Camran laughed. ‘You think we are being hunted by Waylander the Slayer?’
‘I hope not.’
‘Gods, man, we’re two thousand miles from Gothir. No, this is just another hunter using a similar weapon. Whoever he is, we’re ready for him now,’ said Camran. ‘Put two men on watch and tell the rest to get some sleep.’
Camran moved to the girl, retied her hands and feet, then settled down on the ground. He had served in six campaigns and knew how important it was to rest whenever possible. Sleep did not come instantly. Instead he lay in the darkness thinking about what Okrian had said.
Waylander. Even the name made him shiver. A legend back in the days of his youth, Waylander the Slayer was said to be a demon in human form. Nothing could stop him; not walls or armed guards, not spells. It was said that the terrifying priests of the Dark Brotherhood had hunted him. All had died. Were-beasts, created by a Nadir shaman, were sent after him. Even these he had slain.
Carnran shivered. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. Back then Waylander was said to be a man in his late thirties. If he was following them now he would have to be a man close to sixty, and an old man could not kill and move as this one did.
No, he decided, it could not be Waylander. With that thought he slept.
He awoke suddenly and sat up. A shadow moved across him. Hurling himself to his right he ducked and scrabbled for his sword. Something struck him on the brow and he pitched back. Okrian shouted a battle cry and sprinted forward. Camran surged to his feet, sword in hand. Clouds covered the moon once more, but not before Camran saw a shadowy figure merge into the darkness of the trees.
‘Who was on watch?’ shouted Camran. ‘By the gods I’ll cut his bastard eyes out!’
‘No point in that,’ said Okrian, pointing to a sprawled figure. Blood was pooling around the man. His throat had been slashed open. Another dead man was hunched by a boulder. ‘You’ve been wounded,’ he said. Blood was dripping from a shallow cut in Camran’s brow.
‘I ducked at the right moment,’ said the captain, ‘otherwise his blade would have opened my throat.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Another hour and it will be light.’ Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he held it to the bleeding wound on his brow.
‘I think I cut him,’ said Okrian. ‘But he moved fast.’
Camran continued to dab at his wound, but the blood was flowing freely. ‘You’ll have to stitch it,’ he told Okrian.
‘Yes, sir.’ The hulking sergeant moved to his horse, removing a medicine pouch from his saddlebag. Camran sat very still as Okrian went to work. He glanced at the four other surviving conscripts, sensing their fear. Even as the sun rose there was no lessening of tension. For now they had to ride back into the forest.
The sky was clear and bright as Camran stepped into the saddle, the hostage girl seated before him. He swung to his men. ‘If he attacks in daylight we’ll kill him,’ he said. ‘If not we’ll be clear of the trees soon. He’ll stop following us then. He’ll not tackle six armed men on open ground.’
His words did not convince them. But, then, they didn’t convince him either. They moved slowly towards the trees, found the trail, then picked up the pace, Camran in the lead, Okrian just behind him. They rode for half an hour. Okrian glanced back to see two riderless horses. He shouted an alarm. Panic touched them all then and they began to ride faster, lashing their horses.
Camran emerged from the trees and hauled on the reins. He was sweating now, and could feel his heart beating wildly. Okrian and the other two surviving men drew their swords.
A rider on a dark horse moved slowly from the trees, his long black cloak drawn closely around him. The four warriors sat very still as he approached. Camran blinked back sweat. The man’s face was strong, and somehow ageless. He could have been anywhere from his thirties to his fifties. His grey hair, lightly streaked with black, was shoulder-length, held back from his face by a black silk band tied about his brow. He was expressionless, but his dark eyes focused on Camran.