‘But he is a priest, a man of purity.’
‘So?’
‘You will sully his soul.’
Waylander laughed. ‘I may not be a mystic, but I do believe in souls. What you are holding is merely wood and metal. Dardalion will be stung by it, but I do not believe his soul is so fragile that it will kill him. But his enemy will – so you decide!’
‘I believe that I hate you,’ said Danyal, opening Dardalion’s hand and forcing him to grip the ebony handle once more. The priest twisted and screamed. Waylander pulled a knife from his belt and sliced a cut across the flesh of his forearm. Blood oozed and then gushed from the wound. As Waylander held his arm over Dardalion’s face, blood spattered to his skin, flowed over his closed eyes and down – coursing over his lips and into his throat.
A last terrible scream ripped from the priest and his eyes snapped open. Then he smiled, and his eyes closed again. A deep shuddering breath swelled his lungs and he slept. Waylander checked his pulse -it was strong and even.
‘Sweet Lord of Light!’ said Danyal. ‘Whyl Why the blood?’
‘According to the Source no priest shall taste blood, for it carries the soul,’ explained Waylander softly. ‘The weapon was not enough, but the blood brought him back.’
‘I don’t understand you. And I do not wish to,’ she said.
‘He is alive, woman. What more do you want?’
‘From you, nothing.’
Waylander smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Taking a small canvas sack from his saddlebag, he removed a length of linen bandage and clumsily wound it around the shallow cut in his arm.
‘Would you mind tying a knot in this?’ he asked her.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she answered. ‘It would mean touching you and I do not want my hand cut off at the wrist!’
‘I am sorry for that. It should not have been said.’
Without waiting for a reply, Waylander left the cave, tucking the bandage under its own folds as he went.
The day was bright and cool, the mountain breezes sharp with the snow of the Skoda peaks as Waylander walked to the crest of a nearby hill and gazed into the blue distance. The Delnoch mountains were still too far off to be seen by the naked eye.
For the next three or four days the trail would be easy, moving from wood to forest to wood, with only short stretches of open ground. But thereafter the Sentran Plain would lie before them, flat and formless.
To cross that emptiness unobserved would take more luck than a man had any right to ask. Six people and two horses! At the pace they must travel they would be on the Plain for nigh a week – a week without fires or hot food. Waylander scanned the possible trails to the north-east, towards Purdol, the City by the Sea. It was said that a Vagrian fleet had berthed at the harbour mouth, landing an army to besiege the citadel. If that were true – and Waylander thought it likely – then Vagrian outriders would be scouring the countryside for food and supplies. To the north-west was Vagria itself and the citadel of Segril, but from here troops were pouring into the Drenai lands. The Sentran Plain was due north, and beyond it Skultik forest and the mountains said to be the last Drenai stronghold west of Purdol.
But did Egel still hold Skultik?
Could anyone hold together the remnants of a defeated army against the Hounds of Chaos? Waylander doubted it … yet beyond the doubts there was a spark of hope. Egel was the most able Drenai general of the age, unspectacular but sound – a stern disciplinarian, unlike the courtiers King Niallad normally placed in charge of his troops. Egel was a northerner, uncultured and at times uncouth, but a man of charisma and strength. Waylander had seen him once during a parade in Drenan and the man had stood out like a boar amongst gazelle.
Now the boar had gone to ground in Skultik.
Waylander hoped he could hold, at least until he delivered the woman and the children.