For several moments he stared at the priest, then he cursed softly and cut him free. The man sagged forward into his arms. He had been badly beaten and his chest had been repeatedly cut; the flesh hung in narrow strips and his blue robes were stained with blood. The warrior rolled the priest to his back, ripping open the robes, then walked to his horse and returned with a leather canteen. Twisting the cap he poured water on the wounds. The priest writhed but made no sound. Expertly the warrior smoothed the strips of skin back into place.
‘Lie still for a moment,’ he ordered. Taking needle and thread from a small saddlebag, he neatly stitched the flaps. ‘I need a fire,’ he said. ‘I can’t see a damned thing!’
The fire once lit, the priest watched as the warrior went about his work. The man’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, but the priest noted that they were extraordinarily dark, deep sable-brown with flashing gold flecks. The warrior was unshaven, and the beard around his chin was speckled with grey.
Then the priest slept …
When he awoke, he groaned as the pain from his beating roared back at him like a snarling dog. He sat up, wincing as the stitches in his chest pulled tight. His robes were gone and beside him lay clothes obviously taken from the dead men, for brown blood stained the jerkin which lay beside them.
The warrior was packing his saddlebags and tying his blanket to his saddle.
‘Where are my robes?’ demanded the priest.
‘I burned them.’
‘How dare you! Those were sacred garments.’
‘They were merely blue cotton. And you can get more in any town or village.’ The warrior returned to the priest and squatted beside him. ‘I spent two hours patching your soft body, priest. It would please me if you allowed it to live for a few days before hurling yourself on the fires of martyrdom. All across the country your brethren are burning, or hanged, or dismembered. And all because they don’t have the courage to remove those damned robes.’
‘We will not hide,’ said the priest defiantly.
‘Then you will die.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
‘I don’t know, priest, you tell me. You were close to it last evening.’
‘But you came.’
‘Looking for my horse. Don’t read too much into it.’
‘And a horse is worth more than a man in today’s market?’
‘It always was, priest.’
‘Not to me.’
‘So if I had been tied to the tree, you would have rescued me?’
‘I would have tried.’
‘And we would both have been dead. As it is, you are alive and, more importantly, I have my horse.’
‘I will find more robes.’
‘I don’t doubt that you will. And now I must go. If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome.’
‘I don’t think that I do.’
The man shrugged and rose. ‘In that case, farewell.’
‘Wait!’ said the priest, forcing himself to his feet. ‘I did not wish to sound ungrateful and I thank you most sincerely for your help. It is just that were I to be with you, it would put you in danger.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ answered the man. ‘As you wish, then.’
He walked to his horse, tightened the saddle cinch and climbed into the saddle, sweeping out his cloak behind him.
‘I am Dardalion,’ called the priest.
The warrior leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.
‘And I am Waylander,’ he said. The priest jerked as if struck. ‘I see you have heard of me.’
‘I have heard nothing that is good,’ replied Dardalion.
‘Then you have heard only what is true. Farewell.’
‘Wait! I will travel with you.’
Waylander drew back on the reins. ‘What about the danger?’ he asked.
‘Only the Vagrian conquerors want me dead, but at least I have some friends – which is more than can be said for Waylander the Slayer. Half the world would pay to spit on your grave.’
‘It is always comforting to be appreciated,’ said Waylander. ‘Now, Dardalion – if you are coming, put on those clothes and then we must be away.’
Dardalion knelt by the clothes and reached for a woollen shirt, but as his fingers touched it he recoiled and the colour drained from his face.