He prayed for strength. For deliverance. For bolts of lightning from the heavens …
And the Brotherhood laughed.
A booted foot cracked against Waylander’s face and he was hurled to the ground.
‘Pestilential vermin, you have caused us great trouble.’
A warrior knelt before him and grasped the broken shaft of the arrow in Waylander’s side, twisting it viciously. Despite himself the assassin screamed. A bronze-studded leather gauntlet cracked against his face and he heard his nose break. His eyes filled with tears of pain and he felt himself hauled into a sitting position. Then as his vision cleared, he found himself gazing into the dark eyes of madness beyond the slit on the face of the black helm.
‘Yours is the madness,’ said the man, ‘for believing you could stand against the power of the Spirit. What has it cost you, Waylander? Your life certainly. Durmast has the Armour – and your woman. And he will use both. Abuse both.’
The man took hold of the knife-hilt jutting from Waylander’s shoulder.
‘Do you like pain, assassin?’ Waylander groaned as the man slowly exerted pressure on the knife. ‘I like pain.’
He lost consciousness, drifting back into a dark sea of tranquility. But they found him even there and his soul fled across a jet-black sky, pursued by beasts with tongues of fire. He awoke to their laughter and saw that the moon had climbed high above Raboas.
‘Now you understand what pain is,’ said the leader. ‘While you live you will suffer, and when you die you will suffer. What will you give me to end your pain?’
Waylander said nothing.
‘Now you are wondering if you have the strength to draw a knife and kill me. Try it, Waylander! Please try. Here, I will help you. He pulled a throwing knife from the assassin’s baldric sheath and pushed it into his hand. Try to kill me.’
Waylander could not move his hand, though he strained until blood bubbled from the wound in his shoulder. He sagged back, his face ashen.
‘There is worse to come, Waylander,’ promised the leader. ‘Now stab yourself in the leg.’
Waylander watched his hand lift and turn … and he screamed as the blade plunged down into his thigh.
‘You are mine, assassin. Body and soul.’
Another man knelt beside the leader and spoke. ‘Shall we pursue Durmast and the girl?’
‘No. Durmast is ours. He will take the Armour to Kaem.’
‘Then if you permit, I would enjoy a conversation with the assassin.’
‘Of course, Enson. How selfish of me. Pray continue.’
The man knelt over Waylander. ‘Pull the knife from your leg,’ he ordered. Waylander felt himself on the verge of begging, but gritted his teeth. His hand came down and wrenched the blade cruelly, but it would not come loose.
‘Keep calm, Enson,’ said the leader. ‘Your excitement is lessening your power.’
‘My apologies, Tchard. May I try again?’
‘Of course.’
Once more Waylander’s hand pulled at the blade, and this time the knife tore free of the wound.
‘Very good,’ said Tchard. ‘Now try something a little more delicate. Get him to slowly put out one of his eyes.’
‘Gods, no!’ whispered Waylander. But the knife rose slowly, its blood-covered point inching inexorably towards the assassin’s face.
‘You stinking whoresons!’ bellowed Durmast, and Tchard twisted to see the bearded giant standing by the path with a double-headed battleaxe in his hands. Enson turned also, and Waylander felt the spell that held him fall away. He stared at the knife blade only inches from his eye, and anger rose in him, blanketing the pain.
‘Enson!’ he said softly. As the man’s helm turned back towards him, Waylander stabbed the knife through the the eye-slit until the hilt slammed against the helm.
Tchard hammered a fist against Waylander’s head and the assassin slumped to the ground beside the dead Enson.
Then the Brotherhood leader rose to his feet and faced Durmast.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
‘I came for him.’
‘There is no need, we have him. But if you are worried about the bounty, we will see that you get it.’
‘I don’t want the bounty. I want him … alive.’