Page 21 of Waylander

  Dardalion closed the book and leaned back in the chair, gazing down on the lovingly carved and polished wood. It was a work of some artistry. Push­ing himself to his feet, he walked to the bedroom where Degas lay on blood-soaked sheets, his knife still in his hand. His eyes were open and Dardalion gently closed the lids before covering the old man's face with a sheet.

  'Lord of All Things,' said Dardalion, 'lead this man home.'

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  Cadoras watched as Waylander rode from the wagons, heading away to the north towards a range of low hills. The hunter lay flat on his belly, his chin in his hands; behind him, on the far side of the hill, his horse was tethered. He eased his way back from the hill-top, walked slowly to the steel-grey gelding and unbuckled the thick saddle roll, opening it out on the ground. Within the canvas wrapping was an assortment of weapons ranging from a dismantled crossbow to a set of ivory-handled throwing knives. Cadoras assembled the crossbow and selected ten bolts which he placed in a doeskin quiver at his belt. Then he carefully slid two throwing knives into each of his calf-length riding boots, and two more into sheaths at his side. His sword was strapped to his saddle, along with a Vagrian cavalry bow tipped with gold; the quiver for this hung on his saddle horn. Fully equipped, Cadoras returned the saddle roll to its place and buckled the straps. Then he took some dried meat from his saddlebags and sat back on the grass and stared at the sky, watching the gathering storm clouds drifting in from the east.

  It was time for the kill.

  There had been little joy in the hunting. He could have killed Waylander on a dozen occasions - but then it took two to play the game, and Waylander had refused to take part. At first this had irritated

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  Cadoras, making him feel slightly as if his victim had held him in contempt. But as the days passed he had realised that Waylander simply did not care. And so Cadoras had not loosed the fatal shaft.

  He wanted to know why. He was filled with an urge to ride in to the wagons and sit opposite Way­lander, to ask him . . .

  Cadoras had been a hunter for more than a decade and he knew the role better than any man alive. In the deadliest game of all he was a master - under­standing every facet, every iron rule: the hunter stalked, the prey evaded or ran, or turned and fought back. But the prey never ignored.

  Why?

  Cadoras had expected Waylander to hunt him, had even set elaborate traps around his camp-site. Night after night he had hidden in trees, his bow slung, while his blankets lay by warm fires covering only rocks and branches.

  Today would end the burning questions. He would kill Waylander and go home.

  Home?

  High walls and soul-less rooms, and cold-eyed messengers with offers of gold for death. Like a tomb with windows.

  'Curse you, Waylander! Why did you make it so easy?'

  'It was the only defence.' answered Waylander and Cadoras spun round as a sword of shining steel rested on his back. He froze and then relaxed, his right hand inching, towards the hidden knives in his boot. 'Don't be foolish,' said Waylander. 'I can open your throat before you blink.'

  'What now, Waylander?'

  'I have not yet decided.'

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  'I should have killed you.'

  'Yes, but then life is full of "should haves". Take off your boots . . . slowly.' Cadoras did as he was bid. 'Now your belt and jerkin.' Waylander moved the weapons and hurled them on to the grass.

  'You planned this?' asked Cadoras, sitting back and resting on his elbows. Waylander nodded and sheathed his sword, sitting some ten feet from the hunter. 'You want some dried meat?' Cadoras enquired. Waylander shook his head and drew a throwing knife, balancing the blade in his right hand.

  'Before you kill me, may I ask a question?'

  'Of course.'

  'How did you know I would wait this long?'

  'I didn't, I merely hoped. You should know better than any man that the hunter has all the advantages. No man is safe from the assassin, be he king or peasant. But you had something to prove, Cadoras - and that made you an easy prey.'

  'I had nothing to prove.'

  Truly? Not even to yourself?'

  'Like what?'

  'That you were the better man, the greatest hunter?'

  Cadoras leaned back and stared at the sky. 'Pride,' he said. 'Vanity. It makes fools of us all.'

  'We are all fools regardless - otherwise we would be farmers, watching our sons grow.'

  Cadoras rolled to one elbow and grinned. 'Is that why you've decided to be a hero?'

  'Perhaps,' admitted Waylander.

  'Does it pay well?'

  'I don't know. I haven't been one very long.'

  'You know the Brotherhood will be back?'

  'Yes.'

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  'You can't survive.'

  'I know that too.'

  'Then why do it? I've seen you with the woman -why don't you take her to Gulgothir and head east to Ventria?'

  'You think it would be safe there?'

  Cadoras shook his head. 'You have a point. But then at least you'd have a chance - on this quest you have none.'

  'I am touched by your concern.'

  'You may not believe it, but it is genuine. I respect you, Waylander, but I feel sorry for you. You are doomed . . . and by your own hand.'

  'Why by mine?'

  'Because the skills that are yours are now shackled. I do not know what has happened to you, but you are no longer Waylander the Slayer. If you were, I would now be dead. The Slayer would not have stopped to talk.'

  'I cannot argue with that, but then the Cadoras of old would not have waited before loosing an arrow.'

  'Maybe we are both getting old.'

  'Collect your weapons and ride,' said Waylander, sheathing his knife and rising smoothly to his feet.

  'I make no promises,' stated Cadoras. 'Why are you doing this?'

  'Just ride.'

  'Why not merely give me your knife and offer me your throat?' snapped Cadoras.

  'Are you angry because I haven't killed you?'

  'Think back to what you were, Waylander, then you'll know why I'm angry.' Cadoras strode to his weapons and retrieved them. Then he pulled on his boots, tightened his saddle cinch and mounted.

  Waylander watched as the assassin rode south,

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  then he wandered back over the hill-top t horse and stepped into the saddle. The lost in the heat haze to the north, but Wa had no wish to catch up with them before

  He spent the day scouting the wooded hills, sleep­ing for two hours beside a rock pool shaded by spruce trees. Towards dusk he saw smoke curling into the sky in the north and a cold dread settled on him. Swiftly he saddled the gelding and raced for the trees, lashing the beast into a furious gallop. For almost a mile he pushed the pace, then sanity returned and he slowed the horse to a canter. His mind was numb and he knew what he would find before he crested the last hill. The smoke had been too great for a mere camp-fire, or even ten camp-fires. Sitting his horse atop the hill, he gazed down" on the burnt-out wagons. They had been drawn into a rough semi-circle, as if the drivers had seen the danger with only seconds to spare and had tried to form a fighting circle. Bodies littered the ground and vultures had gathered in squabbling packs.

  Waylander rode slowly down the hillside. Many of those now dead had been taken alive and cut to pieces - there had been, then, no prisoners. A child had been nailed to a tree and several women had been staked out with fires built on their chests. A little to the north Durmast's men lay in a rough circle, ringed by dead Nadir warriors. Already the vultures had begun their work and Waylander could not bear to search for Danyal's body. He turned his horse to the west.

  The trail was not hard to follow, even under moonlight, and as he rode Waylander assembled his crossbow.

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  Images flickered in his mind and Danyal's face appeared . . .

  Waylander blinked as tears stung his eyes. He swallowed back the sobs pu
shing at his throat, and something in him died. His back straightened as if a weight had been lifted from him and the recent past floated across his mind's eye like the dreams of another man. He saw the rescue of the priest, the saving of Danyal and the children, the battle at Masin and the promise made to Orien. He watched in astonishment as Cadoras was freed to strike again. Hearing himself talking to Cadoras about heroes, a dry chuckle escaped him. What a fool he must have sounded!

  Hewla had been right - love was very nearly the downfall. But now the Nadir had killed Danyal and for that they would suffer. No matter that there were hundreds of them. No matter that he could not win.

  Only one truth was of importance.

  Waylander the Slayer was back.

  Danyal knelt beside Durmast on the slopes of a hill overlooking a riverside town of rambling wooden buildings. The hill was thickly wooded and their horses were hidden in a hollow some sixty paces to the south.

  She was tired. The previous day they had escaped from the Nadir raiders with seconds to spare and she had felt a deep sense of shame at their flight. Dur­mast had been scouting to the west and she had seen him galloping ahead of a Nadir war party, his axe in his hand. Arrows flashed by him as he thundered his bay gelding into line with the wagons, hauled on the reins alongside the baker's wagon and shouted for Danyal. Without thinking she had climbed alongside

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  him and he had spurred his mount for the hills. She would be lying to herself if she claimed she had not known he was taking her to safety while those around her were doomed to savage and cruel deaths. And she hated herself for her weakness.

  Four Nadir riders had pursued them into the hills. Once into the woods Durmast had dumped her from the saddle and swung his horse to meet their charge. The first had died as Durmast's axe smashed his rib-cage. The second had thrust out a lance which the giant brushed aside before slashing the man's head from his shoulders. The rest of the vicious action had been so swift and chaotic that Danyal could not take it in. Durmast had charged the remaining riders and the horses had gone down in a welter of flailing hooves. He had risen first, looming like a god of war with his silver axe flashing in the sunlight. With the four men dead, he had looted their saddlebags for food and water and without a word brought her a Nadir pony. Together they had headed north into the trees.

  That night, with the temperature falling, they had slept under a single blanket and Durmast, still with­out a word, had removed his clothes and reached for her.

  Turning into him she smiled sweetly, but his eyes widened as he felt the touch of cold steel at his loins.

  "The knife is very sharp, Durmast. I would suggest you calm yourself - and sleep.'

  'A simple "No" would have been sufficient, woman,' he said, his blue eyes cold with anger.

  Then I shall say "No". Do you give your word not to touch me?'

  'Of course.'

  'Since I know your word is as strong as a withered

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  stick, let me tell you this: If you rape me, I shall do my best to kill you.'

  'I am not a rapist, woman. Nor have I ever been.'

  'The name is Danyal.' She withdrew the knife and turned her back to him.

  He sat up and scratched his beard. 'You do not think highly of me, Danyal. Why?'

  'Go to sleep, Durmast.'

  'Answer me.'

  'What a question! You led those people to slaugh­ter and then fled without a backward glance. You are an animal - your own men stayed behind and died, but you just ran.'

  'We just ran,' he pointed out.

  'Yes - and don't think I don't hate myself for it.'

  'What did you expect me to do, Danyal? Had I stayed I would have killed maybe six or seven Nadir, and then I would have died with the rest. There was no point.'

  'You betrayed them all.'

  'Yes, but then I was betrayed - I had an arrange­ment with the Nadir chieftan, Butaso.'

  'You amaze me. The traveller paid you and had a right to expect loyalty - instead you sold them to the Nadir.'

  'You have to pay a bounty to cross Nadir lands in safety.'

  'Tell that to the dead.'

  'The dead don't hear so well.'

  She sat up and moved away from him, taking the blanket and wrapping it round her shoulders.

  'They don't touch you, do they? The deaths?'

  'Why should they? I lost no friends. All things die and their time had come.'

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  'They were people, families. They had put their lives in your hands.'

  'What are you, my conscience?'

  'You have one?'

  'Your tongue is as sharp as your dagger. They paid me to guide them - am I responsible because some Nadir dog-eater breaks his word?'

  'Why did you bother to rescue me?'

  'Because I wanted to sleep with you. Is that a crime also?'

  'No, it's just not a very attractive compliment.'

  'Gods, woman, Waylander is welcome to you! No wonder he's changed - you're like acid on the soul. Now, can we share the blanket?'

  The following day they had travelled in silence until they reached the last line of hills before the river. Halting the horses, Durmast had pointed to the distant blue mountains of the north-west.

  The tallest peak is Raboas, the Sacred Giant, and the river runs from that range and continues to the sea a hundred miles north of Purdol. It is called the Rostrias, the River of the Dead.'

  'What are you planning?'

  'There is a town yonder. There I shall book pass­age on a boat and head for Raboas.'

  'What about Waylander?'

  'If he is alive, we will see him there.'

  'Why not wait in the town for him?'

  'He won't come here - he'll strike north-west. We've moved north-east to avoid pursuit. Butaso is a Spear, a western tribe; this is Wolfshead land.'

  'I thought you were travelling only as far as Gulgothir.'

  'I've changed my mind.'

  'Why?'

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  'Because I am a Drenai. Why should I not want to help Waylander regain the Armour of Bronze?'

  'Because there's no profit in it for you.'

  'Let's go,' he snapped, spurring his horse forward into the trees.

  Hiding the horses in a hollow, Durmast crept 'to the crest of the hills overlooking the town. There were some twenty houses and seven warehouses built alongside a thick wooden jetty. Behind the warehouses was a long flat building with a shaded porch.

  'That's the inn,' said Durmast, 'but it doubles as the main supply store. There don't seem to be any Nadir riders around.'

  'Aren't those people Nadir?' asked Danyal, point­ing to a group of men sitting beside the jetty.

  'No. They are Notas - no tribe. Outcasts orig­inally, now they farm and ply the river for trade and the Nadir come to them for iron tools and weapons, blankets and the like.'

  'Are you known here?'

  'I am known in most places, Danyal.'

  Together they rode into the town, where they tied their horses to a hitching rail outside the inn. The inside was dimly lit and smelled of sweat, stale beer and food swimming in grease. Danyal moved to a table by a shuttered window; lifting the bar, she pushed the shutters open, rapping them firmly into the back of a man standing outside.

  'You clumsy cow!' he shouted. Danyal turned away from him and sat down, but when he stormed into the inn, still shouting, she stood and drew her sword. The man stopped in his tracks as she advanced on him. He was stocky and dressed in a

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  fur jacket with a thick black belt from which hung two long knives.

  'Go away or I'll kill you,' snarled Danyal.

  Durmast appeared behind the man and, grabbing his belt from the back, lifted him from his feet and carried him past Danyal.

  'You heard the lady,' said Durmast. 'Go away!' Twisting, he hurled the man through the open window, watching in satisfaction as he crashed into the dust several feet beyond the wooden walkway. Then he turned
to Danyal with a broad grin on his wide face.

  'I see you are maintaining your reputation for sweetness.'

  'I didn't need your help.'