Waylander

by David Gemmell

  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

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  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

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  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 Darda-lion? 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

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  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. Way-lander 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 wolfs 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

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  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.

  A running figure emerged from the trees some thirty paces ahead. He was wounded, and dragged his left foot; in his hands was a huge wooden club. A wolf burst into view and leapt. The man turned, the club flashing in the moonlight to crunch against the wolfs ribs, stoving them in. It landed with a thud ten feet away from him.

  He was big, bigger than any man Waylander had ever seen, and he appeared to be wearing a grue­some mask decorated with a white sphere at the forehead. The lower part of the mask had a lipless mouth, lined with fangs. Waylander could not see him clearly, but he did not look like a Nadir.

  More wolves came into sight and the man bellowed his fury and frustration, then limped to a tree and turned to face the pack. They spread out in a cautious semi-circle and crept in upon him. Suddenly one darted from the right and he turned to meet it. Immediately another beast sprinted from the left and leapt. The man fell back as the jaws snapped shut just short of his throat. He lashed out with his club, but a third wolf ran forward.

  A crossbow bolt flashed through its neck, and it slumped to the ground.

  Waylander yelled at the top of his voice and spurred the horse into a gallop. The wolves scat­tered, but not before a second beast died with a bolt through its brain.

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  The man at the tree sagged and fell forward. Way-lander sprang from the saddle and tied the reins to a stout bush. He reloaded the crossbow and scanned the undergrowth. The wolves were gone ... for now.

  He moved to the man, who was now kneeling, his hand clamped to a badly bleeding wound on his upper arm.

  'You are lucky, my friend,' said Waylander.

  The man looked up ... and Waylander blanched.

  He was wearing no mask. He had but a single eye at the centre of his forehead, wherein were two pupils each rimmed with gold iris. His nose was missing; two membrane-covered slits stretched beneath his eye. And his mouth was nightmare.

  Shaped l
ike an upturned V, it was lined with fangs sharp as arrow points. Once Waylander had seen a huge white fish with a mouth such as this, and he had never forgotten it. It had filled him with fear at the time, and made him vow never to enter the sea.

  But this?

  His crossbow was ready and he contemplated step­ping back and loosing both bolts into the man-crea­ture before it could attack him. But his great round eye closed and he slid to the ground.

  It was almost too good an opportunity to miss and Waylander backed to his horse, ready to ride away. But he could not. Some contrariness in his nature made him stop and return to the wounded thing.

  As he had with Dardalion so long before, Way­lander stitched the wounds to the creature's arm and leg and then bandaged them as best he could. He was naked, but for a moth-eaten loincloth of old fur, and Waylander wrapped him in a blanket and prepared a fire.

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  After an hour the creature's eyes opened and he sat up. Waylander offered him some dry meat and he took it without a word. The fangs closed on it and it disappeared.

  'Can you talk?' asked Waylander.

  The great eye merely looked at him. Waylander shrugged and passed more jerked beef which van­ished instantly into the cavernous mouth.

  'Can you understand me?'

  The creature nodded.

  'I cannot stay to help you. I am being hunted. Beasts and men. You understand?'

  The creature lifted his hand and pointed south.

  'That's right, they are coming from the south. I must go, but I will leave you food.'

  Waylander walked to his horse, stood for a mo­ment and then unpacked his blanket roll, removed two long hunting knives which were bone-handled ^and razor-sharp. He took them back to the fire. 'Here. You may need these.' The man-creature reached out. His fingers were incredibly long, the nails curved into dark talons which curled around the bone hilts as he raised the knives to his eye. His reflection came back at him and he blinked and looked away; then he nodded and pushed himself to his feet, towering over Waylander.

  The assassin swallowed hard. It was difficult to read the expression on the monster's face, but Way­lander was uncomfortably aware of the two knives in his hands.

  'Goodbye, my friend,' he said, forcing a smile.

  He went to his horse and stepped into the saddle, wrenching the reins clear of the bush. The creature moved forward, its jaws moving and a low grunting noise issuing forth which caused Waylander's mount

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  to back away. The creature's head tilted to one side with the effort he was making.

  'Udai rend,' he said. Not understanding, Way-lander nodded and moved away.

  'Urbye vrend.'

  Understanding at last, Waylander turned in the saddle and waved.

  'Goodbye, friend,' he called and rode into the darkness.

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  21

  On the mountain pass east of Purdol, two young men ate a breakfast of cheese and bread while swap­ping tall stories concerning the legendary whores of Purdol Docks. The sun was shining and the taller of the two - a five-year soldier named Tarvic - stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff path, staring out over the desert to the north. He had been ple­ased to get this assignment; watching a cliff path was a lot less dangerous than defending a rampart.

  He was still grinning when an arrow entered his throat and punched up through the roof of his mouth and into his brain.

  The second soldier looked round as he staggered back, his hands twitching.

  'What's wrong, Tarvic?' called Milis. As Tarvic fell back, his head bouncing from a jagged white rock, Milis saw the arrow and his mouth dropped open. The fear surged through him and he began to run. An arrow chipped him from the rock to his right and flashed by his face. Legs pumping hard, Milis sprinted towards the cave. Something hit him hard in the back, but it did not slow him.

  The cave entrance loomed and twice more he was struck from behind, but there was no pain and he made his way into the security of the tunnel. Safe at last, he slowed his pace.

  His face crashed into the rocky floor as the ground

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  leapt up at him. He tried to rise, but his arms had no strength. He began to crawl, but hands pulled at him, turning him over.

  'The Vagrians are coming,' he said.

  'I know,' said the Vagrian, drawing his knife across Milis' throat.

  He was alone, as he had always been alone. He sat by the murky waters of a lily-covered pond and stared at his reflection in the silver steel blade of the hunting knife. He knew he was a monster; the word had been hurled at him since the beginning - along with stones, spears and arrows. He had been hunted by horsemen carrying lances, by wolves with sharp fangs and cunning minds, and by the long-toothed snow tigers which came down from the mountains with the winter ice.

  But he had never been caught. For his speed was legend and his strength terrifying.

  He pushed his broad back against the bole of a willow and lifted his great head at stare at the twin moons high above the trees. He knew by now there was only one moon, but the pupils of his huge eye could never focus as true eyes. He had learned to live with that, as he had learned to live with the other savage gifts nature had bestowed on him.

  For some reason his memory was sharper than most, although he did not realise it. He could remember vividly the moment of his birth, and the face of the old woman who guided him into the world from the black-red tunnel of the Void. She had screamed and let him fall and he had hurt himself, twisting his arm under his body and hitting the edge of a wooden bed.

  A man entered then and picked him from the

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  floor. He had taken a knife, but another woman's scream had stopped him dead.

  For a little while he remembered feeding at the breast of a dark-haired, sad-eyed young girl. But then his teeth grew, pointed and sharp - red blood had mixed with the milk and the girl had cried as she fed him.

  It was not long before he was carried out into the night and left under the stars, listening to the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance. Fading, dying . . .

  Still the sound of hooves on dry earth filled him with sadness.

  He had no name and no future.

  Yet something had come from the mountains and drawn him into the darkness . . .

  There were many of them, skittering and screech­ing, touching and pinching, and he had grown among them through the Darkness years, rarely seeing the light of day.

  And then, on a summer morning, he heard a lilting cry from Outside echoing down a crack in the rocks and reverberating in the tunnels of the mountain heart. He was lured by the sound and he climbed out into the light. High overhead, great white birds were wheeling and diving, and in their cries he felt his life encapsulated. From that moment he saw himself as Kai and he spent many hours each day lying on the high rocks watching for the white birds, waiting for them to call his name.

  Then began the Long years as his strength grew. Nadir tribes would gather near the mountains and pass on to greener meadows and deeper streams. But while they camped he watched them, seeing the

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  children at play, the women arm-in-arm and laugh­ing as they strolled.

  Sometimes he strayed too close and the laughter would become familiar screams and the hunters would ride. Kai would run, and then turn, and rend and tear until he was alone once more.

  How many years, he wondered, had he lived thus?

  The forest in which he now sat had been a small wood of slender trees. Was that a long time? He had no terms of reference. One tribe had camped for longer than most and he had watched one young girl as she grew to womanhood, her hair turning grey and her back becoming bent. They lived such short lives, these Nadir.

  Kai stared at his hands. Special hands these, he knew. Slowly he unwrapped the bandage from his arm and plucked out the stitches Waylander had placed there. Blood eased from the wound, then ran freely. Kai covered the gash with his hand and concentrated deeply
. A strong sense of heat grew over the area, like a thousand tiny needles probing the flesh. After several minutes he removed his hand . . . And the gash was gone, the skin supple and unblemished by scab or scar. Removing the ban­dage and stitches from his leg, he repeated the process.

  Strong again, he rose smoothly to his feet and breathed deeply. He could have killed the wolves eventually, but the man had helped him, and given him the knives.

  Kai had no need of knives. He could run down an antelope and destroy it with his hands and tear its warm flesh with his fangs. What need of shiny metal?