Waylander

by David Gemmell

He found he could not remember how many he had slain.

  Licking his lips with a dry tongue, he leaned against the wall. About twelve paces ahead of him was a round boulder and behind it, he knew, crouched a Nadir warrior. The wall beyond had a curving jut. Waylander aimed the crossbow and loosed the bolt, which struck the wall and ricocheted right. A piercing scream rent the air and a warrior loomed into sight with blood streaming from a wound at his temple. Waylander's second bolt plunged between his shoulder-blades and he fell without a sound.

  Once more the assassin strung the bow. His left arm was now all but useless.

  A sudden terrible cry froze Waylander's blood. He risked a glance down the path and saw the last of the werewolves surrounded by Nadir warriors. They hacked and cut at the beast, but its talons flashed among them and its great jaws tore at their flesh.

  Six were down, with at least three for sure - and two men only remained to fight the beast. It leapt

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  upon the first, who bravely tried to thrust his sword into its belly; the blade entered the fur-covered flesh just as the beast's fangs closed over the head of the warrior and his face disappeared in a crimson spray. The last Nadir fled down the slope.

  And the werebeast advanced on Waylander.

  The assassin pushed himself to his feet, staggered and regained balance.

  The beast came on, slowly, painfully, blood pour­ing from countless wounds. It looked pitifully thin and its tongue was swollen and black. The Nadir sword jutted from its belly.

  Waylander lifted his crossbow and waited.

  The beast loomed above him, red eyes glittering.

  Waylander squeezed the triggers and two black bolts flew into the beast's mouth, skewering its brain. It arched back and rolled over as Waylander fell to his knees.

  The beast reared up once more, its taloned claw raking at the sky.

  Then its eyes glazed and it pitched back down the path.

  'And now you will rot in Hell,' said a voice.

  Waylander turned.

  The nine warriors of the Brotherhood emerged from the left-hand path with dark swords in their hands, their black armour seemingly ablaze in the fading light of the dying day as they moved forward. Waylander struggled to rise, but fell back against the cold stone, groaning as the arrow-head gouged back into his flesh. The Brotherhood warriors loomed closer, black helms covering their faces, black cloaks billowing behind them as the breeze picked up. Waylander tugged a throwing knife from its baldric sheath and hurled it, but the blade was

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  contemptuously batted aside by a black-gauntleted hand.

  Fear struck the assassin, overwhelming even his pain.

  He did not want to die. The peace he had felt earlier evaporated, leaving him lost and as fright­ened as a child in the dark.

  He prayed for strength. For deliverance. For bolts of lightning from the heavens . . .

  And the Brotherhood laughed.

  A booted foot cracked against Waylander's face and he was hurled to the ground.

  'Pestilential vermin, you have caused us great trouble.'

  A warrior knelt before him and grasped the broken shaft of the arrow in Waylander's side, twist­ing it viciously. Despite himself the assassin scre­amed. A bronze-studded leather gauntlet cracked against his face and he heard his nose break. His eyes filled with tears of pain and he felt himself hauled into a sitting position. Then as his vision cleared, he found himself gazing into the dark eyes of madness beyond the slit on the face of the black helm.

  'Yours is the madness,' said the man, 'for believ­ing you could stand against the power of the Spirit. What has it cost you, Waylander? Your life cer­tainly. Durmast has the Armour - and your woman. And he will use both. Abuse both.'

  The man took hold of the knife-hilt jutting from Waylander's shoulder.

  'Do you like pain, assassin?' Waylander groaned as the man slowly exerted pressure on the knife. '/ like pain.'

  He lost consciousness, drifting back into a dark

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  sea of tranquility. But they found him even there and his soul fled across a jet-black sky, pursued by beasts with tongues of fire. He awoke to their laugh­ter and saw that the moon had climbed high above Raboas.

  'Now you understand what pain is,' said the leader. 'While you live you will suffer, and when you die you will suffer. What will you give me to end your pain?'

  Waylander said nothing.

  'Now you are wondering if you have the strength to draw a knife and kill me. Try it, Waylander! Please try. Here, I will help you. He pulled a throw­ing knife from the assassin's baldric sheath and pushed it into his hand. Try to kill me.'

  Waylander could not move his hand, though he strained until blood bubbled from the wound in his shoulder. He sagged back, his face ashen.

  'There is worse to come, Waylander,' promised the leader. 'Now stab yourself in the leg.'

  Waylander watched his hand lift and turn . . . and he screamed as the blade plunged down into his thigh.

  'You are mine, assassin. Body and soul.'

  Another man knelt beside the leader and spoke. 'Shall we pursue Durmast and the girl?'

  'No. Durmast is ours. He will take the Armour to Kaem.'

  'Then if you permit, I would enjoy a conversation with the assassin.'

  'Of course, Enson. How selfish of me. Pray continue.'

  The man knelt over Waylander. 'Pull the knife from your leg,' he ordered. Waylander felt himself on the verge of begging, but gritted his teeth. His

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  hand came down and wrenched the blade cruelly, but it would not come loose.

  'Keep calm, Enson,' said the leader. 'Your excite­ment is lessening your power.'

  'My apologies, Tchard. May I try again?'

  'Of course.'

  Once more Waylander's hand pulled at the blade, and this time the knife tore free of the wound.

  'Very good,' said Tchard. 'Now try something a little more delicate. Get him to slowly put out one of his eyes.'

  'Gods, no!' whispered Waylander. But the knife rose slowly, its blood-covered point inching inexor­ably towards the assassin's face.

  'You stinking whoresons!' bellowed Durmast, and Tchard twisted to see the bearded giant standing by the path with a double-headed battleaxe in his hands. Enson turned also, and Waylander felt the spell that held him fall away. He stared at the knife blade only inches from his eye, and anger rose in him, blanketing the pain.

  - 'Enson!' he said softly. As the man's helm turned back towards him, Waylander stabbed the knife through the the eye-slit until the hilt slammed against the helm.

  Tchard hammered a fist against Waylander's head and the assassin slumped to the ground beside the dead Enson.

  Then the Brotherhood leader rose to his feet and faced Durmast.

  'Why are you here?' he asked.

  'I came for him.'

  'There is no need, we have him. But if you are worried about the bounty, we will see that you get it.'

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  'I don't want the bounty. I want him . . . alive.'

  'What is the matter with you, Durmast? This dis­play is more than a little out of character.'

  'Don't tell me about my character, you lump of chicken dung! Just move away from him.'

  'Or else what?' snarled Tchard.

  'Or else you die,' said Durmast.

  'You think to kill eight members of the Brother­hood? Your wits are addled.'

  'Try me,' urged Durmast, moving forward with axe raised.

  Tchard moved to meet him, while the other seven warriors spread out in a semi-circle with swords drawn.

  Suddenly Tchard pointed at Durmast. 'You cannot move!' he shouted and Durmast staggered and froze. Grim laughter came from Tchard as slowly he drew his sword and advanced.

  'You great plodding fool! Of all the people unsuited to the part of hero, you take pride of place. You are like a great child among your elders and betters - and like all unruly children, you must be punished.
I will listen to your song of pain for many, many hours.

  'You don't say,' said Durmast as his axe smashed down through Tchard's shoulder, exploding his ribs and exiting through his smashed hip.

  'Any other speeches?' asked Durmast. 'Any more mind games? No? Then let's start killing one another!'

  With a terrible cry he ran at the warriors, the axe swinging in a murderous arc of flashing silver. They leapt back, one falling to roll clear but another going down as the axe-blade tore into his skull. Waylander fought his way to his knees, but could not rise.

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  Taking a throwing knife he waited, praying for the strength to aid the giant.

  A sword slid into Durmast's back and he twisted, tearing the blade loose from the assailant's hand and backhanding the axe across his neck. Another sword lanced his chest, the wielder dying as Durmast hit him in the throat with his fist. The warriors closed in around the giant then, swords burying themselves deep in his huge body. But still the axe scythed into them. Only two of the Brotherhood were left now and these moved away from the wounded Durmast.

  Waylander waited as they backed towards him. Wiping his fingers on his jerkin to free them of sweat and blood, he took the throwing knife in his fingers and hurled it. It thudded home under the helm of the warrior on the left, slicing down through the jugular. Blood pumped from the wound and the man lurched to the left, his hand clasped to his throat, seeking vainly to stem the red tide.

  Durmast charged the only remaining warrior, who ducked under the sweeping axe to bury his blade in Durmast's belly. The giant dropped the axe and grabbed the warrior by the throat, snapping his neck with a surging twist of the wrists. Then he fell to his knees.

  Waylander crawled agonisingly across the rocks to where the dying man knelt, his great hands closed around the sword-hilt protruding from his body.

  'Durmast!'

  The giant slid sideways to the ground beside Way­lander. He smiled through bloody lips.

  'Why?' whispered Durmast.

  'What, my friend?'

  'Why was / chosen?'

  Waylander shook his head. Reaching out he took

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  Durmast's hand, gripping it firmly. The giant's body was seeping blood from a score of wounds.

  Durmast swore softly, then he smiled. 'It's a beautiful night.'

  'Yes.'

  'I bet the bastard was surprised when I cut him in half.'

  'How did you do it?'

  'Damned if I know!' Durmast winced and his head sagged back.

  'Durmast?'

  'I'm here ... for a while. Gods, the pain is ter­rible! You think his power could not work against me because I am the Chosen One?'

  'I don't know. Probably.'

  'It would be nice.'

  'Why did you come back?'

  Durmast chuckled, but a coughing spasm struck him and blood bubbled from his mouth. He choked and spat. 'I came to kill you for the bounty,' he said at last.

  'I don't believe you.'

  'I don't believe myself sometimes!'

  For a while they lay in silence.

  'You think this counts as a decent deed?' asked Durmast, his voice little more than a whisper.

  'I would think so,' said Waylander, smiling.

  'Don't tell anybody,' said Durmast. His head rolled and a grating whisper of breath rattled in his throat.

  A scraping sound caused Waylander to turn.

  From the cave came a score of beasts, twisted and deformed. They ran to the bodies of the slain, cackling their delight. Waylander watched the

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  corpses being dragged into the blackness of the inner mountain.

  'I won't tell anybody,' he whispered to the dead Durmast.

  And the creatures loomed above him.

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  24

  Below the ramparts Gellan, Jonat and one hundred warriors waited, listening to the sounds of battle from above. All were dressed in the black armour of the Vagrian Hounds, blue capes over gilded breastplates. Gellan alone wore the officer's helm with its white horsehair plume.

  It was almost midnight and the attack wore on. Gellan swallowed hard and tightened the helm's chinstrap.

  'I still say this is madness,' whispered Jonat.

  'I know - at this moment I'm inclined to agree with you.'

  'But we'll go anyway,' muttered Jonat. 'One of these days someone is going to listen to my advice and I'll probably die of the shock!'

  A Drenai soldier ran down the battlement steps, a bloody sword in his hand.

  'They're retreating,' he said. 'Get ready!'

  The man crouched on the steps, watching the ramparts.

  'Now!' he shouted. Gellan waved his arm and the hundred soldiers followed him up the steps and over the wall. Ladders and ropes were still in place and Gellan took hold of a wooden slat and glanced down. Three men were still on the ladder and almost at the foot of the wall. Swinging his leg over the ramparts, he began to descend. Behind him some of the soldi-

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  ers were waving their swords, pretending combat to fool any watchers in the Vagrian camp; Gellan found it unconvincing. Swiftly he climbed to the ground and waited for his men to join him. They they began the long walk to the Vagrian camp.

  Several enemy soldiers joined them, but there was no conversation. The men were bone-weary and demoralised following another grim, fruitless day.

  Gellan nicked a glance at Jonat. The man was tense, yet his face was set and, as always, he had pushed his bitterness aside and was ready to give his all for the job in hand.

  All around them men were sitting down by camp-fires, and to the right a unit of cooks were preparing a hot meal in three bubbling cauldrons.

  The aroma swamped Gellan's sense and his dry mouth suddenly swam with saliva. No one at Purdol had eaten for three days.

  The daring plan had been Karnak's. Masquerad­ing as Vagrians, a party of Drenai warriors would raid the warehouse and carry back precious food to the starving defenders. It had sounded fine when sitting around the great table of the Purdol hall. But now walking through the enemy camp, it seemed suicidal.

  An officer stepped out of the darkness.

  'Where are you going?' he asked Gellan.

  'None of your damned business,' he replied, reco­gnising the rank of the man by the bronze bars on his epaulettes.

  'Just a moment,' said the officer in a more concili­atory manner, 'but I have been told no one is to enter the eastern quarter without authorisation.

  'Well, since we are due to be guarding the docks

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  I would appreciate you telling me how we can accomplish that without being there.'

  'Third wing are on dock duty,' said the man. 'I have it written down.'

  'Fine,' said Gellan. 'In that case I shall ignore the First General's instructions and take my men back for some rest. But in case he asks me why I did so what is your name?'

  'Antasy, sixth wing,' replied the officer, snapping to attention, 'But I'm sure it won't be necessary to mention my name. Obviously there's been an error in the orders.'

  'Obviously,' agreed Gellan, swinging away from him. 'Forward!'

  As the men trooped wearily past the officer and on through the winding streets of the dockside, Jonat moved up alongside Gellan.

  'Now comes the difficult part,' he said softly.

  'Indeed it does.'

  Ahead of them a party of six soldiers was stationed at the front of a wooden warehouse. Two were sit­ting on empty boxes while the other four were play­ing dice.

  'On your feet!' bellowed Gellan. 'Who is in charge here?'

  A red-faced young warrior ran forward, dropping the dice into a pouch at his side.

  'I am, sir.'

  'What is the meaning of this?'

  'I'm sorry, sir. It was just ... we were bored, sir.'

  'Little chance of worrying about boredom with a hundred stripes on your back, boy!'

  'No, sir.'

  'You are not from my
wing, and I do not intend getting involved with endless bickering and bureac-

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  racy. Therefore I shall overlook your negligence. Tell me, are your friends at the back also engaged in dice?'