Waylander 3 – Hero in the Shadows By David Gemmell

All was pandemonium now as the Kraloth leapt among the archers.

‘Kill the hounds,’ Waylander ordered Kysumu. ‘I’ll find the Houndmaster.’

Kysumu sprinted across the ruins, his sword blazing. The Grey Man vanished into the shadows.

Chardyn stood alone.

In the distance he saw a wall of mist seeping across the valley.

The smell of blood in the air caused Niaharzz to tremble with hunger. Now is not the time to feed, he told himself. Later, when the Ice Giants had finished the slaughter. Though he hoped to be able to drag at least one live victim clear of the mist before the flesh froze. Meat should slide around the mouth, its juices rich and savoury, not break into icy pieces as fangs closed upon it.

Niaharzz moved silently to the edge of the broken column and risked a glance. The small warrior with the shining sword was among the archers now, but he was hampered by the crush of bodies; men panicking and attempting to flee. Even so, he had killed two of the hounds, curse him! Offset against this more than a dozen of the archers were down, most of them dead, but two were screaming.

The sound was delicious. It was almost as good as feeding. Niaharzz filtered the raw emotions, various degrees of terror, ranging from stomach-tightening fear to bowel-loosening panic. He blinked, a sense of shock touching his soul. Amid all the fear there was an emotion subtly different. Powerful, yes, but not sweet to the senses . . . He knew he had sensed it before, thousands of years ago, when last he had walked these night-dark lands. Niaharzz focused on the emotion, separating it from those flowing from the carnage.

Then it came to him.

It was rage. But not the boiling, extravagant rage of the fighting man. No, this was cold, controlled – and close.

Niaharzz did not move.

There was a man close by. Very close! He guessed it to be the tall man he had seen standing with the swordsman. Fear touched Niaharzz. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling, for it made him more aware of the joys of physical reality. Very, very slowly he turned his head.

The man was some twenty paces to the right. He was searching the shadows, and facing away from Niaharzz.

It was so long since Niaharzz had felt his fangs close upon living flesh, the warm blood running down his throat.

Keeping his night-cloak around him he drew on his power, then raised his feet from the ground, floating silently in the shadows. The man took several steps towards a jagged wall, then turned again. Now his back was towards Niaharzz.

The Bezha floated towards the man, his arms extending, talons sliding from his fingers.

‘Time to die,’ said the man softly.

Niaharzz barely had time to register the words before the man spun on his heel, right hand extended. Something dark leapt from the small weapon in his hand.

There was no time to flee the prison of flesh, no time even to cry out against the cruel injustice of such a fate.

The bolt smashed through his skull, skewering the brain . . .

The body disappeared instantly, the black cloak floating for a moment on the wind, seeming no heavier than a grass seed. Waylander reached out and grabbed it.

Back among the ruins the remaining four Kraloth burst into flames, their bodies dwindling until they became little more than dancing sparks above the stones. They flickered for a few heartbeats and then were gone.

The cloak in Waylander’s hands felt insubstantial. It seemed to roll under his fingers like liquid. More peculiar was the weird sensation as he tried to examine it. His gaze slid away from it, focusing on the rocks, or on his wrists, but never able to fasten to the garment itself.

‘The mist is coming!’ shouted Chardyn.

Waylander glanced towards the west and saw the white wall rolling towards him. Swiftly he rolled the cloak, wedged it into his belt before loping back to where the frightened soldiers were bunching together.

‘Archers, stand firm!’ bellowed the Duke, drawing his longsword and moving among the men.