‘And now you kill the lambs?’ Dardalion had accused.
‘No, priest. No one pays for lambs.’
The path wound on and up, over jagged rocks between towering boulders.
Orien had said that werebeasts guarded the Armour, but Waylander did not care.
He would dismount and walk into the cave, fetch the Armour and wait for the enemy he could not slay.
His horse was breathing hard as they reached level ground. Ahead of him was a wide cave and before that a fire at which sat Durmast and Danyal.
‘You took your time,’ said the giant, grinning.
Waylander dismounted as Danyal ran to him, folding his arms around her he kissed her hair, closing his eyes to stem the tears. Durmast looked away.
‘I love you,’ said Waylander softly, his fingers touching the skin of her face. His words carried such overwhelming regret that Danyal pulled away from his arms.
‘What is the matter?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. You are well?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Never better.’ Taking her by the hand, he walked back to Durmast. The giant pushed himself to his feet, eyes flicking from one to the other.
‘It is good to see you,’ said Waylander. ‘But I knew you would make it.’
‘You too. Is everything all right with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You seem strangely distant.’
‘It has been a long journey and I am tired, you saw the dust-cloud?’
‘Yes. We have less than an hour.’
Waylander nodded agreement.
Hobbling the horses, the trio prepared torches and entered the cave. It was dark and foul-smelling and, as Orien had promised, split into three tunnels. Waylander led the way and they moved deeper into the gloom.
Shadows leapt and swayed on the damp granite walls and Danyal, sword in hand, stayed close to the warriors. At one point they walked into a deep chamber where the flickering torchlight failed to pierce the darkness. Danyal pulled at Waylander’s cloak and turned.
‘What is it?’
At the furthest edges of the torchlight were scores of glittering, feral eyes.
‘Ignore them,’ said Waylander.
Durmast swallowed hard and drew his battleaxe from its sheath.
They walked on and the eyes closed in around them.
At last they reached the chamber Orien had described.
Inside, along the walls, were placed torch brackets containing sticks soaked with pitch. One by one Waylander lit them all until the chamber was bathed in light.
At the far end, on a wooden frame, stood the Armour of Bronze: winged helm, ornate breastplate bearing an eagle with wings spread, bronze gauntlets and two swords of rare beauty.
The three travellers stood silently before the Armour.
‘It makes you believe in magic,’ whispered Durmast.
‘Who could lose, wearing such as that?’ asked Danyal.
Waylander walked forward and reached out his hands.
They passed through the armour and he reached again.
But the image remained.
‘Well, get it, man!’ said Durmast.
‘I cannot. I am not the Chosen One.’
‘What?’ hissed Durmast. ‘What are you talking about?’
Waylander chuckled, then sat down before the Armour.
‘There is a spell on it, Durmast. The old King, Orien, told me of it. Only the Chosen One can remove the Armour. It is a safeguard, I suppose – it is so vital to the Drenai that they could not risk it being taken by an enemy. But it does not matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’ stormed Durmast. ‘We’ve risked our lives to get this damned tin suit! Even now the Nadir are gathering – and I’m not too damned sure about those eyes out there. Of course it matters.’
‘All that matters is that we tried,’ said Waylander.
Durmast’s response was short, vulgar and explosive. ‘Horse dung! The world is full of sorry triers and I’ll have no part of it. what do we do now? Wait for some golden-haired grinning Drenai hero who’s been blessed in some magic fountain?’
Danyal approached the Armour and tried to touch it, but it remained ethereal.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ snapped Durmast.
‘You try,’ she said.
‘What’s the point? Do I look like a Drenai hero to you?’
‘I know what you are, Durmast. Try anyway. What can you lose?’
The giant pushed himself upright and stalked to the Armour.