Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  “Does he have a name?” asked Camran.

  “He is the Gray Man,” she said. “That is all I know.”

  Camran moved away from her and stared back at the shadow-haunted trees. Okrian joined him. “He can’t be everywhere at once,” whispered Okrian. “Much will depend on which way we choose to travel. We were heading east, so perhaps we should change our plans.”

  The mercenary captain drew a map from the pocket of his saddlebag and opened it on the ground. They had been heading toward the eastern border and Qumtar, but now all Camran wished to see was an end to the tree line. On open ground the assassin could not overcome eight armed men. He studied the map in the moonlight. “The nearest edge of the forest is to the northeast,” he said. “Around two miles away. Once it is light, we’ll make for it.” Okrian nodded but did not reply.

  “What are you thinking?”

  The sergeant took a deep breath, then rubbed his hand across his face. “I was remembering the attack. Two crossbow bolts, one close upon the other. No time to reload. So either there’s two men or it must be a double-winged weapon.”

  “If there’d been two men, we’d have seen some sign as we rushed the undergrowth,” said Camran. “They couldn’t both have avoided us.”

  “Exactly. So it is one man who uses a double crossbow. One man, one skilled assassin who, having already killed the first two we sent, can then take out three tough men without being seen.”

  “I take it there is a point to this?” muttered Camran.

  “There was a man—years ago—who used such a weapon. Some say he was killed. Others claim he left the lands of the Drenai and bought himself a palace in Gothir territory. But perhaps he came instead to Kydor.”

  Camran laughed. “You think we are being hunted by Waylander the Slayer?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Gods, man, we’re two thousand miles from Gothir. No, this is just another hunter using a similar weapon. Whoever he is, we’re ready for him now,” said Camran. “Put two men on watch and tell the rest to get some sleep.”

  Camran moved to the girl, retied her hands and feet, then settled down on the ground. He had served in six campaigns and knew how important it was to rest whenever possible. Sleep did not come instantly. Instead he lay in the darkness thinking about what Okrian had said.

  Waylander. Even the name made him shiver. A legend back in the days of his youth, Waylander the Assassin was said to be a demon in human form. Nothing could stop him—not walls or armed guards, not spells. It was said that the terrifying priests of the Dark Brotherhood had hunted him. All had died. Werebeasts created by a Nadir shaman were sent after him. Even those he had slain.

  Camran shivered. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. Back then Waylander was said to be a man in his late thirties. If he was following them now, he would have to be a man close to sixty, and an old man could not kill and move as this one did.

  No, he decided, it could not be Waylander. With that thought he slept.

  He awoke suddenly and sat up. A shadow moved across him. Hurling himself to his right, he ducked and scrabbled for his sword. Something struck him on the brow, and he pitched back. Okrian shouted a battle cry and sprinted forward. Camran surged to his feet, sword in hand. Clouds covered the moon once more, but not before Camran saw a shadowy figure merge into the darkness of the trees.

  “Who was on watch?” shouted Camran. “By the gods, I’ll cut his bastard eyes out!”

  “No point in that,” said Okrian, pointing to a sprawled figure. Blood was pooling around the man. His throat had been slashed open. Another dead man was hunched by a boulder. “You’ve been wounded,” said Okrian. Blood was dripping from a shallow cut in Camran’s brow.

  “I ducked at the right moment,” said the captain. “Otherwise his blade would have opened my throat.” He glanced at the sky. “Another hour and it will be light.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to the bleeding wound on his brow.

  “I think I cut him,” said Okrian. “But he moved fast.”

  Camran continued to dab at his wound, but the blood was flowing freely. “You’ll have to stitch it,” he told Okrian.

  “Yes, sir.” The hulking sergeant moved to his horse, removing a medicine pouch from his saddlebag. Camran sat very still as Okrian went to work. He glanced at the four other surviving conscripts, sensing their fear. Even as the sun rose, there was no lessening of tension, for now they had to ride back into the forest.

  The sky was clear and bright as Camran stepped into the saddle, the hostage girl seated before him. He swung to his men. “If he attacks in daylight, we’ll kill him,” he said. “If not, we’ll be clear of the trees soon. He’ll stop following us then. He’ll not tackle six armed men on open ground.”

  His words did not convince them. But then, they did not convince him, either. They moved slowly toward the trees, found the trail, then picked up the pace, Camran in the lead and Okrian just behind him. They rode for half an hour. Okrian glanced back to see two riderless horses. He shouted an alarm. Panic touched them all then, and they began to ride faster, lashing their horses.

  Camran emerged from the trees and hauled on the reins. He was sweating now and could feel his heart beating wildly. Okrian and the other two surviving men drew their swords.

  A rider on a dark horse moved slowly from the trees, his long black cloak drawn closely around him. The four warriors sat very still as he approached. Camran blinked back sweat. The man’s face was strong and somehow ageless. He could have been anywhere from his thirties to his fifties. His gray hair, lightly streaked with black, was shoulder length, held back from his face by a black silk band tied about his brow. He was expressionless, but his dark eyes focused on Camran.

  He rode to within ten feet of them, then drew back on the reins, waiting.

  Camran felt the sting of salt sweat on his cut brow. His lips were dry, and he licked them. One gray-haired man against four warriors. The man could not survive. Why, then, the terrible fear causing Camran’s belly to cramp?

  In that moment the girl suddenly threw herself from the saddle. Camran tried to grab her, missed, and swung back to face the rider. In that briefest of moments the rider’s cloak flickered. His arm came up. Two crossbow bolts slammed into the riders on either side of Okrian. The first pitched from the saddle, and the second slumped forward, sliding over his horse’s neck. Okrian heeled his mount forward and charged at the rider. Camran followed, his saber extended. The man’s left hand flashed forward. A shining streak of silver light sped through the air, punching through Okrian’s left eye socket and into his brain. His body tipped back, his blade flying from his hand. Camran’s saber lanced out toward the assassin, but the man swayed in the saddle, the blade missing him by mere inches. Camran swung his mount.

  Something struck him in the throat. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Dropping his sword, he brought his hand up. Grabbing the hilt of the throwing knife, he dragged it clear of his flesh. Blood bubbled over his tunic. His horse reared, dumping him to the grass. As he lay there, choking on his own blood, a face appeared above his own.

  It was the girl.

  “I told you,” she said.

  The dying man watched in horror as her bound hands lifted the blood-drenched throwing knife, raising it above his face. “This is for the women,” she said.

  And the blade swept down.

  1

  WAYLANDER SWAYED IN the saddle, the weight of weariness and pain bearing down on him, washing away the anger. Blood from the gashed wound to his left shoulder had flowed over his chest and stomach, but this had halted now. The wound in his side, however, was still bleeding. He felt light-headed and gripped the saddle pommel, taking slow, deep breaths.

  The village girl was kneeling by the dead raider. He heard her say something, then watched as she took up his throwing knife in her bound hands and rammed it into the man’s face over and over again. Waylander looked away, his vision blurring.

  Fifteen years earlier he would
have hunted those men down and emerged without a scratch. Now his wounds throbbed, and with the fury gone, he felt empty, devoid of emotion. With great care he dismounted. His legs almost gave way, but he kept hold of the pommel and sagged against the steeldust gelding. Anger at his weakness flared, giving him a little strength. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a small pouch of blue linen and moved to a nearby boulder. His fingers were trembling as he opened the pouch. He sat quietly for a few heartbeats, breathing deeply, then unfastened his black cloak, letting it drop back to drape over the boulder. The girl came alongside him. Blood had splashed to her face and into her long dark hair. Waylander drew his hunting knife and cut the ropes binding her wrists. The skin beneath was raw and bleeding.

  Twice he tried to sheathe his blade, but his vision was misting, and he placed the knife on the boulder beside him. The girl peered at his torn leather tunic shirt and the bloodstains on it. “You are hurt,” she said. Waylander nodded. Unbuckling his belt, he reached up with his right hand and tried to pull his shirt over his head, but there was no strength left. Swiftly she stepped in, lifting the garment clear. There were two wounds: a shallow cut from the top of his left shoulder down past the collarbone, and a deeper puncture wound that had entered just above his left hip and exited at the back. Both holes were plugged with tree moss, but blood was still oozing from the wounds. Waylander reached for the crescent needle embedded in the blue linen pouch. As his fingers touched it, darkness swept over him.

  When first he opened his eyes, he wondered why the needle was shining so brightly and why it was floating before his eyes. Then he realized he was staring at the crescent moon in a clear night sky. His cloak had been laid over him, and beneath his head was a pillow fashioned from a folded blanket. A fire was burning close by, and he could smell the savory scent of woodsmoke. As he tried to move, pain erupted in his shoulder, stitches stretching against tortured flesh. He sagged back.

  The girl moved alongside him, stroking his hair from his sweat-drenched brow.

  Waylander closed his eyes and slept again, floating in a sea of dreams. A giant creature with the face of a wolf bore down on him. He shot two crossbow bolts into its mouth. A second came at him. With no weapons at hand, he leapt at the beast, his hands grasping for its throat. It shifted and changed, becoming a slender woman whose neck snapped as his hands gripped hard. He cried out in agony, then looked around. The first dead beast also had changed. He had become a small boy, lying dead in a meadow of spring flowers. Waylander looked at his hands. They were covered in blood, which flowed up over his arms, covering his chest and neck, streaming over his face and into his mouth, choking him. He spit it out, struggling for breath, and staggered to a nearby stream, hurling himself into it, trying to wash the blood from his face and body.

  A man was sitting on the bank. “Help me!” called Waylander.

  “I cannot,” said the man. He stood and turned away, and Waylander saw two crossbow bolts jutting from his back.

  The terrible dreams continued, dreams of blood and death.

  When he awoke, it was still dark, but he felt stronger. Moving with care to protect the stitches, he rolled to his right and pushed himself to a sitting position. The second wound above his hip flared with pain, and he grunted.

  “Are you feeling better?” the girl asked him.

  “A little. Thank you for helping me.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “What is so amusing?” he asked.

  “You rode after thirteen men and suffered these wounds to come to my rescue. And you thank me? You are a strange man, lord. Are you hungry?” He realized that he was. In fact, he was ravenous. She took a stick and rolled three large clay balls from the fire. Cracking open the first with a sharp blow, she knelt down and examined the contents. Looking up at him, she smiled. It was a pretty smile, he thought.

  “What do you have there?” he asked.

  “Pigeons. I killed them yesterday. They are a little too fresh, but there was no other food. My uncle taught me how to cook them in clay, but I have not tried it in years.”

  “Yesterday? How long have I been sleeping?”

  “On and off for three days.”

  Satisfied that the first pigeon was cooked, she cracked open the other two balls. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. Waylander felt almost sick with hunger. They waited impatiently until the meat had cooled, then devoured the birds. The flavor of the dark meat was strong, the texture not unlike that of aged beef.

  “Who is Tanya?” she asked.

  He looked at her, and his eyes were cold. “How do you know that name?”

  “You cried out in your sleep.”

  He did not answer at first, and she did not press him. Instead she built up the fire and sat quietly, a blanket around her shoulders.

  “She was my first wife,” he said at last. “She died. Her grave is a long way from here.”

  “Did you love her greatly?”

  “Aye. Greatly. You are very curious.”

  “How else does one find out what one wishes to know?”

  “I cannot argue with that.” She was about to speak, but he raised his hand. “And let that be an end to questions on this matter,” he said.

  “As you will, lord.”

  “I am not a lord. I am a landowner.”

  “Are you very old? Your hair is gray, and there are lines on your face. But you move like a young man.”

  “What is your name?” he asked her.

  “Keeva Taliana.”

  “Yes, I am old, Keeva Taliana. Older than sin.”

  “Then how is it that you could kill all those men? They were young and strong and fierce as devils.”

  Suddenly he felt weary again. She was instantly full of concern. “You must drink lots of water,” she said. “My uncle told me that. Loss of blood, lots of water.”

  “A wise man, your uncle. Did he also teach you to use your elbow as a weapon?”

  “Yes. He taught me many things, none of which were terribly useful when the raiders came.” Fetching a canteen from a saddle on the ground close by, she held it out to him.

  Waylander took it from her and drank deeply. “Do not be so sure,” he said. “You are alive. The others are not. You stayed cool and used your mind.”

  “I was lucky,” she said, a note of anger appearing in her voice.

  “Yes, you were. But you planted the seed of fear in the leader. For that he kept you alive.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You told him the Gray Man was coming.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was there when he told his sergeant what you had said. I was about to slay them both when the sergeant grabbed you by the hair and dragged you back to the fire. That caught me out of position. Had you not crushed that man’s nose, I would not have had time to come to your aid. So yes, you were lucky. But you made the best use of that luck.”

  “I did not see you or hear you,” she said.

  “Neither did they.” Then he lay back and slept again.

  When he awoke, she was snuggled down alongside him, sleeping peacefully. It was pleasant to be that close to another human being, and he realized he had been alone too long. Easing himself away from her, he rose to his feet and pulled on his boots. As he did so, a group of crows detached themselves from the bodies of the dead and rose into the air, cawing raucously. The sound woke Keeva. She sat up, smiled at him, then moved away behind the boulders. Waylander saddled two of the horses she had tethered, the effort causing his wounds to throb.

  He was still angry about the first wound to his shoulder. He should have guessed the leader would send out a rear guard. They had almost taken him. The first had been crouched on a tree branch above the trail, the second hiding in the bushes. Only the scraping of the first man’s boot on the bark above had alerted him. Bringing up his crossbow, he had sent a bolt into the man as he had leapt. It had entered at the belly, slicing up through the heart. The man had fallen almos
t on top of Waylander, his sword slashing across his shoulder. Luckily, the man had been dead as the blow struck, and there was no real force in it. The second man had lunged from the bushes, a single-bladed ax in his hand. The steeldust gelding had reared, forcing the attacker back. In that moment Waylander had sent the second bolt through the man’s forehead.

  You are getting old and slow, he chided himself. Two clumsy assassins and they almost had you.

  It had probably been this anger that had led him to attack their camp, a need to prove to himself that he could still move as once he had. Waylander sighed. He had been lucky to escape with his life. Even so, one of the men had managed to slam a blade into his hip. An inch or so higher and he would have been disemboweled; a few inches lower and the blade would have sliced the femoral artery, killing him for sure.

  Keeva returned, smiling and waving as she came. He felt a touch of guilt. He had not known at first that the raiders had a captive. He had hunted them purely because they had raided his lands. Her rescue, though it gave him great pleasure, had been merely a fluke, a fortunate happenstance.

  Keeva rolled the blankets and tied them to the back of her saddle. Then she brought him his cloak and weapons. “Do you have a name, lord?” she asked. “Apart from the Gray Man.”

  “I am not a lord,” he said, ignoring her question.

  “Yes, Gray Man,” she said with an impudent smile. “I will remember that.”

  How resilient the young are, he thought. Keeva had witnessed death and destruction, had been raped and abused, and was now miles from home in the company of a stranger. Yet she could still smile. Then he looked into her dark eyes and saw beneath the smile the traces of sorrow and fear. She was making a great effort to appear carefree, to charm him. And why not? he thought. She is a peasant girl with no rights save those her master allows her, and those are few. If Waylander were to rape and kill her, there would be no inquest and few questions asked. In essence he owned her as if she were a slave. Why would she not seek to please him?