David Gemmell - Waylander

Butaso sat within his tent, gazing sullenly at the ancient shaman squatting before him. The old man spread out a section of tanned goatskin on the earth and casually tossed a dozen knuckle bones on to it. The bones had been shaped into rough cubes and strange symbols had been etched on each side. For a while the shaman stared at the bones – then he looked up, his dark slanted eyes burning with malicious humour.

'Your treachery has killed you, Butaso,' he said.

'Speak plainly.'

'Is that not plain enough? You are doomed. Even now a dark shadow hovers over your soul.'

'I am as strong as ever,' said Butaso, lurching to his feet. 'Nothing can harm me.'

'Why did you break your word to Ice-eyes?'

'I had a vision. I have many visions. The Chaos Spirit is with me – he guides me.'

'The Spirit of Dark Deeds is his Nadir name, Butaso. Why do you not use it? He is a deceiver.'

'So you say, old man. But he has brought me power and wealth, and many wives.'

'He has brought you death. What did he require of you?'

'To destroy the wagons of Ice-eyes.'

'Yet Ice-eyes lives. As does his friend, the Soul Stealer.'

'What is that to me?'

'Think you that I have no powers? Foolish mortal! Since the Soul Stealer filled your heart with fear that day, giving you your life, you have burned with the desire for vengeance. Now you have killed his friends and he hunts you. Do you not understand?'

'I understand that I have a hundred men scouring the Steppes for him. They will bring me his head by dawn.'

'This man is the prince of killers. He will evade your hunters.'

'That would please you, would it not, Kesa Khan? You have always hated me.'

'Your ego is bloated, Butaso. I do not hate you, I despise you – but that is neither here nor there. This man must be stopped.'

'You would help me?'

'He is a danger to future Nadir generations. He seeks the Armour of Bronze, the Nadir Bane; he must not live to fulfil his quest.'

'Use the Shapeshifters then – hunt him down.'

'They are a last resort,' snapped Kesa Khan, rising to his feet. 'I must think.' Replacing the knuckle bones in a goatskin sack, he moved outside the tent and stared up at the stars. Around him there was little movement, except among the sentries guarding Butaso; eight men ringed his tent with swords in hand, facing outwards silently, occasionally stamping their feet against the cold.

Kesa Khan walked to his own tent, where the slave girl Voltis had prepared a brazier of burning coals to warm the air. She had also poured a bowl of Lyrrd and placed three warmed rocks in his bed. He smiled at her and drank the Lyrrd in a single swallow, feeling the alcohol pouring fire into his veins.

'You are a fine girl, Voltis. I do not deserve you.'

'You have been kind,' she said, bowing.

'Would you like to return home?'

'No, Lord. I wish to serve you.' He was touched by her sincerity and leaning forward he lifted her chin … then froze.

Eight.

The guard on Butaso's tent was normally seven!

Butaso turned as the guard entered. 'What do you want?'

'The return of my gift,' said Waylander. Butaso spun on his heel, a scream beginning in his throat –a scream cut off by six inches of shimmering steel hammering into his neck. His fingers scrambled for the blade, and his eyes widened in agony; then he fell to his knees, his gaze fixed on the tall figure standing impassively before him.

The last thing he heard as his eyes closed was the clash of steel as his guards rushed into the tent.

Waylander turned, his sword blocking a wild cut. Twisting his wrist, he sent his opponent's blade flying through the air. The guard wrenched a knife from its scabbard, but died as Waylander's sword lanced his ribs. More guards pushed forward, forcing the assassin back to the centre of the tent.

'Put down your sword,' hissed Kesa Khan from the entrance. Waylander gazed coolly at the ring of steel closing in on him.

'Come and take it,' he said.

As the Nadir surged forward, Waylander's sword flickered out and a man fell screaming. Then a blade crashed side on against his head and he fell. He struggled to rise, but pounding fists pushed him down and a sea of darkness washed over him …

Pain woke him – deep throbbing, insistent pain. His fingers were swollen and the sun beat mercilessly down on his naked body. He was hanging by his wrists from a pole at the centre of the Nadir camp; they had stripped him of his Nadir clothes and strung him in the sun, and already he could feel the burning of his marble-white skin. His face and arms were in no danger, burnt as they were to the colour of leather, but his body had never been exposed to harsh sunlight and already his chest and shoulders felt as if on fire. He tried to open his eyes, but only the left would function; the right was swollen shut. His mouth was dry, his tongue a stick.

His hands were throbbing and almost purple. Getting his feet under him he pushed himself upright, taking pressure from his swollen wrists. Immediately a fist lashed into his stomach and he winced and bit his swollen lip so hard that blood flowed to his chin.

'We have fine things in store for you, you round-eyed son of a slut,' said a voice. Waylander tilted his head to see before him a young man of middle height – his greasy black hair tied in a pony tail, his features obscured by the ash of mourning.

Waylander looked away and the man struck him again.

'Leave him!' ordered Kesa Khan.

'He is mine.'

'Obey me, Gorkai,' ordered the old man.

'He must die hard, and then serve my father in the Void.'

The young man walked away and Waylander looked at the old man.

'You did well, Soul Stealer, you took the life of a fool who would have led us to ruin.'

Waylander said nothing. His mouth was full of blood which moistened his dry tongue and eased his throat.

Kesa Khan smiled.

'Blood will not sustain you. Today we take you to the desert, where we will watch your soul drawn out by the burning sand.'

The long day wore on and the pain grew. Waylander closed his mind against the burning of his flesh and fought to stay calm, breathing slowly and deeply, conserving what energy he could against the moment when the nadir released him. If they were to take him to the desert, then they must first cut him loose from the pole – at that moment he would attack and force them to kill him.

His mind drifted, flowing back over the years. He saw again the young, idealistic Dakeyras: the child who yearned to be a soldier, to serve in the army of Orien, the Warrior King of Bronze. He recalled the day when Orien had led his victorious force through the streets of Drenan, how the crowds had cheered and thrown flowers. The King had seemed like a giant to the ten-year-old Dakeyras as his armour blazed in the noon sun. Orien had carried his three-year-old son before him and the child, dismayed by the noise of the crowd, had burst into tears. Then the King had lifted him high and kissed him gently. Dakeyras had enjoyed that moment of warmth.

His mind tore his memory from the scene, and pictured once more the moment King Niallad fell with Waylander's bolt jutting from his back. The sight dragged him back to the present and the agony returned. How had the noble young child become the soulless slayer? His wrists ached and he realised that his legs had given way once more; he forced himself upright and opened his good eye. A group of Nadir children squatted before him and one of them lashed at his leg with a stick.

A Nadir warrior stepped forward and sent the boy sprawling with a well-aimed kick.

Waylander drifted once more, his eyes closed. His heart sank as the vision returned of the child held high by the adoring father. With the kiss the boy had been comforted and had started to laugh, copying the King as he waved to the crowd. Tiny Niallad, the hope for tomorrow. One day, thought Dakeyras then, I will serve him as my father serves Orien.