‘I do not want it,’ said Waylander, swinging away and walking down a long, crooked corridor. He turned left then right, pushing open a door and stepping into another hall.
‘Try it on,’ said the armourer, removing the bright helm from its place on the armour tree and offering it to him.
Waylander did not reply. Angry now, he turned on his heel, moved back through the doorway and stood in the shadowed corridor. Then he walked on. Everywhere there were turnings and soon he lost all sense of direction. He came upon a set of stairs, and climbed and climbed. At the top, exhausted, he sat down. A doorway faced him, but he was reluctant to enter. He knew instinctively what he would find. And yet there was nowhere else to go. With a deep sigh he pushed open the door and gazed upon the armour tree.
‘Why do you not want it?’ asked the armourer.
‘Because I am not worthy to wear it,’ he told the man.
‘No one is,’ said the armourer.
The scene faded, and Waylander found himself seated beside a fast-flowing stream. The sky was bright and blue, the water fresh and cool. Cupping his hands he drank from the stream then sat back, leaning his shoulders against the trunk of a weeping willow, whose branches trailed all around him. It was peaceful here, and he wished he could stay for ever.
‘Evil carries a price,’ said a voice.
He glanced to his right. Just beyond the trailing branches stood a cold-eyed man. There was blood upon his face and his hands. He knelt by the stream to wash. But instead of the blood being cleansed the entire stream turned crimson, and began to bubble and steam. The willow branches darkened, the leaves falling away. The tree groaned. Waylander moved away from it, and the bark split, disgorging hordes of insects, which crawled over the dead wood.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Waylander asked the man.
‘It is my nature,’ he answered.
‘Evil carries a price,’ said Waylander, stepping forward. A knife appeared in his hand and he sliced it through the man’s throat in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the man fell back. The body disappeared. Waylander stood very still. His hands were drenched in blood. He moved to the stream to wash them, and the stream turned crimson and began to bubble and hiss.
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked a voice.
Surprised, Waylander turned, and saw a man beside the dying willow.
‘It is my nature,’ he told him — as the gleaming knife appeared in the newcomer’s hand . . .
He awoke with a start. Pushing himself from the chair he walked out into the sunlight. He had slept for less than two hours, and he felt disoriented. Strolling down to the beach he found Omri waiting there, fresh white towels folded nearby, a pitcher of cool water and a goblet ready on the small wooden table.
‘You look dreadful, sir,’ said the white-haired servant. ‘Perhaps you should forgo your swim and have some breakfast.’
Waylander stripped off his clothing. Wading into the cool water he flung himself forward and began to swim. His head cleared, but he couldn’t shake himself from the mood the dreams had left. Turning, he headed back for the beach with long, easy strokes, then walked up to the waterfall and cleansed the salt and sand from his body.
Omri handed him a towel. ‘I brought fresh clothes while you were swimming, sir,’ he said.
Waylander towelled himself dry, then pulled on a shirt of soft white silk, and a pair of thin leather leggings. ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said. Omri smiled, then poured a goblet of water, which Waylander drank.
Norda came running down the steps, curtsying to the Grey Man. ‘There is a large party of horsemen coming up the hill, sir,’ she said. ‘There are knights and lancers and bowmen. Lord Aric is at the head. Emrin thinks the Duke is riding with them.’
‘Thank you, Norda,’ said Omri. ‘We shall be there presently.’
The girl curtsied once more, then ran back up the steps. Omri glanced at his employer. ‘Are we in some trouble, sir?’ he enquired.