David Gemmell - Waylander III - Hero In The Shadows

Calling out to his soldiers, Three-swords waited for them to join him. 'Maybe half a day, maybe less,' he said, his golden gaze focusing on the boot-print. 'Edges are drying out and crumbling.' The hulking, round-shouldered Iron-arm ambled forward. Pulling his scabbard from the black sash around his thick waist, Iron-arm dropped to his knees then bent over, sniffing at the print. Closing his eyes, he screened out the scents of his three companions. A male fox had urinated in the bushes close by, the musky smell all but masking the delicate aroma left by the humans. Opening his eyes, he looked into the grim features of his captain, Three-swords. 'One is very tired,' he said. 'The one with drying blood upon him. The other one – the Riaj-nor – is strong.'

'He is not Riaj-nor,' said Three-swords. 'Their order has died out. I am told they now have pale imitations calling themselves Rajnee. They have gone soft in this world. It happens.'

'Not to us,' said Stone-four.

Three-swords looked at the powerfully built young warrior. 'Until idiots start thinking that,' he said. Stone-four gave a low growl. His shoulders hunched. Three-swords stepped in close to the angry Kriaz-nor. 'You think you are ready to face me? You think you have the skill? Make the challenge, sheep turd! Make it – and I will take your head and eat your heart.'

For a moment it seemed that Stone-four would draw his sword. His hand hovered over the black hilt. Then he relaxed.

'Wise,' said Three-swords. 'Now you might live long enough to earn a name.'

'We should have them by nightfall,' said Iron-arm. 'If we push hard.'

'Better to reach them at midnight,' said Long-stride, the tallest of the quartet. His face was long and heavily bearded, his eyes deep-set, the pupils slitted. 'They'll be deep asleep.'

'I'd sooner kill them in combat,' said Stone-four.

'That's because you're young,' said Long-stride amiably. 'They taste better if they die relaxed. Is that not so, Three-swords?'

'Aye, it is true. Rage or fear stiffens the muscles. Don't know why. Midnight it is. We shall rest here for an hour.'

Three-swords moved away and sat by the stream. The powerful Iron-arm joined him. 'No sign of Striped-claw's squad. They must be near as close as us.'

'Maybe closer,' said Three-swords, dipping his hand into the stream and scooping water to his thin mouth.

Iron-arm dropped his voice. 'Then why agree to wait until midnight? You want Striped-claw to be first?'

Three-swords smiled. 'I do not like Striped-claw. Too much cat in him. One of these days I'll have to eat his heart. I'll wager it will taste bad.'

'So why allow him the glory of the kill?'

'All the stories talk of the great skill of the Riaj-nor and the deadly spell-poisons of their blades. If Striped-claw overcomes such a blade, and takes the heart of the warrior who carries it, I will be disappointed. But I shall shrug and live with it.'

'You don't think that he will?'

Three-swords thought about the question. 'Striped-claw – though a ferociously good swordsman – is foolhardy and reckless. It would neither surprise me nor break my heart to hear of him being cut down by a Riaj-nor.''

'You said these warriors were but pale imitations,' put in Iron-arm.

'I said that is what I have been told. I prefer to withhold judgement until I have seen for myself.'

Three-swords pulled the two scabbards from his waist sash and laid them on the ground. Then he stretched out on his side and closed his eyes.

Yes, Striped-claw would arrive first. He would rush in and engage the humans without any thought of their talents, relying on his own blistering speed and skill. With luck he would suffer hugely for it. Then his men would finish the humans and Three-swords and his squad could join them for the ritual feast. It was a good thought.

He lay quietly, allowing his body to relax.

It was good to be wandering this land. For nine years Three-swords had travelled with the army, surrounded by hundreds of fellow Kriaz-nor, sleeping with nine others in a crowded tent, marching in formation or attacking cities. In this land the sky seemed larger, and Three-swords found that he enjoyed the freedom his mission offered.

He dozed for a while, and then became aware that he was dreaming. He could see himself standing by a cabin, a stream running nearby, his children playing near the trees. He sat up, cursing inwardly. From where does such stupidity spring? he asked himself.

'Bad dream?' asked Iron-arm.

'No.' Three-swords pushed up the sleeve of his black silk tunic and gazed down on the fine wolf fur that covered his forearm. 'It will be good when the army comes through,' he said. 'I miss the life. Do you?'

Iron-arm shrugged. 'I don't miss Sky-dagger's snoring, or the smell of Tree-nine's feet.'

Three-swords rose and slid the two scabbards back into his sash. 'I am tired of this place,' he said. 'We will not wait until midnight.'

Kysumu tethered the horses and fed them the last of the grain. The sun was setting as he moved back into the campsite and prepared a small fire. Yu Yu was already asleep, his head resting on his cloak, his knees drawn up like a child. Kysumu gazed around at the trees, their trunks glowing in the light of the dying sun, and wished he had brought his charcoal and parchment. Instead he closed his eyes and tried for meditation. Yu Yu rolled on to his back and began to snore softly.

Kysumu sighed. For the first time in many years he felt somehow lost, adrift from his centre. Meditation would not come. An insect buzzed around his face and he brushed it away. He knew what was wrong, and the very moment that the seeds of his disquiet had been sown. Knowledge made it no easier to accept. Kysumu found himself thinking back to the years of training, but most of all his thoughts returned to the Star Lily, and the Night of Bitter Sweetness. The Night was a mystery. All the students had heard of it, but none knew what it meant. Those Rajnee who had passed through it were sworn to secrecy.

Kysumu had joined the temple when he was thirteen, determined to become the greatest Rajnee. He had worked tirelessly, studying by day and night, absorbing the teachings, enduring the hardships. Not once did he complain of the bitter cold in the cell during winter, or the stifling heat of summer. At sixteen he had been sent to work on a poor farm for a season, to learn the life of the lowliest workers. He had toiled all season, working fifteen hours a day on arid land, rewarded with a bowl of thin soup and a hunk of bread. His bed was a straw mat beneath a lean-to. He had suffered with boils and dysentery. His teeth became loose. But he had endured.

His mentor had been pleased with him. A legend among the Rajnee, Mu Cheng was known as the Eye of the Storm. He had left the service of the emperor to serve ten years as a temple tutor. Every time Kysumu felt he could not go on he would think of the disdain in the eyes of Mu Cheng, and in that thought would find the courage to persevere. It was Mu Cheng who first taught Kysumu the Way of the Blade. This was the hardest of lessons, for Kysumu had spent years controlling himself, steeling his body against hardships, driving it often beyond its limits. This very control stopped him from becoming the swordsman he desired to be. In combat, Mu Cheng told him, the Way of the Blade was emptiness and surrender. Not surrender to an enemy, but the surrender of control, in order that the trained body could react instantly without thought. No fear, no anger, no imagination. The sword, said Mu Cheng, is not an extension of the man. The man must become an extension of the sword.

Two more years of strenuous physical work followed.

By the end Kysumu was fast, his sword work dazzling. Mu Cheng announced himself satisfied, though pointed out there was much learning still to come.