David Gemmell: Waylander

'I feel strange,' she admitted. 'I was so prepared for death that all fear left me. Yet I am alive. Why did he come back?'

'I do not know. He does not know.'

'Why did they go away?'

Dardalion leaned his back against the cave wall, stretching his legs towards the fire.

'I am not sure. I have given much thought to it and I think perhaps it is the nature of soldiers. They are trained to fight and kill upon a given order – to obey unquestioningly. They do not act as individuals. And when a battle comes it is usually clear-cut: there is a city which must be captured or a force which must be overcome. The order is given, excitement grows – dulling fear – and they attack in a mass, drawing strength from the mob around them.

'But today there was no order and Waylander, in remaining still, gave them no cause to fire their blood.'

'But Waylander could not have known they would run away,' she insisted.

'No. He didn't care.'

'I don't understand.'

'In truth I am not sure that I do. But I sensed it during those moments. He didn't care … and they knew it. But they cared, they cared very much. They didn't want to die and they were not charged up to fight.'

'But they could have killed him … killed us all.'

' Could have, yes. But they didn't – and for that I am thankful. Go to sleep, sister. We have won another night.'

Outside Waylander watched the stars. He was still numbed from the encounter and ran the memories through time and again.

He had found their camp deserted and had followed them, a growing fear eating at him. Dismounting below the woods, he had made his way to the clearing, only to see the Hounds advancing. He had strung his crossbow, and then stopped. To advance was to die and every instinct screamed at him to go back.

Yet he had advanced, throwing aside years of caution, to give away his life for a nonsense.

Why in the name of Hell had they walked away?

No matter how many times he considered it, an answer always eluded him.

A movement to his left jerked him from his reverie and he turned to see one of the children walking from the cave. She looked neither to right nor left. Waylander went to her and touched her lightly on the arm, but she moved on, unaware of him. Stooping, he lifted her. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped to his shoulder. She was very light in his arms as he walked back to the cave, ready to lay her beside her sister. But then he stopped in the cave mouth and sat with his back against the wall, drawing her close with his cloak about her.

For several hours he stayed quietly, feeling the warmth of her breath against his neck. Twice she woke, then snuggled down once more. As dawn lightened the sky he took her back into the cave and laid her beside her sister.

Then he returned to the cave mouth …

Alone.

Danyal's scream snatched Waylander from sleep, his heart pounding. Rolling to his feet with knife in hand he ran into the cave to find the woman kneeling beside Dardalion's still form. Waylander dropped to his knees and lifted the priest's wrist. The man was dead.

'How?' whispered Danyal.

'Damn you, priest!' shouted Waylander. Dardalion's face was white and waxen, his skin cold to the touch. 'He must have had a weak heart,' said Waylander bitterly.

'He was fighting the man,' said Miriel. Waylander turned to the child, who was sitting at the back of the cave holding hands with her sister.

'Fighting?' he asked. 'Who was he fighting?' But Miriel looked away.

'Come along, Miriel,' urged Danyal. 'Who was he fighting?'

'The man with the arrow in his eye,' she said.

Danyal turned to Waylander. 'It was just a dream; it means nothing. What are we to do?'

Waylander did not reply. Throughout the questioning of the child he had held on to Dardalion's wrist and now he felt the weakest of pulses.

'He is not dead,' he whispered, 'Go and talk to the child. Find out about the dream – quickly, now!'

For some minutes Danyal sat quietly with the girl, then she returned. 'She says that the man you killed took hold of her and made her cry. Then the priest came and the man shouted at him; he had a sword and was trying to kill the priest. And they were flying – higher than the stars. That is all there is.'

'He feared this man,' said Waylander, 'believing he had demonic powers. If he was right, then maybe death did not stop him. Perhaps even now he is being hunted.'

'Can he survive?'

'How?' snapped Waylander. The man won't fight.' Danyal leaned forward, placing her hand on Waylander's arm. The muscles were tensed and quivering. 'Take your hand from me, woman, or I'll cut it off at the wrist. No one touches me!' Danyal jerked back with green eyes ablaze, but she mastered her anger and moved back to the children.

'Damn you all!' hissed Waylander. He took a deep breath, quelling the fury boiling inside him. Danyal and the children sat quietly, watching him intently. Danyal knew what was tormenting him: the priest was in danger and the warrior, for all his deadly skill, was powerless. A battle was taking place in another world and Waylander was a useless bystander.

'How could you be so stupid, Dardalion?' whispered the warrior. 'All life fights to survive. You say the Source made the world? Then he created the tiger and the deer, the eagle and the lamb. You think he made the eagle to eat grass?'

For some minutes he lapsed into silence, remembering the priest as he had knelt naked by the robbers' clothes.

'I cannot wear these, Waylander …'

He transferred his grip from the priest's arm to his hand and as their fingers touched, there came an almost imperceptible movement. Waylander's eyes narrowed. As he gripped the priest's hand more firmly, Dardalion's arm jerked spasmodically and his face twisted in pain.

'What is happening to you, priest? Where in Hell's name are you?'

At the name of Hell Dardalion jerked again, and moaned softly.

'Wherever he is, he is suffering,' said Danyal, moving forward to kneel beside the priest.

'It was when our hands touched,' said Waylander. 'Fetch the crossbow, woman – there, by the cave mouth.' Danyal moved to the weapon and carried it to Waylander. 'Put it in his right hand and close his fingers about it.' Danyal opened Dardalion's hand, and curled his fingers around the ebony hilt. The priest screamed; his fingers jerked open and the crossbow clattered to the ground. 'Hold his fingers around it.'

'But it is causing him pain. Why are you doing this?'

'Pain is life, Danyal. We must get him back into his body – you understand? The corpse-spirit cannot touch him there. We must draw him back.'

'But he is a priest, a man of purity.'

'So?'

'You will sully his soul.'

Waylander laughed. 'I may not be a mystic, but I do believe in souls. What you are holding is merely wood and metal. Dardalion will be stung by it, but I do not believe his soul is so fragile that it will kill him. But his enemy will – so you decide!'

'I believe that I hate you,' said Danyal, opening Dardalion's hand and forcing him to grip the ebony handle once more. The priest twisted and screamed. Waylander pulled a knife from his belt and sliced a cut across the flesh of his forearm. Blood oozed and then gushed from the wound. As Waylander held his arm over Dardalion's face, blood spattered to his skin, flowed over his closed eyes and down – cours­ing over his lips and into his throat.

A last terrible scream ripped from the priest and his eyes snapped open. Then he smiled, and his eyes closed again. A deep shuddering breath swelled his lungs and he slept. Waylander checked his pulse –it was strong and even.

'Sweet Lord of Light!' said Danyal. 'Whyl Why the blood?'

'According to the Source no priest shall taste blood, for it carries the soul,' explained Waylander softly. 'The weapon was not enough, but the blood brought him back.'