'Good day, Dakeyras,' said Dardalion, and there was no welcome in his voice.
'And to you, Dardalion. You are looking well.'
'That will be all, Vishna,' said the Abbot, and the tall, white-robed priest bowed and departed. 'Sit you down,' Dardalion told his visitor, but the man remained standing, his dark eyes scanning the room, the shelves packed with ancient tomes, the open cupboards bursting with manuscripts and scrolls, the dust-covered rugs and the decaying velvet hangings at the high, arched window. 'I study here,' said Dardalion.
The door opened and Magnic entered, bearing a tray on which stood a bottle of wine, two loaves of black bread and a hunk of blue-veined cheese. Placing them on the desk the blond priest bowed and departed.
'They are nervous of me,' said Waylander. 'What have you told them?'
'I told them not to touch you.'
Waylander chuckled. 'You don't change, do you? Still the same priggish, pompous priest.' He shrugged. 'Well, that is your affair. I did not come here to criticise you. I came for information.'
'I can offer you none.'
'You don't know yet what I am going to ask. Or do you?'
'You want to know who hired the assassins and why.'
'That's part of it.'
'What else?' asked Dardalion, filling two goblets with wine and offering one to his guest. Waylander accepted it, taking the drink with his left hand, politely sipping the contents and then replacing the goblet on the desk top, there to be forgotten. The sound of clashing sword-blades rose up from the courtyard below. Waylander moved to the window and leaned out.
'Teaching your priests to fight? You do surprise me, Dardalion. I thought you were against such violence.'
'I am against the violence of evil. What else did you want to know?'
'I have not heard from Krylla since she moved away. You could . . . use your Talent and tell me if she is well.'
'No.'
'That is it? A simple no – not a word of explanation?'
'I owe you no explanations. I owe you nothing.'
'That's true,' said Waylander coldly. 'I saved your life, not once but many times, but you owe me nothing. So be it, priest. You are a fine example of religion in action.'
Dardalion reddened. 'Everything you did was for your own ends. I used all my powers to protect you. I watched my disciples die while I protected you. And yes, for once in your life you did the decent deed. Good for you! You don't need me, Waylander. You never did. Everything I believe in is mocked by your life. Can you understand that? Your soul is like a blazing torch of dark light, and I need to steel myself to stand in the same room as you, closing off my Talent lest your light corrupt me.'
'You sound like a windy pig, and your words smell about as fine,' snapped Waylander. 'Corrupt you? You think I haven't seen what you are doing here? You had armour made in Kasyra, and helms bearing runic numbers. Knives, bows, swords. Warrior priests: isn't that a contradiction, Dardalion? At least my violence is honest. I fight to stay alive. I no longer kill for hire. I have a daughter I am trying to protect. What is your excuse for teaching priests to kill?'
'You wouldn't understand!' hissed the Abbot, aware that his heartbeat was rising and that anger was threatening to engulf him.
'You are right again, Dardalion. I don't understand. But then I am not a religious man. I served the Source once, but then He discarded me. Not content with that He killed my wife. Now I see His . . . Abbot, isn't it? … playing at soldiers. No, I don't understand. But I understand friendship. I would die for those I love, and if I had a Talent like yours I would not deny it to them. Gods, man, I would not even deny it to a man I disliked.' Without another word the black-garbed warrior strode from the room.
Dardalion slumped back in his chair, fighting for calm. For some time he prayed. Then he meditated before praying again. At last he opened his eyes. 'I wish I could have told you, my friend,' he whispered. 'But it would have been too painful for you.'
Dardalion closed his eyes once more and let his spirit free. Passing through flesh and bone as if his body had become water he rose like a swimmer seeking air. High now above the Temple he gazed down on the grey castle and the tall hill upon which it stood, and he saw the town spread out around the foot of the hill, the narrow streets, the wide market square and the bear-pit beyond it, stained with blood. But his spirit eyes sought out the man who had been his friend. He was moving easily down the winding path towards the trees and Dardalion felt his sorrow, and his anger.
And the freedom of the sky could not mask the sadness which swept through the Abbot.
'You could have told him,' whispered the voice of Vishna in his mind.
'The balance is too delicate.'
'Is he so important, then?'
'Of himself? No,' answered Dardalion, 'but his actions now will change the future of nations – that I know. And I must not – will not – attempt to guide him.'
'What will he do when he finds out the truth?'
Dardalion shrugged. 'What he always does, Vishna. He will look for someone to kill. It is his way – a law made of iron. He is not evil, you know, but there is no compromise in him. Kings believe it is their will that guides history. They are wrong. In all great events there are men like Waylander. History may not recall them, but they are there.' He smiled. 'Ask any child who won the Vagrian War and they will tell you it was Karnak. But Waylander recovered the Armour of Bronze. Waylander slew the enemy general Kaem.'
'He is a man of power,' agreed Vishna. 'I could feel that.'
'He is the deadliest man I ever met. Those hunting him will find the truth of that, I fear.'
* * *
Waylander found his anger hard to control as he followed the winding hill path that led down to the forest. He paused and sat at the edge of the path. Anger blinds, he told himself. Anger dulls the senses! He took a deep, slow breath.
What did you expect of him?
More than I received.
It was galling, for he had loved the priest. And admired him – the gentleness of his soul, the bottomless well of forgiveness and understanding he could bring to bear. What changed you, Dardalion, he wondered. But he knew the answer, and it lay upon his heart with all the weight only guilt can muster.
Ten years ago he had found the young Dardalion being tortured by robbers. Against his better judgement he had rescued him, and in so doing had been drawn into the Vagrian War, helping Danyal and the children, finding the Armour of Bronze, fighting were-beasts and demonic warriors. The priest had changed his life. Dardalion had been pure then, a follower of the Source, unable to fight, even in order to survive, unwilling to eat meat. He could not even hate the men who tortured him, nor the vile enemy that swept across the land bringing blood and death to thousands.
Waylander had changed him. With the priest in a trance, his spirit hunted across the Void, Waylander had cut his own arm, holding it above Dardalion's face. And the blood had splashed to the priest's cheek, staining his skin and lips, flowing into his mouth. The unconscious Dardalion had reacted violently, his body arching in an almost epileptic spasm.
And he killed the demon spirit hunting him.
To save Dardalion's life, Waylander had sullied the priest's soul.
'You sullied me too,' whispered Waylander. 'You touched me with your purity. You shone a light on the dark places.' Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. From here he could see the town below, the small church a stone's throw from the bloodstained bear-pit, the timber-built homes and stables. He had no wish to journey there. South lay his home; south was where Danyal waited, silent among the flowers and the glittering falls.
Once under cover of the trees he relaxed a little, feeling the slow, eternal heartbeat of the forest all around him. What did these trees care for the hopes of Man? Their spirits were everlasting, born into the leaf, carried back to the ground, merging with the earth, feeding the tree, becoming leaves. An endless passive cycle of birth and rebirth through the eons. No murders here, no guilt. He felt
the weight of his weapons, and wished he could cast them all aside and walk naked in the forest, the soft earth beneath his feet, the warm sun upon his back.
A shout of pain came from some way to his left, followed by the sound of cursing. Stepping swiftly, knife in hand, he pushed back a screen of bushes and saw four men standing close to the mouth of a shallow cave some fifty paces away, at the foot of a gentle slope. Three were carrying wooden clubs, the fourth a shortsword which, even at this distance, Waylander could see was part-rusted.
'Bastard damn near took my arm off,' complained a burly balding man, blood dripping from a shallow wound in his forearm.
'We need a bow, or spears,' said another.
'Leave the beast. It's a demon,' said a third, backing away, 'and it's dying anyway.'
One by one they moved back from the cave mouth, but the last man stopped and threw a large stone into the dark recesses of the cave. A deep growl was heard and a huge hound appeared in the entrance, blood on its fangs. The men suddenly panicked and ran back up the slope. The first of them, the balding fat man with the injured arm, saw Waylander standing there and paused.
'Don't go down there, friend,' he said. "The dog is a killer.'
'Rabid?' queried Waylander.
'Nah. It was one of the pit dogs. There was a bear-fight this morning, damn fine one at that. But one of Jezel's hounds got loose. Worst of them too, part-wolf. We thought the bear had killed it and we were hauling the bodies out, but it wasn't dead. Bastard reared up and tore Jezel's throat away. Terrible thing. Terrible. Then it ran. The gods alone know how it managed it. Ripped up by the bear and all.'
'Not many dogs would turn on their owners that way,' observed Waylander.
'Pit dogs will,' said a second man, tall and skeletally thin. 'It's the training you see, the beatings and the starving and the like. Jezelis. . .was. . .a damn fine trainer. The best.'
'Thanks for the warning,' said Waylander.
'Not at all,' replied the thin man. 'You looking for lodgings for the night? I own the inn. We've a good room.'
'Thank you, no. I have no coin.'
The man's interest died instantly; with a swift smile he moved past Waylander and, followed by the others, strode off in the direction of the town. Waylander transferred his gaze to the hound, which had slumped exhausted to the grass and was now lying on its right side breathing hoarsely, its blood-covered flanks heaving.
Waylander moved slowly down the slope, halting some ten feet from the injured animal. From here he could see that its wounds were many, and its grey flanks carried other, older scars from claw and fang and whip. The hound gazed at him through baleful eyes, but its strength was gone, and when Waylander rose and moved to its side it managed only a weary growl.
'You can stop that,' said Waylander, gently stroking the hound's huge grey head. From the gashes and cuts he could see the dog had attacked the bear at least three times. There was blood seeping from four parallel rips in the hide, the skin peeled back exposing muscle and bone. Judging by the size of the clawmarks, the bear must have been large indeed. Sheathing his knife Waylander examined the injuries. There were muscle tears, but no broken bones that he could find.
Another low growl came from the hound as Waylander eased a flap of skin back into place, and the beast struggled to turn its head, baring its fangs. 'Lie still,' ordered the man. 'We'll see what can be done.' From a leather pouch at his belt Waylander removed a long needle and a thin length of twine, stitching the largest of the wounds, seeking to stem the flow of blood. At last satisfied he moved to the head, stroking the beast's ears. 'You must try to rise,' he said, keeping his voice low, soothing. 'I need to see your left side. Come on. Up, boy!' The hound struggled, but sank back to the earth, tongue lolling from its gaping jaws.
Waylander rose and moved outside to a fallen tree, cutting from it a long strip of bark, which he twisted into a shallow bowl. Nearby was a slender stream and he filled the bowl, carrying it back to the stricken hound, and holding it beneath the creature's mouth. The hound's nostrils quivered, and once more it struggled to rise. Waylander pushed his hands beneath the huge shoulders, helping it to its feet. The head drooped, the tongue slowly lapping at the water. 'Good,' said Waylander. 'Good. Finish it now.' There were four more jagged cuts on the hound's left side, but these were matted with dirt and clay, which had at least stopped the flow of blood.
Having finished drinking the exhausted hound sank back to the earth, its great head resting on its huge paws. Waylander sat beside the beast, which gazed up at him unblinking, and noted the many scars, old and new, which crisscrossed its flanks and head. The right ear had been ripped away some years before and there was a long, thick scar which ran from the hound's shoulder to the first joint of its right leg. 'By the gods, you're a fighter, boy,' said the man admiringly. 'And you're no youngster. What would you be? Eight? Ten? Well, those cowards made a mistake. You're not going to die, are you? You won't give them the satisfaction, will you?'
Reaching into his shirt the man pulled clear a wedge of smoked meat, wrapped in linen. 'This was to have lasted me another two days,' said Waylander, 'but I can live without a meal for a while. I'm not sure that you can.' Unfolding the linen he took his knife and cut a section of meat which he laid before the hound. The dog merely sniffed at it, then returned its brown gaze to the man. 'Eat, idiot,' said Waylander, lifting the meat and touching it to the hound's long canines. Its tongue snaked out and the man watched as the dog chewed wearily. Slowly, as the hours passed, he fed the rest of the meat to the injured hound. Then, with the light fading, he took a last look at the wounds. They were mostly sealed, though a thin trickle of blood was seeping from the deepest cut on the rear right flank.
That's all I can do for you, boy,' said Waylander, rising. 'Good luck to you. Were I you, I wouldn't stay here too long. Those oafs may decide to come back for some sport –and they could bring a bowman.' Without a backward glance the man left the hound and made his way back into the forest.
The moon was high when he found a place to camp, a sheltered cave where his fire could not be seen, and he sat long into the night, wrapped in his cloak. He had done what he could for the dog, but there was little chance it would survive. It would have to scavenge for food, and in its wounded state it would not be able to move far. If it had been stronger he would have encouraged it to follow him, taken it to the cabin. Miriel would have loved it. He recalled the orphaned fox cub she had mothered as a child. What was the name she gave it? Blue. That was it. It stayed near the cabin for almost a year. Then, one day, it just loped off and never returned. Miriel had been twelve then. It was just before . . .
The memory of the horse falling, rolling, the terrible scream . . .
Waylander closed his eyes, forcing the memories back, concentrating on a picture of little Miriel feeding the fox cub with bread dipped in warm milk.
Just before dawn he heard something moving at the cave entrance. Rolling to his feet he drew his sword. The grey wolfhound limped inside and settled down at his feet. Waylander chuckled and sheathed his sword. Squatting down he reached out to stroke the beast. The dog gave a low, warning growl and bared its fangs.
'By Heaven, I like you, dog,' said Waylander. 'You remind me of me.'
* * *
Miriel watched the ugly warrior as he trained, his powerful hands clasped to the branch, his upper body bathed in sweat. 'You see,' he said, hauling himself smoothly up, 'the movement must be fluid, feet together. Touch your chin to the wood and then lower – not too fast, mind. No strain. Let your mind relax.' His voice was even, no hint of effort in his actions.
He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side. Like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face, the smashed nose, the gashed, deformed lips, th
e swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.
But his face . . .
He dropped to the ground and grinned. 'Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty's not bad. What are you thinking?'
Caught offguard she blushed. 'You make it look so simple,' she said, averting her gaze.
In the three days she had been practising she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. 'You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.' Moving past her he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.
'What happened to your wife?' she asked suddenly.
'Which one?'
'How many have you had?'
'Three.'
'That's a little excessive, isn't it?' she snapped.
He chuckled. 'Seems that way now,' he agreed.
'What about the first one?'
He sighed. 'Hell-cat. By Heaven she could fight. Half-demon – and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was Drenai – I didn't believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.'
'Did she die?'
He nodded. 'Plague. She fought it, mind. All the swellings had gone, the discolouration. She'd even begun to get her hair back. Then she caught a chill and had no strength left to battle it. Died in the night. Peaceful.'
'Were you a gladiator then?'
'No. I was a merchant's book-keeper.'
Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf ds-5 Page 7