Jonat swore, then looked into Gellan’s face. ‘You are not thinking … ?’
‘Take the men back to Purdol, Jonat. I’ll see you later.’
‘You can’t
‘No arguments. Get moving!’
Dardalion returned to the fortress and his sleeping body. His eyes flickered open and he swung his legs from the bed. Sadness engulfed him and he covered his face with his hands and wept.
He had watched Waylander’s dying body being hauled into the mountain and had sensed the hunger of the mountain dwellers.
Astila entered the room silently and sat beside the weeping priest.
‘Waylander is dead,’ Dardalion told him.
‘He was your friend,’ said Astila. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘I do not know how friendship is judged under such circumstances. We were comrades, I suppose. He gave me new life, new purpose. From his gift of blood came The Thirty.’
‘Did he fail in his quest?’
‘Not yet. The Armour is safe at present, but a lone woman is carrying it across Nadir lands. I must reach her.’
‘It is impossible, Dardalion.’
The warrior priest smiled suddenly. ‘Everything we have attempted so far has seemed impossible at the outset.’
Astila closed his eyes. The men are coming back with food,’ he said. ‘Baynha reports there are no losses, but the officer has not yet returned.’
‘Good. What of the Brotherhood?’
‘There has been no attack tonight.’
‘Are they marshalling their forces, or have we beaten them, I wonder?’
‘I do not think they are beaten, Dardalion.’
‘No,’ said Dardalion sadly. That would be too much to hope for.’
Sensing that his leader wished to be alone, Astila left the room and Dardalion wandered to the high window to gaze out at the distant stars.
He felt a sense of calm as he looked into eternity, and Durmast’s face loomed in his mind. He shook his head, remembering his own sense of shock as he had sped to Raboas anxious to observe Waylander. He had arrived to see the assassin being tortured and the giant Durmast confronting the Brotherhood.
With all his power, Dardalion had focused a shield over Durmast, blocking the mind spell of the man Tchard. But he could not prevent the terrible swords from plunging into the giant. He had listened as Waylander and Durmast spoke, and a great sorrow touched him as the giant talked.
‘Do you think his power could not work against me because I am the Chosen One?’
Dardalion wished with all his heart that it could have been true, that it was not simply a case of happenstance: one man, one spirit in the right place at the right time.
Somehow, he felt, Durmast deserved more than that.
Dardalion found himself wondering whether the Source would accept Durmast. Did a lifetime of petty evil weigh more than a moment of heroism? Somehow it should, and yet …
The priest closed his eyes and prayed for the souls of the two men. Then he smiled. But what would such men make of the peaceful paradise promised by the ancients? An eternity of song and praise! Would they not prefer an end to existence?
One of the old religions promised a hall of heroes, where strong men were welcomed by warrior maidens who sang songs of the deeds of the brave.
Durmast would probably prefer that.
Dardalion stared at the moon … and trembled.
A single question lanced through his mind.
What is a miracle?
The simplicity of the answer dazzled him, as it leapt from the depths of his intellect to cover the unbidden question.
A miracle is something that happens unexpectedly at the moment it is needed. No more than that. No less.
His rescue of Durmast had been a miracle, for Durmast could never have expected such aid. And yet, why had Dardalion been on hand at just the right moment?
Because I chose to find Waylander, he told himself.
Why did you so choose?
The enormity of it all overcame the priest and he stepped back from the window and sat down on the bed.
Durmast had been chosen many years ago, even before his birth. But without Waylander, Durmast would have remained a killer and a thief. And without Dardalion, Waylander would have been nothing more than a hunted assassin.