Waylander

by David Gemmell

  He rolled to his feet and saw that the bush where his mount had been tethered had been uprooted. The beast must have been terrified. But by what?

  Waylander strung his crossbow and scanned the undergrowth.

  He could see nothing untoward, but closed his eyes and listened. From the right he heard a faint rustling.

  He spun and loosed both bolts as the werewolf rose and charged. The bolts thudded home, but the corded muscles of the beast's great chest prevented them reaching the heart and lungs and its advance continued unchecked.

  Waylander dived to his right, and a second beast

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  reared above him. He rolled to his feet, his sword slicing out and bouncing from the creature's head.

  He backed away as the four beasts advanced, their great jaws open, tongues lolling and red eyes fixed upon him. Gripping his sword two-handed, he raised it over his right shoulder, ready to take at least one of them with him.

  A dark shadow reared up behind them and Way-lander blinked as a massive hand grabbed a furry neck and squeezed. A terrible howl began and was cut short as the werewolf was lifted from the ground. A silver knife plunged between its ribs and the corpse was hurled ten feet into the bushes> The other beasts swung on the attacker, but with one bound he was among them and a second knife thudded home, disembowelling the creature which had been Lenlai the possessed. Fangs fastened on Kai's shoulder as a third beast leapt at him. He tore it loose, curling his huge hands around its throat and dangling it before him. Waylander winced as he heard the neck creak and snap, then Kai tossed the corpse aside.

  The fourth werebeast had fled.

  Waylander sheathed his sword and watched in grim fascination as the monster placed his hand over the gushing wound in his shoulder. Minutes later, when the hand was removed from the place, the wound had gone. Kai moved to the corpses, pulling clear the knives. His legs weak, Waylander sat down with his back to a tree. Kai approached him and squatted down, offering the knives hilt first. Way­lander accepted them without comment.

  Kai watched him for some seconds, then lifted his hand and tapped his enormous chest.

  'Vrend,' he said.

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  'Friends,' agreed Waylander.

  After a while Waylander moved to his pack, shar­ing out some jerked meat and dried fruit. The food disappeared swiftly, then Kai belched and tapped his chest once more.

  'Kai,' he said, his head tilting with the effort of speech.

  'Waylander.'

  Kai nodded, then stretched himself out with head on arm and closed his great eye.

  A noise in the undergrowth startled the assassin and he started to rise.

  'Orsh,' said Kai, without moving.

  Waylander's horse moved into the clearing. He patted its neck and fed it the last of the grain, before tethering it to a stout branch.

  Taking his blanket, he lay down beside the man-monster and slept until dawn. When he awoke, he was alone. The bodies of the wolf-beasts had gone and so had Kai.

  Waylander finished the last of his food, then saddled his horse. Moving from the clearing, he gazed up at the rearing bulk of Raboas.

  The Sacred Giant.

  A strange yet perfect sense of calm settled over Waylander as he guided his horse up the slopes of Raboas. The sun was shining through a latticework of cloud which gave incredible depth to the beauty of the sky, while overhead gulls swooped and dived like tiny living shrews of cloud. Waylander pulled on the reins and scanned the land about him. There was a beauty here he had never seen before: a savage elemental magnificence which spoke of the arro­gance of eternity.

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  To his right a stream whispered across white rocks, gushing from a crack in the mountain. He dis­mounted and stripped his clothing; then he washed and shaved and combed his hair, tying it at the nape of the neck. The water was cold on his skin and he dressed again swiftly after shaking the dust of travel from his clothes. From his pack he took a shawl of black silk which he looped over his shoulders and head in the style of the Sathuli burnoose. Then he placed his mail-ringed shoulder-guard in place. From his pack he took two wrist-guards of silver which he buckled over his forearms, then a baldric carrying six sheathed throwing-knives. He sharpened his knives and his sword-blade and stood, facing the mountain.

  Today he would die.

  Today he would find peace.

  In the distance he saw a dust-cloud heading towards Raboas. Many riders were galloping towards the mountain, but Waylander did not care.

  This was his day. This glorious hour of beauty was his hour.

  He stepped into the saddle and located the narrow path between the rocks, urging the horse onward.

  All his life he had been heading for this path, he knew. Every experience of his existence had con­spired to bring him here at this time.

  From the moment he killed Niallad he had felt as if he had reached the peak of a mountain from which there was no return. All the paths had been closed to him, his only choice to step from the peak and fly!

  Suddenly it did not matter whether he found the Armour, or indeed whether the Drenai won or died.

  This was Waylander's hour.

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  For the first time in two decades he saw without anguish his beloved Tanya standing in the doorway of the farm and waving him home. He saw his son and his two daughters playing by the flower garden. He had loved them so much.

  But to the raiders they had been no more than playthings. His wife they had raped and murdered; his children they had killed without thought or remorse. Their gain had been an hour of sated lust, several bags of grain and a handful of silver coin.

  Their punishment had been death, hideous and vengeful - not one of them had died in less than an hour. For Dakeyras the farmer had died with his family. The raiders had created Waylander the Slayer.

  But now the hatred was gone . . . vanished like smoke in the breeze. Waylander smiled as he remembered his first conversation with Dardalion.

  'Once I was a lamb playing in a green field. Then the wolves came. Now I am an eagle and I fly in a different universe.'

  'And now you kill the lambs?' Dardalion had accused.

  'No, priest. No one pays for lambs.'

  The path wound on and up, over jagged rocks between towering boulders.

  Orien had said that werebeasts guarded the Armour, but Waylander did not care.

  He would dismount and walk into the cave, fetch the Armour and wait for the enemy he could not slay.

  His horse was breathing hard as they reached level ground. Ahead of him was a wide cave and before that a fire at which sat Durmast and Danyal.

  'You took your time,' said the giant, grinning.

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  Waylander dismounted as Danyal ran to him, fold­ing his arms around her he kissed her hair, closing his eyes to stem the tears. Durmast looked away.

  'I love you,' said Waylander softly, his fingers touching the skin of her face. His words carried such overwhelming regret that Danyal pulled away from his arms.

  'What is the matter?'

  He shook his head. 'Nothing. You are well?'

  'Yes. You?'

  'Never better.' Taking her by the hand, he walked back to Durmast. The giant pushed himself to his feet, eyes flicking from one to the other.

  'It is good to see you,' said Waylander. 'But I knew you would make it.'

  'You too. Is everything all right with you?'

  'Of course.'

  'You seem strangely distant.'

  'It has been a long journey and I am tired, you saw the dust-cloud?'

  'Yes. We have less than an hour.'

  Waylander nodded agreement.

  Hobbling the horses, the trio prepared torches and entered the cave. It was dark and foul-smelling and, as Orien had promised, split into three tunnels. Way­lander led the way and they moved deeper into the gloom.

  Shadows leapt and swayed on the damp granite walls and Danyal, sword in hand, stayed close to the warriors. At one poi
nt they walked into a deep chamber where the flickering torchlight failed to pierce the darkness. Danyal pulled at Waylander's cloak and turned.

  'What is it?'

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  At the furthest edges of the torchlight were scores of glittering, feral eyes.

  'Ignore them,' said Waylander.

  Durmast swallowed hard and drew his battleaxe from its sheath.

  They walked on and the eyes closed in around them.

  At last they reached the chamber Orien had described.

  Inside, along the walls, were placed torch brackets containing sticks soaked with pitch. One by one Waylander lit them all until the chamber was bathed in light.

  At the far end, on a wooden frame, stood the Armour of Bronze: winged helm, ornate breastplate bearing an eagle with wings spread, bronze gauntlets and two swords of rare beauty.

  The three travellers stood silently before the Armour.

  'It makes you believe in magic,' whispered Durmast.

  'Who could lose, wearing such as that?' asked Danyal.

  Waylander walked forward and reached out his hands.

  They passed through the armour and he reached again.

  But the image remained.

  'Well, get it, man!' said Durmast.

  'I cannot. I am not the Chosen One.'

  'What?' hissed Durmast. 'What are you talking about?'

  Waylander chuckled, then sat down before the Armour.

  There is a spell on it, Durmast. The old King,

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  Orien, told me of it. Only the Chosen One can remove the Armour. It is a safeguard, I suppose -it is so vital to the Drenai that they could not risk it being taken by an enemy. But it does not matter.'

  'Doesn't matter?' stormed Durmast. 'We've risked our lives to get this damned tin suit! Even now the Nadir are gathering - and I'm not too damned sure about those eyes out there. Of course it matters.'

  'All that matters is that we tried,' said Waylander.

  Durmast's response was short, vulgar and explo­sive. 'Horse dung! The world is full of sorry triers and I'll have no part of it. what do we do now? Wait for some golden-haired grinning Drenai hero who's been blessed in some magic fountain?'

  Danyal approached the Armour and tried to touch it, but it remained ethereal.

  'What do you think you're doing?' snapped Durmast.

  'You try,' she said.

  'What's the point? Do I look like a Drenai hero to you?'

  'I know what you are, Durmast. Try anyway. What can you lose?'

  The giant pushed himself upright and stalked to the Armour.

  It looked so damned solid. He shrugged and his fingers snapped out . . .

  And struck metal.

  Danyal's jaw dropped. 'Gods! It is him!'

  Durmast stood transfixed, then he swallowed hard and reached out once more. This time he lifted the helm and placed it reverently before Waylander. Then he stared at his hands - Waylander saw they were shaking uncontrollably. Piece by piece Dur-

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  mast lifted the Armour from the stand. Then he sat beside Waylander, saying nothing.

  The torches were guttering now and Danyal tapped Waylander's arm. 'We should go.'

  Waylander and Durmast gathered up the Armour and followed Danyal to the doorway. Outside a sea of eyes gazed in at them. Danyal froze, then she lifted her torch and the eyes withdrew into the shadows.

  'It's going to be a long walk,' muttered Durmast.

  He stepped forward and the torchlight fell on the Armour of Bronze. A sibilant whispering rose up from all around them, then subsided into silence. But the eyes fell back and Danyal led the way out into the light.

  Once in the open, Durmast and Waylander strapped the Armour to the back of Durmast's pack pony and covered the shining metal with a grey blanket.

  The sound of hooves on stone brought a curse from Durmast and sweeping up his bow, he ran to the sloping path. Waylander joined him, crossbow in hand.

  Two Nadir warriors rode into sight, lances in their hands. They catapulted from the saddle, one with a bolt through the eye, the other with a long shaft through the ribs.

  'They are merely the vanguard; I think we are in trouble,' said Durmast, pulling a second arrow from his quiver. 'Unfortunately, I think we're trapped up here.'

  'The second path may be clear,' said Waylander. Take Danyal and run. I'll hold them here and join you later.'

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  'You take her and run,' said Durmast. 'I have had enough of her company.'

  'Listen to me, my friend. The Brotherhood are seeking me with all their powers. Wherever I run, they will follow. If I stay here I'll draw them to me like a beacon, which will give you a chance to get the Armour to Egel. Now go - before it's too late.'

  Durmast swore, then backed away to Danyal.

  'Saddle your horse,' he said. 'We're leaving.'

  'No.'

  'It's his idea - and it's a damn good one. Go and say goodbye; I'll saddle your damned horse.'

  Danyal ran to Waylander.

  'Is it true?' she asked, tears in her eyes.

  'Yes, you must go. I am sorry, Danyal - sorry that we never had a chance at life together. But I am the better man for knowing you. Whether I run or stay, I am doomed ... so I'll stay. But it will make it easier knowing I am helping you to succeed.'

  'Durmast will betray you.'

  'If he does, so be it. I have played my part and I can do no more. Please go.'

  She reached for him, but at that moment a Nadir warrior ran forward. Waylander brushed her aside and loosed a bolt which took the man high in the shoulder; he fell and scrambled back under cover.

  'I love you, Dakeyras,' whispered Danyal.

  'I know. Go now.'

  Waylander listened as the horses rode away, but he neither turned to watch them leave, nor saw Danyal straining for one last glimpse of him.

  The Nadir came in a rush and two went down instantly. Two more fell as Waylander swept up Dur­mast's bow. Then they were on him and with a terrifying scream he leapt forward, his sword cleav-

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  ing among them. The path was narrow and they could not circle him. The sword scythed among them and they backed away from his rage.

  Six were now dead.

  Waylander staggered back to his crossbow and loaded it, blood running freely now from a wound in his leg. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and listened.

  The faintest sound of cloth on rock came to him and he glanced up as a Nadir warrior leapt from the boulder with knife raised. Waylander threw himself back, his finger jerking on the bronze triggers of the crossbow. Both bolts hammered into the diving warrior, but as he landed on top of the assassin his knife buried itself in Waylander's shoulder. Way­lander pushed the corpse clear and rolled to his feet. The Nadir knife jutted from his flesh, but he left it where it was - to tear it loose would be to bleed to death. With difficulty he strung the crossbow.

  The sun was dropping in the sky and the shadows lengthened.

  The Nadir would wait for night . . .

  And Waylander could not stop them.

  The fingers of his left hand felt numb and he clenched them into a weak fist. Pain swept up and around the Nadir knife in his shoulder and Way­lander swore. As best he could, he bound the wound in his thigh, but it continued to ooze blood.

  He felt cold and began to shiver. As he lifted his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes a Nadir bowman leapt into view and an arrow flashed from his bow. Waylander lurched left and fired and the archer vanished from sight. As Waylander sank back against the wall of the path he glanced down and saw that the black-feathered shaft had struck him

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  above the left hip and punched its way through the flesh and muscle. Gingerly he reached behind him. The point of the arrow had exited high under his ribs and with a groan he snapped the shaft.

  The Nadir charged . . .

  Two bolts punched home and the enemy dropped behind the rocks.

  But they were closer n
ow and knew he. was badly wounded. He struggled to re-string the crossbow, but his fingers were slippery with sweat and the effort tore at his wounded side.

  How many more of them were there?