'And you are Waylander.'
'The riders have been, then. Which were they, Nadir or Vagrian?'
'Both,' said the man. 'But I won't betray you; I owe you four lives.'
'You owe me nothing – in fact the reverse. I led the creatures to you. When the riders come back, tell them what happened. Tell them I rode north.'
'Why should I do that?'
'Two reasons. First it is the truth, and second they know already where I am heading.'
The man nodded and stirred the blaze to fresh life before adding more fuel.
'If they know, why do you travel there? They will be waiting.'
'Because I have no choice.'
'That is nonsense. Life is all about choice. From here you can ride in any direction.
'I gave my word.'
The ferryman smiled in understanding. 'That I cannot argue with. Nor would I try. But I am intrigued by it – what could make a man give such an oath?'
'Stupidity cannot be ruled out,' said Waylander.
'But you are not stupid.'
'All men are stupid. We plan as if we will live for ever. We think our efforts can match the mountains. But we fool ourselves – we count for nothing and the world never changes.'
'I detect bitterness, Waylander. But your deeds do not match your words. Whatever quest you are engaged upon must count. Else why risk your life?'
'Whether I succeed or fail, within a hundred years – maybe less – no one will remember the deed. No one will care. I can bring an hour's sunshine to a mountain-side; if I fail, it will bring an hour's rain. Does the mountain care?'
'Perhaps not,' said the ferryman, 'but you care. And that is enough. There is too little caring in the world – too much greed and violence. I like to see things grow. I like to hear laughter.'
'You are a romantic, ferryman.'
'My name is Gurion,' said the man, extending his hand.
Waylander took it and grinned. 'And I was once called Dakeyras.'
'You too are a romantic, Dakeyras, because only romantics stay true to their word despite the world. It ought to make us stronger, but it does not. Honour is a weighty chain that slows us down.'
'A philosopher and a romantic, Gurion? You should be a teacher, not a ferryman.'
'What is your quest, Dakeyras?'
'I seek the Armour of Bronze.'
'For what purpose?'
'There is a Drenai general named Egal and I am to deliver it to him. It will aid him in his war.'
'I have seen it.'
'You have been to Raboas?'
'Once, many years ago. It is a chamber deep in the caves. But it is guarded.'
'By the Nadir?'
'No, by creatures far worse – werebeasts that live in darkness at the centre of the mountain.
'How then did you see it?'
'I was with my wife's people, the Wolfshead; there were fifty of us. It was a marriage ceremony: the Khan's youngest son. He wanted to see the legendary Armour.'
'I am surprised the Nadir did not remove it.'
'They could not,' said Gurion. 'Did you know? It does not exist.'
'Speak plainly, man.'
'The Armour is an image; you can pass your hands through it. The real Armour is said to be hidden somewhere in the mountain, but no man knows where. All that can be seen is a ghostly, shimmering vision and that is why it is worshipped.'
Waylander said nothing. He stared into the fire, lost in thought.
'I thought you knew where the real Armour was hidden,' said Gurion.
Waylander chuckled and shook his head, then he began to laugh. Gurion turned away as the sadness touched him.
'Curse all romantics,' said Waylander as the laughter left him. 'May they rot in seven hells!'
'You don't mean that,' said Gurion.
Waylander swept his fingers through his hair and stood.
'I cannot begin to tell you how tired I am. I feel I am drowning in a sea of quicksand, and my friends are helping me by tying rocks to my legs. You understand? I am a killer, who kills for money. Does that sound romantic? I am a hunter of men. Yet here I am being hunted … by men and beasts, and spirits of the dark. According to my friend Dardalion, my quest serves the Source. You have heard of the Source?' Gurion nodded. 'Well, let me tell you, my friend, that serving the Source is not easy. You cannot see him or hear him, and certainly he offers no help in his own cause.'
'He led you to my ferry,' offered Gurion.
Waylander chuckled. 'My enemies can soar into the night like invisible demons, conjure wolf-creatures from Hell and read minds. On our side is a God that can lead a man to a ferry!'
'And yet you still live.'
'For now, Gurion. Tomorrow is another day.'
20
Dardalion turned away from Astila and leaned on the broad-silled window. Like all the windows of the Keep it tapered from a broad base to a narrow slit, built for defence rather than for view or light. An archer could loose a shaft to the left, right or centre, covering a wide angle of attack; whereas the attackers could gain no access to the Keep through it nor, unless by a freak of chance, loose their arrows past the crack. Dardalion leaned on his elbows and stared at the ramparts below.
Once more blood and death stalked the walls, but the defenders were holding. Beyond the wall lay the charred remains of two Vagrian siege towers, blackened corpses scattered about them. A third siege tower was being hauled slowly towards the ramparts, and the defenders waited with oil and fire. Beyond the towers a second Vagrian army sat and waited the command to attack. Dardalion blinked and transferred his gaze to the grey stone of the window.
'Why will you not hear me, Dardalion?' asked Astila.
Dardalion turned. 'I hear you, my brother, but I cannot help you.'
'We need you here. We are dying. Seven now have gone to the Source and we need your strength.'
'Waylander also needs me. I cannot desert him.'
'We are losing heart, Dardalion.' Astila slumped to the narrow bed and sat with his head in his hands. For the first time Dardalion noticed the fatigue in the blond priest: the bowed shoulders, the purple smears under the once bright eyes. He left the window and sat beside Astila.
'I can only do so much, and there is so much to do. I truly believe that Waylander's quest is the answer for the Drenai. I cannot explain why. But through all my prayers the Armour returns to haunt me and night after night I see it shining in that dark cave. Yet despite its importance we have only one man seeking it for us. One man, Astila! And ranged against him are the Brotherhood, the Nadir, and now unholy creatures … He has no chance without me. Try to understand. Please try.'
Astila said nothing for a moment, then looked up and met Dardalion's gaze. His bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.
'You are the leader and I will follow you to death and beyond. But I tell you the end is very close. I say this without arrogance, but I am the strongest of the brothers and yet I am finished. If I travel the night, I shall not return. If that is your wish, so be it. But believe me, Dardalion, it is The Thirty or Waylander. I stand by your judgement.'
Dardalion laid his arm on Astila's shoulder. 'I also am at the limits of my power. It costs me greatly to hold the shield over Waylander. And I cannot break it, not even for you.'
'I understand,' said Astila dully. 'I will go and prepare for the night.'
'No. We must accept that we have lost the greater battle – merely put a shield on Karnak and those of his officers we can cover.'
'The Brotherhood will have the run of the fortress.'
'So be it. These are strong men, Astila. Good men. They will stand, even against the despair-clouds.'
'You believe that? Truly?'
'What else is there to believe when we are bereft of choice? Some will falter, some will die. Others will fight back. I cannot believe that evil will triumph. I cannot.'
'It has triumphed elsewhere and now the land is in ruins.'
'It has not triumphed here, Astila.'
>
'The war is not yet over, Dardalion.'
Jonat's sleep was plagued with bad dreams and he awoke with a start. He had seen his dead father dance as they cut him down from the gallows tree, his face purple, his tongue distended. Yet still he danced as the nobles laughed and threw copper coins – the nobles, dining on larks' tongues while his father begged for bread; paying more for a goblet of wine than his family saw in a month. Jeering, mocking.
He sat up, shivering. High on the walls Karnak walked with Gellan and Dundas. Jonat spat.
If only they had listened to him a year ago, the Vagrians would never have invaded. But the nobles thought differently. Cut down the Legion. Throw soldiers out of honest work. Let them starve, for the farms could not support them all. And who cared about the common soldier? No one. Least of all silk-robed noblemen with their gem-encrusted swords. What would they do if all the common soldiers went home? Both Vagrian and Drenai? Would the nobles fight among themselves? No. The game would be over, the fun spoiled.
He was jerked from his thoughts by Gellan's arrival. The officer sat down beside him.
'I saw you were awake. Mind if I join you?'
'Why not?'
'How are you faring?'
'Well enough.'
'I wish I was. I don't think I can handle too many days like today. You ever feel like that?'
'Sometimes. It'll pass, sir – when the first attack comes tomorrow.'
'I hope so. You did well today, Jonat; you held them together when all seemed lost. Not many men could have done that. It's a gift and I saw it in you from the first. I'm proud of you – I mean that. That's why I promoted you.'
'Not because I was a rabble-rouser?' snapped Jonat.
'No. You were what you were because you cared. You cared about the Legion, the real Legion, the men. And you had drive and energy and you commanded respect. An officer needs respect. The title is nothing unless the man is right. You were right. You are right.'
'But not right by birth,' said Jonat.
'I neither know nor care about your ancestry, but if it matters to you then let me tell you that my father was a fishmonger. No more than that. And I am proud of him, because he slaved to give me an education.'
'My father was a drunk – he was hung for riding a nobleman's horse.'
'You are not your father.'
'Damned right I am not! And I tell you this: I'll never serve another king.'
'Nor I. But that's a battle for another day. Now I am going to get some sleep.'
As Gellan stood, Jonat grinned. 'Was your father really a fishmonger?'
'No, he was an earl. I just said it to annoy you.'
'I would sooner believe that.'
'So would I. Good night, Jonat.'
'Good night, sir.'
'By the way, Dardalion says the priests can no longer hold back the power of the Brotherhood. He says to watch out for signs of despair among the men – the enemy will work on the weak. So keep an eye out.'
'I will.'
'I know. I have no worries about your section.'
Gellan moved away into the darkness and chuckled softly. His father had owned five fishing fleets and Gellan wondered how the earl would have relished the title of fishmonger.
Waylander slept for an hour, then saddled his horse and bade farewell to the ferryman. The night was clear and the distant mountains loomed like the wall at the end of the world.
'Take care,' offered Gurion, extending his hand.
'And you, my friend. Were I you, I'd head back across the river. Those beasts are hunting me – they'll not be back to trouble you.'
For three days he rode warily, covering his tracks as best he could, angling along swift-moving streams and over rocky slopes, disguising both his scent and his spoor. But he doubted his efforts would do more than delay his demonic pursuers. Added to this, he had to watch out for human foes.
Twice he stopped at Notas camps and once shared a meal with a small group of hunters. The four men had greeted him coolly and considered robbing him. But there was something about the tall southlander which kept them at bay – not his bow, his knives or his sword, more a calculating look in his eyes and a subtle confidence in his stance. So they had fed him and watched him depart with evident relief.
At nightfall a larger band of Nadir descended on the hunters, questioning them at length before killing them horribly.
The bodies were discovered the following day by nine Brotherhood warriors whose arrival disturbed the vultures. The riders did not stay long.
Towards dusk the first of the Shapeshifters came upon the scene, drawn by the scent of blood. Saliva dripped from its maw and its red eyes gleamed. The vultures scattered as it approached, their great wings flapping to lift their bloated bodies from the ground. Through superhuman efforts they made their way to the branches of surrounding trees, where they glowered down at the new invaders.
The other wolf-beasts emerged from the undergrowth and approached the remains. One pushed its snout into the bloody carcasses and, overcome by hunger, closed its jaws upon a piece of meat and bone. Then it coughed and spat the flesh from its mouth. Its howl rent the air.
And the four beasts loped towards the north.
Forty miles on, Waylander was close to the southern edge of the mountain range. Here the Steppes were jagged, deep canyons appearing and slashing across the land like a gigantic knife-cut. Trees and streams abounded within the canyons and, here and there, deserted huts and houses dotted the landscape. Wild sheep and goats grazed on the slopes, while to the north-east Waylander saw a herd of wild horses cropping grass beside a waterfall.
Urging his mount onward, he descended the slope into a shaded wood.
The land here was good, richer than the arid Steppes, the thick, black earth as fertile as any on the Sentran Plain. Yet there were no farms. No grain or wheat, nor fruit trees, nor golden corn.
For the Nadir were a nomadic race: hunters, warriors and killers who built nothing, caring little for the bleakness of their future. 'Conquer or die' was the most common phrase among the tribes. Though ultimately, Waylander realised, the phrase should have been conquer and die.
What future could there be for a people of no foundation?
Where were the books, the poems, the architecture, the philosophy? All the vast panoply of civilisation?
The Nadir were doomed – the future dust of history, bonded by blood and war and skimming across the surface of the planet like a vicious storm.
What purpose did they serve, he wondered? Scattered tribes full of hate, warring one upon the other, they could never be welded into one people.
That, at least, was a small blessing, for it meant that never would the tribesmen trouble the peoples of the south. But then they had troubles enough of their own.
Waylander made a brief camp in a cave at the far side of the canyon. Taking a stiff brush from his saddlebag, he worked to ease the burrs from his horse's back and then led him to water. He prepared a small fire and made some broth from his dried meat before snatching two hours' sleep. Back in the saddle, he started on the long climb out of the canyon. He studied his back trail often and now, for the first time since leaving the ferry, he saw his pursuers. As he crested the skyline to the north, they were entering the canyon from the south.
There appeared to be about twenty Nadir riders.
Waylander rode on. They were some four hours behind him, but he would increase that distance during the night.
He did not fear the pursuit, but ahead of him towered Raboas, the Sacred Giant, and here was the end of the journey where hunter and hunted were destined to meet.
His thoughts swung to Cadoras. Why had the assassin thrown his life away to rescue a man he hardly knew, a man he was pledged to kill? What had prompted an ice-cool killer to act in such a way?
Then he chuckled.
What had prompted Waylander to rescue Dardalion? Why had he fought so hard to protect Danyal and the children? Why was he now riding towards the certainty
of the grave in such a foolhardy and impossible quest?
Danyal's face floated before his eyes, to be replaced in an instant by the bearded, heavy features of Durmast. He remembered once more the vision in the fire, but could not bring himself to believe it. Yet had not Durmast killed women? Children?
The horse plodded on and the sun sank beyond the western horizon. The night air was chill and Waylander pulled his cloak from his saddle roll and swept it over his shoulders. With the coming of night, his fear of the wolfbeasts grew. Where were they now?
His eyes flicked from left to right, and he swung in the saddle to study his back trail in the fast fading light. Hefting his crossbow, he resisted the temptation to load it. Lengthy stress on the metal arms would weaken the weapon, and for these beasts he needed it at full strength.
The moon blazed her white light as the clouds cleared, illuminating a thickly wooded hillside. Waylander had no wish to enter the trees during dark, but the tree-line stretched on far to the west and east. With a whispered curse, he flicked the reins and rode on.
Once inside the wood, he found his heart beating faster and his breathing increasing in speed as panic struggled to overcome him. Moonlight blazed ahead, silver shafts shining through the breaks in overhead branches. His horse's hooves thudded dully on the soft loam, and to the left a badger broke through the undergrowth and ambled across his trail, its fur bathed in light which turned it to silver armour. Waylander swore and gave in to the temptation to load his crossbow.
Suddenly a wolf's howl shattered the silence of the night. Waylander jerked and one of his bolts flew from the crossbow, slicing up through the branches overhead.
'You dolt!' he told himself. 'Get a grip, man!'
Slipping a second bolt home, he re-strung the bow. The howling came from some distance to the east, and from the sound Waylander guessed that a wolf-pack had cornered its quarry – possibly a stag – and the last battle was under way. The wolves would have chased the beast for many miles, tiring it and sapping the strength from its great muscles. Now it was at bay.
Waylander rode on, but the wolves fell silent and the assassin knew that the prey had eluded them once more. He dragged on the reins, not wishing to cross the line of the chase. His horse whinnied and tried to turn, but Waylander hauled him back.
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