David Gemmell - Waylander

'I thought you knew where the real Armour was hidden,' said Gurion.

Waylander chuckled and shook his head, then he began to laugh. Gurion turned away as the sadness touched him.

'Curse all romantics,' said Waylander as the laughter left him. 'May they rot in seven hells!'

'You don't mean that,' said Gurion.

Waylander swept his fingers through his hair and stood.

'I cannot begin to tell you how tired I am. I feel I am drowning in a sea of quicksand, and my friends are helping me by tying rocks to my legs. You understand? I am a killer, who kills for money. Does that sound romantic? I am a hunter of men. Yet here I am being hunted … by men and beasts, and spirits of the dark. According to my friend Dardalion, my quest serves the Source. You have heard of the Source?' Gurion nodded. 'Well, let me tell you, my friend, that serving the Source is not easy. You cannot see him or hear him, and certainly he offers no help in his own cause.'

'He led you to my ferry,' offered Gurion.

Waylander chuckled. 'My enemies can soar into the night like invisible demons, conjure wolf-creatures from Hell and read minds. On our side is a God that can lead a man to a ferry!'

'And yet you still live.'

'For now, Gurion. Tomorrow is another day.'

Dardalion turned away from Astila and leaned on the broad-silled window. Like all the windows of the Keep it tapered from a broad base to a narrow slit, built for defence rather than for view or light. An archer could loose a shaft to the left, right or centre, covering a wide angle of attack; whereas the attackers could gain no access to the Keep through it nor, unless by a freak of chance, loose their arrows past the crack. Dardalion leaned on his elbows and stared at the ramparts below.

Once more blood and death stalked the walls, but the defenders were holding. Beyond the wall lay the charred remains of two Vagrian siege towers, blackened corpses scattered about them. A third siege tower was being hauled slowly towards the ramparts, and the defenders waited with oil and fire. Beyond the towers a second Vagrian army sat and waited the command to attack. Dardalion blinked and transferred his gaze to the grey stone of the window.

'Why will you not hear me, Dardalion?' asked Astila.

Dardalion turned. 'I hear you, my brother, but I cannot help you.'

'We need you here. We are dying. Seven now have gone to the Source and we need your strength.'

'Waylander also needs me. I cannot desert him.'

'We are losing heart, Dardalion.' Astila slumped to the narrow bed and sat with his head in his hands. For the first time Dardalion noticed the fatigue in the blond priest: the bowed shoulders, the purple smears under the once bright eyes. He left the window and sat beside Astila.

'I can only do so much, and there is so much to do. I truly believe that Waylander's quest is the answer for the Drenai. I cannot explain why. But through all my prayers the Armour returns to haunt me and night after night I see it shining in that dark cave. Yet despite its importance we have only one man seeking it for us. One man, Astila! And ranged against him are the Brotherhood, the Nadir, and now unholy creatures … He has no chance without me. Try to understand. Please try.'

Astila said nothing for a moment, then looked up and met Dardalion's gaze. His bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.

'You are the leader and I will follow you to death and beyond. But I tell you the end is very close. I say this without arrogance, but I am the strongest of the brothers and yet I am finished. If I travel the night, I shall not return. If that is your wish, so be it. But believe me, Dardalion, it is The Thirty or Waylander. I stand by your judgement.'

Dardalion laid his arm on Astila's shoulder. 'I also am at the limits of my power. It costs me greatly to hold the shield over Waylander. And I cannot break it, not even for you.'

'I understand,' said Astila dully. 'I will go and prepare for the night.'

'No. We must accept that we have lost the greater battle – merely put a shield on Karnak and those of his officers we can cover.'

'The Brotherhood will have the run of the fortress.'

'So be it. These are strong men, Astila. Good men. They will stand, even against the despair-clouds.'

'You believe that? Truly?'

'What else is there to believe when we are bereft of choice? Some will falter, some will die. Others will fight back. I cannot believe that evil will triumph. I cannot.'

'It has triumphed elsewhere and now the land is in ruins.'

'It has not triumphed here, Astila.'

'The war is not yet over, Dardalion.'

Jonat's sleep was plagued with bad dreams and he awoke with a start. He had seen his dead father dance as they cut him down from the gallows tree, his face purple, his tongue distended. Yet still he danced as the nobles laughed and threw copper coins – the nobles, dining on larks' tongues while his father begged for bread; paying more for a goblet of wine than his family saw in a month. Jeering, mocking.

He sat up, shivering. High on the walls Karnak walked with Gellan and Dundas. Jonat spat.

If only they had listened to him a year ago, the Vagrians would never have invaded. But the nobles thought differently. Cut down the Legion. Throw soldiers out of honest work. Let them starve, for the farms could not support them all. And who cared about the common soldier? No one. Least of all silk-robed noblemen with their gem-encrusted swords. What would they do if all the common soldiers went home? Both Vagrian and Drenai? Would the nobles fight among themselves? No. The game would be over, the fun spoiled.

He was jerked from his thoughts by Gellan's arrival. The officer sat down beside him.

'I saw you were awake. Mind if I join you?'

'Why not?'

'How are you faring?'

'Well enough.'

'I wish I was. I don't think I can handle too many days like today. You ever feel like that?'

'Sometimes. It'll pass, sir – when the first attack comes tomorrow.'

'I hope so. You did well today, Jonat; you held them together when all seemed lost. Not many men could have done that. It's a gift and I saw it in you from the first. I'm proud of you – I mean that. That's why I promoted you.'

'Not because I was a rabble-rouser?' snapped Jonat.

'No. You were what you were because you cared. You cared about the Legion, the real Legion, the men. And you had drive and energy and you commanded respect. An officer needs respect. The title is nothing unless the man is right. You were right. You are right.'

'But not right by birth,' said Jonat.

'I neither know nor care about your ancestry, but if it matters to you then let me tell you that my father was a fishmonger. No more than that. And I am proud of him, because he slaved to give me an education.'

'My father was a drunk – he was hung for riding a nobleman's horse.'

'You are not your father.'

'Damned right I am not! And I tell you this: I'll never serve another king.'

'Nor I. But that's a battle for another day. Now I am going to get some sleep.'

As Gellan stood, Jonat grinned. 'Was your father really a fishmonger?'

'No, he was an earl. I just said it to annoy you.'

'I would sooner believe that.'

'So would I. Good night, Jonat.'

'Good night, sir.'

'By the way, Dardalion says the priests can no longer hold back the power of the Brotherhood. He says to watch out for signs of despair among the men – the enemy will work on the weak. So keep an eye out.'

'I will.'

'I know. I have no worries about your section.'

Gellan moved away into the darkness and chuckled softly. His father had owned five fishing fleets and Gellan wondered how the earl would have relished the title of fishmonger.