Waylander Page 3

She lay by the fire and closed her eyes. Dardalion breathed deeply and entered once more into concen­tration, summoning the Prayer of Peace and pro­jecting it silently to shroud her body. Her breathing deepened. Dardalion released the chains of his spirit and soared into the night sky, twisting over and over in the bright moonlight, leaving his body hunched by the fire.

  Free!

  Alone with the Void.

  Stopping his upward spiral with an effort, he scanned the earth below for sign of Waylander.

  Far to the south-east the burning cities illuminated the night sky in a jagged crimson arc, while to the north and west watch-fires burned, their regular set­ting identifying them as Vagrian sentry fires. To the south a single blaze twinkled in a small wood and, curious, Dardalion swooped towards it.

  Six men slept around the fire while a seventh sat upon a rock spooning mouthfuls of stew from a copper pot. Dardalion hovered above them, an edge of fear seeping into him. He sensed great evil and prepared to depart.

  Suddenly the seated man glanced up at him and grinned.

  'We will find you, priest,' he whispered.

  Dardalion did not move. The man placed the

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  copper pot by his feet and closed his eyes ... and Dardalion was no longer alone. Hovering beside him was an armed warrior, bearing shield and black sword. The young priest darted for the skies, but the warrior spirit was faster, touching him lightly on the back as he passed. Pain lanced Dardalion and he cried out.

  The warrior hovered before him, grinning.

  'I will not kill you yet, priest. I want Waylander.| Give him to me and you can live.'

  'Who are you? whispered Dardalion, fighting for[ time.

  'My name would mean nothing to you. But I am[ of the Brotherhood and my task is set. Waylander | must die.'

  'The Brotherhood? You are a priest?'

  'Priest? In a way you would never understand, you I pious pig! Strength, guile, cunning, terror-these are ' the things I worship, for they bring power. True power.'

  'You serve the Darkness then?' said Dardalion.

  'Darkness or Light . . . word tricks of confusion. I serve the Prince of Lies, the Creator of Chaos.'

  'Why do you hunt Waylander? He is not a mystic.'

  'He killed the wrong man, though doubtless the death was well-deserved. And now it is decreed that he must die. Will you deliver him to me?'

  'I cannot.'

  'Go your way then, worm. Your passivity offends me. I shall kill you tomorrow - just after dark. I will seek out your spirit wherever it hides and I will destroy it.'

  'Why? What will you gain?'

  'Only pleasure,' answered the warrior. 'But that is enough.'

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  'Then I will await you.'

  'Of course you will. Your kind like to suffer - it makes you holy.'

  Waylander was angry, which surprised him, leaving him uneasy and ridiculously resentful. He rode his horse to a wooded hill and dismounted. How can you resent the truth, he asked himself?

  And yet it hurt to be bracketed with the likes of mercenaries who raped and plundered the innocent, for despite his awesome reputation as a bringer of death he had never killed a woman or a child. Neither had he ever raped nor humiliated anyone. So why did the woman make him feel so sullied? Why did he now see himself in such dark light?

  The priest.

  The damned priest!

  Waylander had lived the last twenty years in the shadows, but Dardalion was like a lantern illuminat­ing the dark corners of his soul.

  He sat down on the grass. The night was cool and clear, the air sweet.

  Twenty years. Vanished into the vacuum of memory. Twenty years without anger as Waylander clung like a leech to the ungiving rock of life.

  But what now?

  'You are going to die, you fool,' he said aloud. The priest will kill you with his purity.'

  Was that it? Was that the spell he feared so much?

  For twenty years Waylander had ridden the moun­tains and plains of the civilised nations, the Steppes and outlands of the Nadir savages and the far deserts of the nomads. In that time he had allowed himself no friends. No one had touched him. Like a mobile

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  fortress, deep-walled and safe, Waylander had ghosted through life as alone as a man could be.

  Why had he rescued the priest? The question tor­mented him. His fortress had crumbled and his defences fallen apart like wet parchment.

  Instinct told him to mount up and leave the little group - and he trusted his instincts, for they were honed by the danger his occupation aroused. Mobility and speed had kept him alive; he could strike like a snake and be gone before the dawn.

  Waylander the Slayer, a prince among assassins. Only by chance could he ever be captured, for he had no home - only a random list of contacts who held contracts for him in a score of cities. In the deepest darkness he would appear, claim his con­tracts or his fees and then depart before the dawn. Always hunted and hated, the Slayer moved among shadows, haunting the dark places.

  Even now he knew his pursuers were close. Now, more than ever, he needed to vanish into the out-lands or across the sea to Ventria and the eastern kingdoms.

  'You fool,' he whispered. 'Do you want to die?'

  Yet the priest held him with his uncast spell.

  'You have clipped the eagle's wings, Dardalion,' he said softly.

  There had been a flower-garden at the farm, bright with hyacinths and tulips and ageing daffodils. His son had looked so peaceful lying there and the blood had not seemed out of place among the blooms. The pain tore into him; memories jagged like broken glass. Tanya had been tied to the bed and then gutted like a fish. The two girls . . . babes . . .

  Waylander wept for the lost years . . .

  He returned to the camp-site in the hour before

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  dawn and found them all sleeping. He shook his head at their stupidity and stirred the fire to life, preparing a meal of hot oats in a copper pan. Darda­lion was the first to wake; he smiled a greeting and stretched.

  'I am glad you came back,' he said, moving to the fire.

  'We will need to find some food,' said Waylander, 'for our supplies are low. I doubt we'll find a village unburned, so it means hunting meat. You may have to forget your principles, priest, if you don't want to collapse from hunger.'

  'May I speak with you?' asked Dardalion.

  'An odd request. I thought we were speaking?'

  Dardalion moved away from the fire and Way­lander sighed and removed the copper pot from the heat before joining him.

  'Why so downcast? Are you regretting saddling us with the woman and her get?'

  'No. I ... I need to ask a favour of you. I have no right . . .'

  'Out with it, man. What is wrong with you.'

  'Will you see them safely to Egel?'

  'I thought that was the plan. Are you all right, Dardalion?'

  'Yes ... No ... I am going to die, you see.' Dardalion turned away from him and walked up the slope to the crest of the hollow. Waylander followed. Once there Dardalion told him of his spirit meeting with the hunter and the other listened in silence. The ways of mystics were closed to him, but he knew of their powers and doubted not that Dardalion was speaking the literal truth. He was not surprised that the hunters were on his heels. After all, he had killed one of their number.

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  'So you see,' concluded the priest, 'once I am gone I was hoping you would still guide Danyal and the children to safety.'

  'Are you so well trained in defeat, Dardalion?'

  'I cannot kill - and that is the only way to stop him.'

  'Where was their camp?'

  'To the south, But you cannot go there - there are seven of them.'

  'But only one, you think, with the Power?'

  'As far as I could tell; he said he would kill me just after dark. Please don't go, Waylander. I do not wish to be the cause of anyone's death.'

  "These men are hunting me,
priest and I don't have many choices. If I promise to stay with the woman, then they will find me anyway. Better that I find them and fight on my terms. Today you must stay here. Wait for me. If I do not return by morn­ing, set off for the north.'

  Waylander gathered his saddlebags and gear and rode away to the south just as the dawn was break­ing. Swinging in the saddle he called out, 'And kill the fire - the smoke can be seen for miles. Don't light it again until dusk.'

  Dardalion stared gloomily after him.

  'Where is he going?' asked Danyal, coming to stand beside the priest.

  'He is going to save my life,' said Dardalion, and once more he told the story of his spirit travels. The woman seemed to understand and he saw the pity in her eyes. He realised in that moment that he was engaged in confession and knew that he had compromised himself badly. In telling Waylander he had forced the man to fight for him.

  'Don't blame yourself,' said Danyal.

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  'I should have said nothing.'

  'Would that not have doomed us all? He had to know they were hunting him.'

  'I told him so that he would save me.'

  'I don't doubt it. But he had to know. You had to tell him.'

  'Yes. But there was only selfishness in my mind.'

  'You are a man, Dardalion, as well as a priest. You are too hard on yourself. How old are you?'

  Twenty-five. And you?'

  Twenty. How long have you been a priest?'

  'Five years. I was trained as an architect by my father, but my heart was never in it. Always I wanted to serve the Source. And as a child I would often have visions. My parents were embarrassed by them.' Dardalion grinned suddenly and shook his head. 'My father was convinced I was possessed and when I was eight he took me to the Source temple at Sardia to have me exorcised. He was furious when they told him I was merely gifted! From then on I attended the temple school. I should have become an acolyte at fifteen, but father insisted I stay at home and learn about business. By the time I had talked him round, I was twenty.'

  'Is your father still alive?'

  'I don't know. The Vagrians burned Sardia and murdered the priests. I assume they did the same with neighbouring townsfolk.'

  'How did you escape?'

  'I was not there for the horror; the Abbot sent me to Skoda with messages for the Mountain Monas­tery, but when I arrived that also was burning. I was on my way back when I was captured, then Waylander rescued me.'

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  'He does not seem like a man who would bother to rescue anyone.'

  Dardalion chuckled. 'Well, no. He was actually recovering his horse which the mercenaries had stolen and I was, somewhat ignominiously, part of the package.'

  Dardalion laughed once more, then took Danyal by the hand. 'My thanks to you, sister.'

  'For what?'

  'For taking the time to lead me away from the paths of self-pity. I'm sorry I burdened you.'

  'It was no burden. You are a kind man and you are helping us.'

  'You are very wise and I am glad we met,' said Dardalion, kissing her hand. 'Come, let us wake the children.'

  Throughout the day Dardalion and Danyal played with the children in the woods. The priest told them stories while Danyal led them on a treasure hunt, collecting flowers and threading garlands. The sun shone for most of the morning, but the sky darkened in mid-afternoon and rain drove the group back to the camp-site to shelter beneath a spreading pine. Here they ate the last of the bread and some dried fruit left by Waylander.

  'It's getting dark,' said Danyal. 'Do you think it's safe to light the fire?'

  Dardalion did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the seven men advancing through the trees, swords in hand.

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  Wearily Dardalion pushed himself to his feet. The stitches pulled tight against the skin of his chest and the bruises around his ribs made him wince. Even were he a warrior, he could not have stood alone against even one of the men walking slowly towards him.

  Leading them was the man who had filled him with fear the night before, smiling as he approached. Behind him, advancing in a half-circle, were six sol­diers with their long blue cloaks fastened over black breastplates. Their helms covered their faces and only their eyes were visible through rectangular slits in the metal.

  Behind Dardalion Danyal had turned away from the warriors and put her arms around the children, pulling them in close to her so that, at the very least, they would be spared the terror of the kill.

  The priest felt a terrible hopelessness seep into him. Only days before, he had been willing to bear torture - torture and death. But now he could feel the children's fear, and he wished he had a sword or bow to defend them.

  The advancing line stopped and the lead warrior swung away from Dardalion, staring across the hollow. Dardalion looked back.

  There in the fading red glow of dusk stood Way-lander, his cloak drawn close about him. The sun was

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  setting behind him and the warrior was silhouetted against the blood-red sky - a still figure, yet so powerful that he laid a spell upon the scene. His leather cloak glistened in the dying light and Darda-lion's heart leapt at the sight of him. He had seen this drama played out once before and knew that beneath his cloak Waylander carried the murderous crossbow, strung and ready.

  But even as hope flared, so it died. For where before there had been five unsuspecting mercenar­ies, here there were seven warriors in full armour. Trained killers. The Vagrian Hounds of Chaos.

  Waylander could not stand against such as these.

  In those first frozen moments Dardalion found himself wondering just why the warrior had come back on such a hopeless mission. Waylander had no cause to give his life for any of them - he had no beliefs, no strongly-held convictions.

  But there he stood, like a forest statue.

  The silence was unnerving, more so for the Vagri-ans than for Dardalion. The warriors knew that in scant seconds lives would be lost, death would strike in the clearing and blood seep through the soft loam. For they were men of war who walked with death as a constant companion, holding him at bay with skill or with rage, quelling their fears in blood-lust. But here they were caught cold . . . and each felt alone.

  The dark priest of the Brotherhood licked his lips, his sword heavy in his hand. He knew that the odds favoured his force, knew with certainty that Way­lander would die if he gave the word to attack. But the double-edged knowledge held a second certainty . . . that the moment he spoke, he would die.

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  Danyal could stand the suspense no longer and, twisting round, she saw Waylander. Her movement caused Miriel to open her eyes and the first thing the child saw were the warriors in their helms.

  She screamed.

  The spell broke . . .

  Waylander's cloak flickered and the dark priest of the Brotherhood pitched backwards with a black bolt through one eye. For several seconds he writhed and then was still.

  The six warriors stood their ground, then the man in the centre slowly sheathed his sword and the others followed suit. With infinite care they backed away into the gathering darkness of the trees.

  Waylander did not move.

  'Fetch the horses,' he said quietly, 'and gather the blankets.'

  An hour later they were camped in high ground in a shallow cave; the children were sleeping and Danyal lay awake beside them as Dardalion and the warrior sat together under the stars.

  After a while Dardalion came into the cave and stirred the small fire to life. The smoke drifted up through a crack in the roof of the cave, but still their small shelter smelt of burning pine. It was a comforting scent. The priest moved to where Danyal lay and, seeing she was awake, sat beside her.

  'Are you well?' he asked.

  'I feel strange,' she admitted. 'I was so prepared for death that all fear left me. Yet I am alive. Why did he come back?'

  'I do not know. He does not know.'

  'Why did they go away?'
<
br />   Dardalion leaned his back against the cave wall, stretching his legs towards the fire.

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  'I am not sure. I have given much thought to it and I think perhaps it is the nature of soldiers. They are trained to fight and kill upon a given order - to obey unquestioningly. They do not act as individ­uals. And when a battle comes it is usually clear-cut: there is a city which must be captured or a force which must be overcome. The order is given, excitement grows - dulling fear - and they attack in a mass, drawing strength from the mob around them.