David Gemmell: Waylander

'I will die if you leave me here,' he said, at last.

'Not good enough,' said the man, shrugging. He walked to the horses, finding that his own mount and saddlebags were as he had left them. Satisfied, he untied his horse and walked back to the clearing.

For several moments he stared at the priest, then he cursed softly and cut him free. The man sagged forward into his arms. He had been badly beaten and his chest had been repeatedly cut; the flesh hung in narrow strips and his blue robes were stained with blood. The warrior rolled the priest to his back, ripping open the robes, then walked to his horse and returned with a leather canteen. Twisting the cap he poured water on the wounds. The priest writhed but made no sound. Expertly the warrior smoothed the strips of skin back into place.

'Lie still for a moment,' he ordered. Taking needle and thread from a small saddlebag, he neatly stitched the flaps. 'I need a fire,' he said. 'I can't see a damned thing!'

The fire once lit, the priest watched as the warrior went about his work. The man's eyes were narrowed in concentration, but the priest noted that they were extraordinarily dark, deep sable-brown with flashing gold flecks. The warrior was unshaven, and the beard around his chin was speckled with grey.

Then the priest slept …

When he awoke, he groaned as the pain from his beating roared back at him like a snarling dog. He sat up, wincing as the stitches in his chest pulled tight. His robes were gone and beside him lay clothes obviously taken from the dead men, for brown blood stained the jerkin which lay beside them.

The warrior was packing his saddlebags and tying his blanket to his saddle.

'Where are my robes?' demanded the priest.

'I burned them.'

'How dare you! Those were sacred garments.'

'They were merely blue cotton. And you can get more in any town or village.' The warrior returned to the priest and squatted beside him. 'I spent two hours patching your soft body, priest. It would please me if you allowed it to live for a few days before hurling yourself on the fires of martyrdom. All across the country your brethren are burning, or hanged, or dismembered. And all because they don't have the courage to remove those damned robes.'

'We will not hide,' said the priest defiantly.

'Then you will die.'

'Is that so terrible?'

'I don't know, priest, you tell me. You were close to it last evening.'

'But you came.'

'Looking for my horse. Don't read too much into it.'

'And a horse is worth more than a man in today's market?'

'It always was, priest.'

'Not to me.'

'So if I had been tied to the tree, you would have rescued me?'

'I would have tried.'

'And we would both have been dead. As it is, you are alive and, more importantly, I have my horse.'

'I will find more robes.'

'I don't doubt that you will. And now I must go. If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome.'

'I don't think that I do.'

The man shrugged and rose. 'In that case, farewell.'

'Wait!' said the priest, forcing himself to his feet. 'I did not wish to sound ungrateful and I thank you most sincerely for your help. It is just that were I to be with you, it would put you in danger.'

'That's very thoughtful of you,' answered the man. 'As you wish, then.'

He walked to his horse, tightened the saddle cinch and climbed into the saddle, sweeping out his cloak behind him.

'I am Dardalion,' called the priest.

The warrior leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.

'And I am Waylander,' he said. The priest jerked as if struck. 'I see you have heard of me.'

'I have heard nothing that is good,' replied Dardalion.

'Then you have heard only what is true. Farewell.'

'Wait! I will travel with you.'

Waylander drew back on the reins. 'What about the danger?' he asked.

'Only the Vagrian conquerors want me dead, but at least I have some friends – which is more than can be said for Waylander the Slayer. Half the world would pay to spit on your grave.'

'It is always comforting to be appreciated,' said Waylander. 'Now, Dardalion – if you are coming, put on those clothes and then we must be away.'

Dardalion knelt by the clothes and reached for a woollen shirt, but as his fingers touched it he recoiled and the colour drained from his face.

Waylander slid from his saddle and approached the priest. 'Do your wounds trouble you?' he asked.

Dardalion shook his head, and when he looked up Waylander was surprised to see tears in his eyes. It shocked the warrior, for he had watched this man suffer torture without showing pain. Now he wept like a child, yet there was nothing to torment him.

Dardalion took a shuddering breath. 'I cannot wear these clothes.'

'There are no lice, and I have scraped away most of the blood.'

'They carry memories, Waylander … horrible memories … rape, murder, foulness indescribable. I am sullied even by touching them and I cannot wear them.'

'You are a mystic, then?'

'Yes. A mystic.' Dardalion sat back upon the blanket shivering in the morning sunshine. Waylander scratched his chin and returned to his horse, where he removed a spare shirt, leggings and a pair of moccasins from his saddlebag.

'These are clean, priest. But the memories they carry may be no less painful for you,' he said, tossing the clothes before Dardalion. Hesitantly the young priest reached for the woollen shirt. As he touched the garment he felt no evil, only a wave of emotional pain that transcended anguish. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind, then he looked up and smiled.

'Thank you, Waylander. These I can wear.'

Their eyes met and the warrior smiled wryly. 'Now you know all my secrets, I suppose?'

'No. Only your pain.'

'Pain is relative,' said Waylander.

Throughout the morning they rode through hills and valleys torn by the horns of war. To the east pillars of smoke spiralled to join the clouds. Cities were burning, souls departing to the Void. Around them in the woods and fields were scattered corpses, many now stripped of their armour and weapons, while overhead crows banked in black-winged hordes, their greedy eyes scanning the now fertile earth below. The harvest of death was ripening.

Burnt-out villages met the riders' eyes in every vale and Dardalion's face took on a haunted look. Waylander ignored the evidence of war but he rode warily, constantly stopping to study the back-trails and scanning the distant hills to the south.

'Are you being followed?' asked Dardalion.

'Always,' answered the warrior grimly.

Dardalion had last ridden a horse five years before when he left his father's cliff-top villa for the five-mile ride to the temple at Sardia. Now, with the pain of his wounds increasing and his legs chafing against the mare's flanks, he fought against the rising agony. Forcing his mind to concentrate, Dardalion focused his gaze on the warrior riding ahead, noting the easy way he sat his saddle and the fact that he held the reins with his left hand, his right never straying far from the broad black belt hung with weapons of death. For a while, as the road widened, they rode side by side and the priest studied the warrior's face. It was strong-boned and even handsome after a fashion, but the mouth was a grim line and the eyes hard and piercing. Beneath his cloak the warrior wore a chain-mail shoulder-guard over a leather vest which bore many gashes and dents and carefully repaired tears.

'You have lived long in the ways of war?' asked Dardalion.

'Too long,' answered Waylander, stopping once more to study the trail.

'You mentioned the deaths of the priests and you said they died because they lacked the courage to remove their robes. What did you mean?'

'Was it not obvious?'

'It would seem to be the highest courage to die for one's beliefs,' said Dardalion.