Waylander slid from his saddle and approached the priest. ‘Do your wounds trouble you?’ he asked.
Dardalion shook his head, and when he looked up Waylander was surprised to see tears in his eyes. It shocked the warrior, for he had watched this man suffer torture without showing pain. Now he wept like a child, yet there was nothing to torment him.
Dardalion took a shuddering breath. ‘I cannot wear these clothes.’
‘There are no lice, and I have scraped away most of the blood.’
‘They carry memories, Waylander … horrible memories … rape, murder, foulness indescribable. I am sullied even by touching them and I cannot wear them.’
‘You are a mystic, then?’
‘Yes. A mystic.’ Dardalion sat back upon the blanket shivering in the morning sunshine. Waylander scratched his chin and returned to his horse, where he removed a spare shirt, leggings and a pair of moccasins from his saddlebag.
‘These are clean, priest. But the memories they carry may be no less painful for you,’ he said, tossing the clothes before Dardalion. Hesitantly the young priest reached for the woollen shirt. As he touched the garment he felt no evil, only a wave of emotional pain that transcended anguish. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind, then he looked up and smiled.
‘Thank you, Waylander. These I can wear.’
Their eyes met and the warrior smiled wryly. ‘Now you know all my secrets, I suppose?’
‘No. Only your pain.’
‘Pain is relative,’ said Waylander.
Throughout the morning they rode through hills and valleys torn by the horns of war. To the east pillars of smoke spiralled to join the clouds. Cities were burning, souls departing to the Void. Around them in the woods and fields were scattered corpses, many now stripped of their armour and weapons, while overhead crows banked in black-winged hordes, their greedy eyes scanning the now fertile earth below. The harvest of death was ripening.
Burnt-out villages met the riders’ eyes in every vale and Dardalion’s face took on a haunted look. Waylander ignored the evidence of war but he rode warily, constantly stopping to study the back-trails and scanning the distant hills to the south.
‘Are you being followed?’ asked Dardalion.
‘Always,’ answered the warrior grimly.
Dardalion had last ridden a horse five years before when he left his father’s cliff-top villa for the five-mile ride to the temple at Sardia. Now, with the pain of his wounds increasing and his legs chafing against the mare’s flanks, he fought against the rising agony. Forcing his mind to concentrate, Dardalion focused his gaze on the warrior riding ahead, noting the easy way he sat his saddle and the fact that he held the reins with his left hand, his right never straying far from the broad black belt hung with weapons of death. For a while, as the road widened, they rode side by side and the priest studied the warrior’s face. It was strong-boned and even handsome after a fashion, but the mouth was a grim line and the eyes hard and piercing. Beneath his cloak the warrior wore a chain-mail shoulder-guard over a leather vest which bore many gashes and dents and carefully repaired tears.
‘You have lived long in the ways of war?’ asked Dardalion.
‘Too long,’ answered Waylander, stopping once more to study the trail.
‘You mentioned the deaths of the priests and you said they died because they lacked the courage to remove their robes. What did you mean?’
‘Was it not obvious?’
‘It would seem to be the highest courage to die for one’s beliefs,’ said Dardalion.
Waylander laughed. ‘Courage? It takes no courage to die. But living takes nerve.’
‘You are a strange man. Do you not fear death?’
‘I fear everything, priest – everything that walks, crawls or flies. But save your talk for the camp-fire. I need to think.’ Touching his booted heels to his horse’s flanks, he moved ahead into a small wood where, finding a clearing in a secluded hollow by a gently flowing stream, he dismounted and loosened the saddle cinch. The horse was anxious to drink, but Waylander walked him round slowly, allowing him to cool after the long ride before taking him to the stream. Then he removed the saddle and fed the beast with oats and grain from a sack tied to the pommel. With the horses tethered Waylander set a small fire by a ring of boulders and spread his blanket beside it. Following a meal of cold meat – which Dardalion refused – and some dried apples, Waylander looked to his weapons. Three knives hung from his belt and these he sharpened with a small whetstone. The half-sized double crossbow he dismantled and cleaned.