrd, spiced with the herbs of the mountains. He watched their eyes as they drank, noting the swelling of the pupils and the dawning of incomprehension.

  'My children,' he said slowly, 'you are the Chosen. You whom life has robbed, you will be strong again. Sleek and strong. Power will flow in your veins. And then having tasted the strength you will die, and your souls will flow to the Void on a sea of joy. For you will have served the blood of your blood and fulfilled a Nadir destiny.' They sat still, their eyes fixed on his. Not a movement came from them – not a blink, seemingly not a breath. Satisfied, Kesa Khan, clapped his hands lightly and six acolytes entered the cave, leading six grey timber wolves, muzzled and wary.

  One by one, Kesa Khan approached the wolves, removing first the leash and then the muzzle. He laid his bony fingers across their eyes and each sat obediently where he led them, until at last all six were squatting before the crippled warriors. The acolytes withdrew.

  Kesa Khan closed his eyes, allowing his mind to flow around the cave and out into the darkness of the Nadir night, feeling the pulse of the land and tuning it to his own. He felt the vast elemental power of the mountains rushing into his mind, swelling within him, seeking to explode the frail man-shell that held it. The shaman opened his eyes, stilling the adrenal surge within his veins.

  'In this cave the assassin rested. His scent is upon the rocks. Your last memory must be of this man: this tall, round-eyed Drenai who seeks to thwart the destiny of our race. Burn his image into your minds, even as the wolves feel the searing hatred of his scent in their nostrils, Waylander the Slayer. The Soul Stealer in the shadows. He is a strong man, this one – but not as strong as you will be. He is fast and deadly – but not as fast as you, my children.

  'His flesh will be sweet, his blood like the wine of the mountains. No other flesh can sustain you. All other food will be poison to you. He alone is your life.'

  Kesa Khan took a deep breath and stood, moving along the squatting wolves to touch each gently on the neck. As he touched them they tensed and growled, their eyes fixed on the silent men.

  Suddenly the shaman screamed and the wolves leapt, their great fangs fastening on the throats before them. The men made no move as the fangs sliced through flesh and bone.

  The wolves shuddered.

  And swelled …

  While the men shrank, their skin hanging in flapping folds, the wolves stretched, paws swelling into fur-covered fingers, nails darkening and curving into talons. Rib-cages expanded, bloated with new muscle; shoulders formed and the creatures loomed upright, dropping to the ground what appeared to be wizened sacks of old bones.

  'Turn to me, my children,' said Kesa Khan. The six beasts obeyed him and he felt the power of their blood-red eyes upon him, felt the full savagery of their stares.

  'Go forth and kill,' he whispered.

  And six beasts padded into the night.

  Aft
er a while the acolytes returned.

  'Remove the bodies,' said the shaman.

  'Can we call these things bodies?' asked a young man, his face ashen.

  'Call them what you will, boy, but remove them.'

  Kesa Khan watched them depart, then built a fire and wrapped himself in a goatskin robe. The ritual had drained him and he felt very old and very tired. There had been a day when only the strongest of warriors had been used, but that offended Kesa Khan. This way was better, for it gave a last glimpse of true life to men bowed by disaster.

  They would hunt Waylander and devour him. Then they would die. If they drank water, it would choke them. If they ate meat, it would poison them. Within a month they would starve to death.

  But they would have one last fine meal, as their great jaws closed upon the flesh of Waylander.

  Kaem sat silently listening to the reports: sixty-eight men dead; forty-seven injured. Four hundred tents had been destroyed and two warehouses burnt to the ground, both containing meat and grain. One ship moored to the jetty had lost its sails in the blaze, but had otherwise survived intact. The rats, however, had infiltrated the remaining food stores and were overrunning the warehouses. Kaem dismissed the officers and turned to the black-coated figure beside him.

  'Restore my good humour, Nemodes. Tell me once more how the Brotherhood is in sight of victory against the priests.'

  Nemodes shrugged, his heavy-lidded eyes avoiding the general's gaze. The Brotherhood leader was a small, emaciated man with a thick fleshy nose which seemed out of place on his thin features. His mouth was lipless, his teeth like tombstones.

  "Three of them died last night. The end is near,' he whispered.

  "Three? I lost forty-eight.'