Waylander by David Gemmell

  'Get up, my son,' came a voice from beside him.

  Waylander rolled left and came up on one knee,

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  knife extended. 'You will not need your weapon. I am alone and very old.'

  Waylander eased his way back along the trail and edged to the right.

  'You are a cautious man,' said the voice. 'Very well, I will go on and meet you by your fire.'

  The cloud passed and silver light bathed the plain. Waylander straightened. He was alone. Swiftly he scouted the area. Nothing. He returned to the fire.

  Sitting beside it with hands outstretched to the warmth was an old man. Krylla and Miriel were sitting beside him, Dardalion and Danyal opposite.

  Waylander approached cautiously and the man did not look up. He was bald and beardless and the skin of his face hung in slender folds. Waylander guessed from the width of his shoulders that he had once been very strong. Now he was skeletal and his eyelids were flat against the sockets.

  A blind man!

  'Why doesn't your face fit?' said Miriel.

  'It did once,' said the old man. 'I was considered handsome in my youth, when my hair was golden and my eyes emerald green.'

  'You look awful now,' said Krylla.

  'I am sure that I do! Thankfully I can no longer see myself and therefore am spared great disappoint­ment. Ah, the Wanderer returns,' said the old man, tilting his head.

  'Who are you?' asked Waylander.

  'A traveller like yourself.'

  'You travel alone?'

  'Yes . . . but not as alone as you.'

  'Are you the mystic who spoke to Krylla?'

  'I had that honour - and a delightful child she is.

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  Very gifted for one so young. She tells me that you are a saviour, a great hero.'

  'She sees with the eye of a child. All is not always as it seems,' said Waylander.

  'Children see many things we no longer see. If we did, would we wage war so terribly?'

  'Are you a priest, man? I've had my damned fill of priests,' snapped Waylander.

  'No. I am merely a student of life. I would like to have been a priest, but I fear my appetites always had the better of me. I could never resist a pretty face or a fine wine. Now that I am old I wish for other delights, but even these are now denied me.'

  'How did you find us?'

  'Krylla showed me the way.'

  'And I suppose you would like to travel with us?'

  The man smiled. 'Would that I could! No, I shall bide with you tonight, and then I must embark on another journey.'

  'We do not have much food,' said Waylander.

  'But you are welcome to what we have,' said Dar-dalion, moving to sit beside the old man.

  'I am not hungry, but thank you. You are the priest?'

  'Yes.'

  The old man reached out and touched the hilt of Dardalion's dagger. 'An unusual object for a priest to carry?'

  'These are unusual days,' answered Dardalion, his face flushing.

  'They must be.' He turned his head towards Way­lander. 'I cannot see you, but I feel your power. And also your anger. Are you angry with me?'

  'Not yet,' said Waylander, 'but I am wondering when you will arrive at the point of your visit.'

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  'You think I have some ulterior motive?'

  'Not at all,' said Waylander drily. 'A blind man invites himself to supper through the mystic talents of a frightened child and finds our fire in the middle of a veritable wilderness. What could be more natu­ral? Who are you and what do you want?'

  'Do you always have to be so loathsome?' said Danyal. 'I don't care who he is, he's welcome. Or perhaps you'd like to kill him? After all, you haven't killed anyone for a couple of hours.'

  'Gods, woman, your prattle turns my stomach,' snarled the warrior. 'What do you want from me? So the boy died. That's what happens in wars . . . people die. And before you let fly with your viper responses, remind yourself of this: when I shouted to get down I see you managed to save yourself. Perhaps if you had thought about the boy, he wouldn't have had an arrow in his guts.'

  'That's not fair!' she shouted.

  'Life is like that.' He swept up his blankets and walked away from the group, his heart pounding as rage threatened to engulf him. He strode to the top of the rise and stared out over the plain. Somewhere out there were riders hunting him. They could not allow him to live. For if they failed in their quest their own lives would be forfeit. And here was Way­lander trapped by a priest and a woman - caught like a monkey in a net while the lions moved in.

  Folly. Sheer folly.

  He should never have accepted a contract from that Vagrian serpent, Kaem. The man's name was a byword for treachery: Kaem the Cruel, Kaem the Killer of Nations - the web-weaver at the centre of the Vagrian army.

  All of Waylander's instincts had screamed at him

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  to spurn Kaem's contract, but he had ignored them. Now the Vagrian general would have sent out groups of assassins in every direction; they would know he had not headed south or west, and the ports to the east would be closed to him. Only the north beckoned - and the killers would be watching all paths to Skultik.

  Waylander cursed softly. Kaem had offered 24,000 gold pieces for the contract and, as a gesture of faith, had lodged half of the amount in Waylander's name with Cheros, the main banker in Gulgothir. Way­lander had completed the contract with his custom­ary skill, though his memory burned with the shame of it. Seeing again the arrow in flight, he squeezed shut his eyes . . .

  The night was cool, the stars gleaming like spear-points. Waylander stretched, forcing his mind to the present, but his victim's face returned again and again ... a gentle face, haunted by failure . . . soft eyes and a kind smile. He had been stooping to pick a flower when Waylander's bolt pierced his back . . .

  'No!' shouted Waylander, sitting upright, his hand lashing out as if to drive the memory from him. Think of something else . . . anything else!

  After the kill he had slipped away to the east, for the journey to Vagria and the promise of Kaem's gold. While on the road he met a merchant travelling from the north who told him in conversation of the death of Cheros the Banker. Three assassins had killed him at his home and made off with a fortune in gold and gems.

  Waylander had known then that he was betrayed, but some instinct - some inner compulsion - drove him on. He had arrived at Kaem's palace and scaled

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  a high garden wall. Once inside, he killed two guard dogs and entered the main building. Locating Kaem's room had posed a problem, but he woke a serving girl and forced her at knifepoint to lead him to the general's bedchamber. Kaem was asleep in his apartments on the third floor of the palace. Way-lander struck the girl on the neck, catching her as she fell and lowering her to a white fur rug on the floor. Then he went to the bed and touched his knife to Kaem's throat. The general's eyes flared open.

  'Could you have not come at a more reasonable hour?' he had asked smoothly.

  Waylander's knife pressed forward a fraction of an inch and blood seeped from the cut as Kaem stared into the dark eyes above him.

  'I see you have heard about Cheros. I hope you don't think it was my doing.' The knife pressed deeper and this time Kaem winced.

  'I know it was your doing,' hissed Waylander.

  'Can we talk about it?'

  'We can talk about 24,000 gold pieces.'

  'Of course.'

  Suddenly Kaem twisted and his arm lashed out to knock Waylander from the bed. The speed of the attack stunned the assassin and he rolled to his feet to find himself facing the wiry general who had now clambered from the bed and pulled a sword from the scabbard hanging on the bedpost.

  'You're getting old, Waylander,' said Kaem.

  The door burst open and a young man ran in, carrying a bow with arrow notched to the string.

  Waylander's arm shot forward and the young man collapsed with a black-bladed knife in his throat. Waylander ran to the
door, hurdling the corpse.

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  'You'll die for that!' screamed Kaem. 'You hear me? You will diel'

  The sound of sobbing .followed Waylander as he ran down the wide stairs, for the dead man was Kaem's only son . . .

  And now the hunters were searching for his killer.

  Wrapped in his blankets with his back against a jutting rock, Waylander heard the old man appro­ach, the coarse cloth of his robes whispering against the long grass. 'May I join you?' 'Why not?'

  'It is a glorious night, is it not?' 'How does a blind man define glorious?' 'The air is fresh and cool and the silence a mask

  - a cloak which hides so much life. To the right there, a hare is sitting, wondering why two men are so close to his burrow. Away to the left is a red fox

  - a vixen by the smell - and she is hunting the hare. And overhead the bats are out, enjoying the night as am I.'

  'It's too bright for my liking,' said Waylander.

  'It is always hard to be hunted.'

  'I had a feeling you knew.'

  'Knew what? The feeling of being hunted, or the fact that the Dark Brotherhood are seeking you?'

  'Either. Both. It does not matter.'

  'You were right, Waylander. I was seeking you and there is an ulterior motive. So shall we stop fencing?'

  'As you wish.'

  'I have a message for you.'

  'From whom?'

  'That is not part of my brief. And also it would

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  take more time than I have to explain it to you. Let me say only that you have been given a chance to redeem yourself.'

  'Nice of you. However, there is nothing to redeem.'

  'If you say so. I do not wish to argue. Soon you will reach the camp of Egel where you will find an army in disarray: a force doomed to ultimate defeat. You can aid them.'

  'Are your wits addled, old man? Nothing can save Egel.'

  'I did not say "save". I said "aid".'

  'What is the purpose of aiding a dead man?'

  'What was the purpose in saving the priest?'

  'It was a whim, damn you! And it will be a long time before I allow myself another such.'

  'Why are you angry?'

  Waylander chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound.

  'You know what has happened to you?' asked the old man.'You have been touched by the Source and those are the chains you rail against. Once you were a fine man and knew love. But love died, and since no man lives in a vacuum you filled yourself not with hate but with emptiness. You have not been alive these past twenty years - you have been a walking corpse. Saving the priest was your first decent deed in two decades.'

  'So you came to preach?'

  'No, I am preaching in spite of myself. I cannot explain the Source to you. The Source is about foolishness, splendid foolishness; it is about purity and joy. But against the wisdom of the world it fails, because the Source knows nothing of greed, lust, deceit, hate, nor evil of any kind. Yet it always

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  triumphs. For the Source always gives something for nothing: good for evil, love for hate.'

  'Sophistry. A small boy died yesterday - he hated no one, but an evil whoreson cut him down. All over this land good, decent people are dying in their thousands. Don't tell me, about triumphs. Triumphs are built on the blood of innocence.'

  'You see? I speak foolishness. But in meeting you I know what triumph means. I understand one more fragment.'

  'I am pleased for you,' mocked Waylander, despis­ing himself as he spoke.

  'Let me explain,' said the old man softly. 'I had a son - not a dazzling boy, not the brightest of men. But he cared about many things. He had a dog that was injured in a fight with a wolf and we should have killed the dog, for it was grievously hurt. But my son would not allow it; he stitched the wounds him­self and sat with the hound for five days and nights, willing it to live. But it died. And he was heart­broken, for life was precious to him. When he became a man I passed on everything I had to him. He became a steward, and I left on my travels. My son never forgot the dog and it coloured everything he did . . .'

  'Is there a point to this tale?'

  'That depends on you, for you enter the tale at this juncture. My son saw that everything I had left him to care for was in peril, and he tried desperately to save it. But he was too soft, and raiders came to my lands and slew my people. Then my son learnt the error of his ways and became truly a man, for he now knew that life often brings hard decisions. So he gathered his generals and worked on a plan to free his people. And then an assassin slew him.

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  His life was ended . . . and as he died all he could see was a failure, and a terrible despair went out from him that touched me a thousand leagues away.

  'A terrible rage filled me and I thought to kill you. I could, even now. But then the Source touched me. And I am now here merely to talk.'

  'You son was King Niallad?'

  'Yes. I am Orien of the Two Blades. Or, more exactly, I was Orien once.'

  'I am sorry for your son. But it is what I do.'

  'You speak of the death of innocents. Perhaps -had my son lived - many of those innocents would also have lived.'

  'I know. And I regret it ... but I can't change it.'

  'It is not important,' said Oren. 'But you are important. The Source has chosen you, but the choice is yours.'

  'Chosen me for what? My only talent is hardly one your Source would admire.'

  'It is not your only talent. You know of my early life?'

  'I know you were a great warrior, never beaten in battle.'

  'Have you seen the stature of me in Drenan?'

  'Yes. The Armour of Bronze.'

  'Indeed. The Armour. Many would like to know its whereabouts and the Brotherhood seek it, for it threatens the Vagrian empire.'

  'Is it magic then?'

  'No - at least, not in the sense that you mean. It was made long ago by the great Axellian. Superb workmanship and the two swords are of a metal beyond compare - a silver steel that never dulls.

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  With that Armour Egel has a chance - no more than that.'

  'But you said it carries no magic?'

  'The magic is in the minds of men. When Egel wears that Armour it will be as if Orien has returned. And Orien was never beaten. Men will flock to Egel and he will grow - he is the best of them, an iron man of indomitable will.'

  'And you want me to fetch this Armour?'

  'Yes.'

  'I take it there is some danger involved?'

  'I think that is a fair assessment.'

  'But the Source will be with me?'

  'Perhaps. Perhaps not.'

  'I thought you said I was chosen for this task. What is the point of having aid from a God without power?'

  'A good question, Waylander. I hope you learn the answer.'

  'Where is the Armour?'

  'I hid it in a deep cave high up the side of a tall mountain.'

  'Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Where?'

  'Do you know the Nadir Steppes?'

  'I am not going to like this.'

  'I take it that you do. Well, two hundred miles west of Gulgothir is a range of mountains . . .'

  'The Mountains of the Moon.'

  'Exactly. At the centre of the range is Raboas . . .'

  'The Sacred Giant.'

  'Yes,' said Orien, grinning. 'And that's where it is.'

  "That is insane. No Drenai has ever penetrated that far into Nadir lands.'

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  'I did.'

  'Why? What purpose could you have had?'

  'I wondered that at the time. Put it down to a whim, Waylander; you know about whims. Will you fetch the Armour?'

  Tell me, Orien, how much of a mystic are you?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Can you see the future?'

  'In part,' admitted Orien.

  'What are my chances of success?'

  'That depends on who accompanies you.
'