Waylander by David A. Gemmell
Waylander by David A. Gemmell
Prologue
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 Is 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.’