David Gemmell: Waylander

version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> romance_fantasy David A. Gemmell Waylander Drenai en Александр Карабанов Терпеливый alexkar@email.ru EditPad Lite, FBTools, Any2fb2 2002-12-31 undernet #bookz 2.0

The monster watched from the shadows as the armed men, torches aloft, entered the darkness of the mountain. He backed away as they advanced, keeping his huge bulk from the glare.

The men made their way to a rough-hewn chamber and placed the torches in rusty iron brackets on the granite walls.

At the centre of the twenty-strong group was a figure in armour of bronze, which caught the torchlight and seemed to blaze like fashioned flames. He removed his winged helm and two retainers erected a wooden skeleton frame. The warrior placed the helm atop the frame and unbuckled his breastplate. He was past middle age, but still strong – his hair thinning, his eyes squinting in the flickering light. He passed the armoured breastplate to a retainer who laid it on the frame, rebuckling the straps.

'Are you sure of this plan, my lord?' asked an elderly figure, slender and blue-robed.

'As sure as I am of anything, Derian. The dream has been with me now for a year and I believe in it.'

'But the Armour means so much to the Drenai.'

'That is why it is here.'

'Could you not – even now – reconsider? Niallad is a young man and he could wait at least two more years. You are still strong, my lord.'

'My eyes are failing, Derian. Soon I shall be blind. You think that a good trait in a King renowned for his skill in war?'

'I do not wish to lose you, my lord.' said Derian. 'It may be that I am speaking out of turn, but your son …'

'I know of his weaknesses,' snapped the King, 'as I know his future. We are facing the end of all we have fought for. Not now … not in five years. But soon will come the days of blood and then the Drenai must have some hope. This Armour is that hope.'

'But, my lord, is not magical. You were magical. This is merely metal which you chose to wear. It could have been silver, or gold, or leather. It is Orien the King who has built the Drenai. And now you will leave us.'

The King, dressed now in a brown tunic of doeskin, placed his hands on the statesman's shoulders.

'I have been much troubled these past few years, but always I have been guided by your good counsel. I trust you, Derian, and I know you will look to Niallad and guide him where you can. But in the days of blood he will be beyond your advice. My vision is black indeed: I see a terrible army falling upon the Drenai people; I see our forces sundered and in hiding – and I see this Armour shining like a torch, drawing men to it, giving them faith.'

'And do you see victory, my lord?'

'I see victory for some. Death for others.'

'But what if your vision is not true? What if it is merely a deceit fashioned by the Spirit of Chaos?'

'Look to the Armour, Derian,' said Orien, leading him forward.

It glinted in the torchlight still, but now had gained an ethereal quality which puzzled the eye. 'Reach out and touch it,' ordered the King. When Derian did so, his hand passed through the image and he recoiled as if stung.

'What have you done?'

'I have done nothing, but it is the first promise of the dream. Only the Chosen One can claim the Armour.'

'There may be some who can undo the spell and steal the Armour?'

'Indeed there may, Derian. But look beyond the torchlight.'

The statesman turned to see scores of eyes blinking at him from the darkness. He stepped back. 'Gods! What are they?'

'Once they were human, it is said. But the tribes who live in this area talk of a stream that runs black in the summer. Water from this stream is all there is, but when drunk by pregnant women it becomes a rare poison which deforms the child in the womb. The Nadir leave the babes on the mountain to die … obviously not all have done so.'

Derian tugged a torch from its bracket and advanced on the doorway, but the King stopped him.

'Don't look, my friend, it would haunt you to your dying day. But be assured they are ferocious in the extreme. It would need a great force to come here, and if any but the Chosen One attempts to remove the Armour he will be torn to pieces by the beasts who dwell in the darkness.'

'And what will you do now, my lord?'

'I will say farewell.'

'Where will you go?'

'Where no one will know me as a king.'

There were tears in Derian's eyes as he dropped to his knees before Orien, but the King pulled him to his feet.

'Put aside rank, old friend. Let us part as comrades.'

The two men embraced.

They had begun to torture the priest when the stranger stepped from the shadows of the trees.

'You stole my horse,' he said quietly. The five men spun round. Beyond them the young priest sagged against the ropes which held him, raising his head to squint through swollen eyes at the newcomer. The man was tall and broad-shouldered and a black leather cloak was drawn about him.

'Where is my horse?' he asked.

'Who is to say? A horse is a horse and the owner is the man who rides him,' answered Dectas. When the stranger first spoke Dectas had felt the thrill of fear course through him, expecting to find several men armed and ready. But now, as he scanned the trees in the gathering dusk, he knew the man was alone. Alone and mad. The priest had proved but sorry sport, gritting his teeth against the pain and offering neither curse nor plea. But this one would sing his song of pain long into the night.

'Fetch the horse,' said the man, a note of boredom in his deep voice.

'Take him!' ordered Dectas and swords sang into the air as the five men attacked. Swiftly the newcomer swept his cloak over one shoulder and lifted his right arm. A black bolt tore into the chest of the nearest man, a second entered the belly of a burly warrior with upraised sword. The stranger dropped the small double crossbow and lightly leapt back. One of his attackers was dead and a second knelt clutching the bolt in his belly.

The newcomer loosened the thong which held his cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground behind him. From twin sheaths he produced two black-bladed knives.

'Fetch the horse!' he ordered.

The remaining two hesitated, glancing to Dectas for guidance. Black blades hissed through the air and both men dropped without a sound.

Dectas was alone.

'You can have the horse,' he said, biting his lip and backing towards the trees. The man shook his head.

'Too late,' he answered softly.

Dectas turned and sprinted for the trees, but a sharp blow in the back caused him to lose balance and his face ploughed the soft earth. Pushing his hands beneath him, he struggled to rise. Had the newcomer thrown a rock, he wondered? Weakness flowed through him and he slumped to the ground … the earth was soft as a feather-bed and sweet-smelling like lavender. His leg twitched.

The newcomer recovered his cloak and brushed the dirt from its folds before fastening the thongs at the shoulder. Then he recovered his three knives, wiping them clean on the clothes of the dead. Lastly he collected his bolts, despatching the wounded man with a swift knife-cut across the throat. He picked up his crossbow and checked the mechanism for dirt before clipping it to his broad black belt. Without a backward glance he strode to the horses.

'Wait!' called the priest. 'Release me. Please!'

The man turned. 'Why?' he asked. The question was so casually put that the priest found himself momentarily unable to phrase an answer.