Waylander chuckled and shook his head, then he began to laugh. Gurion turned away as the sadness touched him.
‘Curse all romantics,’ said Waylander as the laughter left him. ‘May they rot in seven hells!’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said Gurion.
Waylander swept his fingers through his hair and stood.
‘I cannot begin to tell you how tired I am. I feel I am drowning in a sea of quicksand, and my friends are helping me by tying rocks to my legs. You understand? I am a killer, who kills for money. Does that sound romantic? I am a hunter of men. Yet here I am being hunted … by men and beasts, and spirits of the dark. According to my friend Dardalion, my quest serves the Source. You have heard of the Source?’ Gurion nodded. ‘Well, let me tell you, my friend, that serving the Source is not easy. You cannot see him or hear him, and certainly he offers no help in his own cause.’
‘He led you to my ferry,’ offered Gurion.
Waylander chuckled. ‘My enemies can soar into the night like invisible demons, conjure wolf-creatures from Hell and read minds. On our side is a God that can lead a man to a ferry!’
‘And yet you still live.’
‘For now, Gurion. Tomorrow is another day.’
20
Dardalion turned away from Astila and leaned on the broad-silled window. Like all the windows of the Keep it tapered from a broad base to a narrow slit, built for defence rather than for view or light. An archer could loose a shaft to the left, right or centre, covering a wide angle of attack; whereas the attackers could gain no access to the Keep through it nor, unless by a freak of chance, loose their arrows past the crack. Dardalion leaned on his elbows and stared at the ramparts below.
Once more blood and death stalked the walls, but the defenders were holding. Beyond the wall lay the charred remains of two Vagrian siege towers, blackened corpses scattered about them. A third siege tower was being hauled slowly towards the ramparts, and the defenders waited with oil and fire. Beyond the towers a second Vagrian army sat and waited the command to attack. Dardalion blinked and transferred his gaze to the grey stone of the window.
‘Why will you not hear me, Dardalion?’ asked Astila.
Dardalion turned. ‘I hear you, my brother, but I cannot help you.’
‘We need you here. We are dying. Seven now have gone to the Source and we need your strength.’
‘Waylander also needs me. I cannot desert him.’
‘We are losing heart, Dardalion.’ Astila slumped to the narrow bed and sat with his head in his hands. For the first time Dardalion noticed the fatigue in the blond priest: the bowed shoulders, the purple smears under the once bright eyes. He left the window and sat beside Astila.
‘I can only do so much, and there is so much to do. I truly believe that Waylander’s quest is the answer for the Drenai. I cannot explain why. But through all my prayers the Armour returns to haunt me and night after night I see it shining in that dark cave. Yet despite its importance we have only one man seeking it for us. One man, Astila! And ranged against him are the Brotherhood, the Nadir, and now unholy creatures … He has no chance without me. Try to understand. Please try.’
Astila said nothing for a moment, then looked up and met Dardalion’s gaze. His bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.
‘You are the leader and I will follow you to death and beyond. But I tell you the end is very close. I say this without arrogance, but I am the strongest of the brothers and yet I am finished. If I travel the night, I shall not return. If that is your wish, so be it. But believe me, Dardalion, it is The Thirty or Waylander. I stand by your judgement.’
Dardalion laid his arm on Astila’s shoulder. ‘I also am at the limits of my power. It costs me greatly to hold the shield over Waylander. And I cannot break it, not even for you.’