‘The priests have learned to fight,’ muttered the warrior, his breath coming in short gasps and his heart pounding.
‘You are telling me that these men were killed by Source priests? It is inconceivable.’
‘One priest,’ said the man.
The officer waved the soldiers away and they were glad to depart. Hardened as they were to death and destruction, the Vagrian troops wanted no part of the Dark Brotherhood.
The officer sat down on a canvas-backed chair. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost, Pulis, my friend.’
‘No jests, please,’ said Pulis. ‘The man almost killed me.’
‘Well, you’ve killed enough of his friends these past months.’
‘That is true. But nevertheless it is unsettling.’
‘I know. What is the world coming to when Source priests stoop to defending themselves?’
The warrior glared at the young officer, but said nothing.
Pulis was no coward – he had proved that a score of times – but the silver priest had frightened him. Like most warriors of the Brotherhood he was not a true mystic, relying on the power of the Leaf to free him from his body. But even so, with his powers enhanced, he had experienced visions … flashes … of a premonitory nature. It had been so with the priest.
Pulis had felt a terrible danger emanating from the silver warrior – not just personal danger, but a timeless threat which would attack his cause from now until the end of time. Yet it was so nebulous, more an emotional reaction than a vision. Although he had seen something … what was it? He searched his memory.
That was it! A runic number hanging in the sky bathed in flames.
A number. Meaning what? Days? Months? Centuries?
‘Thirty,’ he said aloud.
‘What?’ replied the officer. ‘The Thirty?’
A cold chill hit Pulis, like a demon crossing his grave.
Dawn found Waylander alone as he opened his eyes and yawned. Strange, he thought, for he could not remember falling asleep. But he did remember his promise to Orien and he shook his head, puzzled. He glanced round, but the old man had gone.
He rubbed his chin, scratching at the skin below his beard.
The Armour of Orien.
Such a grand nonsense.
‘This quest will kill you,’ he whispered.
Taking a knife from his belt he honed it for several minutes, then shaved with care. His skin was raw under the blade, but the morning breeze felt good on his face.
Dardalion emerged from the hollow and sat beside him. Waylander nodded, but did not speak. The priest looked tired, his eyes set deep in his face; he was thinner now, thought Waylander and subtly changed.
‘The old man is dead,’ said Dardalion. ‘You should have spoken to him.’
‘I did,’ said Waylander.
‘No, I mean really speak. Those few words at the fire were nothing. Do you know who he was?’
‘Orien,’ said Waylander. The look of surprise on Dardalion’s face was comical.
‘You recognised him?’
‘No. He came to me last night.’
‘He had great power,’ said Dardalion softly. ‘For he died without leaving the fire. He told us many tales of his life, then he lay back and slept. I was beside him and he died in his sleep.’
‘You were mistaken,’ said Waylander.
‘I think not. What did you speak about?’
‘He asked me to fetch something for him. I said that I would.’
‘What was it?’
‘No business of yours, priest.’
‘It is too late to turn me away, warrior. When you saved my life, you opened your soul to me. When your blood was in my throat, I knew your life and every instant of your being flooded me. I look in a mirror now and I see you.’
‘You are looking in the wrong mirrors.’
‘Tell me of Dakeyras,’ said Dardalion.
‘Dakeyras is dead,’ snapped Waylander. ‘But you have made your point, Dardalion. I saved your life. Twice! You owe me the right to my solitude.’
‘To allow you to return to the man you were? I do not think so. Look at yourself. Half your life has been wasted. You suffered great tragedy – and it broke you. You wanted to die, but instead you killed only part of yourself. Poor Dakeyras, lost for two decades while Waylander strode the world, slaying for gold he would never spend. All those souls sent to the Void. And for what? To lessen a pain you could not touch.’