What if Cadoras had crept upon them?
What if the Nadir had returned?
What if the Brotherhood … ?
What if?
Hewla was right. Love was a greater enemy at this time.
‘You are getting old,’ he told himself. ‘Old and tired.’
He knew he was no longer as swift or as strong and the silver hairs were multiplying. Somewhere out in the vast blackness of the world was a young killer more swift, more deadly than the legendary Waylander. Was it Cadoras? Or one of the Brotherhood?
The moment of drama with the Nadir had been telling. Waylander had survived it on experience and bluff, for with Danyal beside him he had not wanted to die. His greatest strength had always been his lack of fear but now – when he needed all his talents -the fear was returning.
He rubbed at his eyes, aware of the need for sleep yet reluctant to give in. Sleep is the brother of Death, said the song. But it is gentle and kind. Weariness eased its warmth into his muscles, and the rock against which he sat seemed soft and welcoming. Too tired to pull his blankets over himself, he laid his head back on the rock and slept. As he fell into darkness he saw the face of Dardalion; the priest was calling to him, but he could not hear the words.
Durmast was sleeping beneath the lead wagon when the dream came to him. He saw a man in silver armour: a handsome young man, clean-cut and strong. Durmast was dreaming of a woman with hair of shining chestnut brown – and of a child, sturdy and strong. He pushed away the image of the warrior, but it returned again and again.
‘What do you want?’ shouted the giant, as the woman and the child shimmered and disappeared. ‘Leave me!’
‘Your profits are dust unless you wake,’ said the warrior.
‘Wake? I am awake.’
‘You are dreaming. You are Durmast and you lead the wagons to Gulgothir.’
‘Wagons?’
‘Wake up, man! The hunters of the night are upon you!’
The giant groaned and rolled over; he sat up, rapping his head sharply against the base of the wagon, and cursed loudly. Rolling clear, he straightened – the dream had gone, but a lingering doubt remained.
Taking up a short double-headed axe, he moved towards the west.
Danyal awoke with a start. The dream had been -powerful and in it Dardalion had urged her to seek Waylander. Easing herself past the sleeping baker and his family, she slid the sabre clear of its scabbard and leapt forward from the tailboard.
Durmast swung round as she appeared beside him.
‘Don’t do that!’ he snapped. ‘I might have taken your head off.’
Then he noticed the sword. ‘Where do you think you are going with that?’
‘I had a dream,’ answered Danyal lamely.
‘Stay close to me,’ he ordered, moving away from the wagons.
The night was clear, but clouds drifted across the moon and Durmast spat out an oath as he strained to see into the darkness. A hint of movement to the left! His arm swept out, knocking Danyal from her feet. Arrows hissed by him as he dived for the ground. Then a dark shadow lunged at him and the axe swept up to cleave into the man’s side, smashing his ribs to shards before exiting in a bloody swathe. Danyal rolled to her feet as the clouds suddenly cleared to show two men in black armour running towards her with swords raised. She dived forward, rolling on her shoulder, and the men cannoned into her and fell headlong into the dust. Danyal came up, fast spearing the point of the sabre into the back of one man’s neck; the second man swung round and lunged at her, but Durmast’s axe buried itself in his back. His eyes opened wide, but he was dead before a scream could sound.
‘Waylander!’ bellowed Durmast as more black shapes came from the darkness.
At the boulder Waylander stirred, his eyes drifting open but his body heavy with deep sleep. Above him a man crouched, a wickedly curved blade in his hand.
‘Now you die,’ said the man and Waylander was powerless to stop him. But suddenly the man froze and his jaw dropped. Sleep fell from the assassin and his hand whipped out to punch his assailant from his feet. As he fell, Waylander saw that a long goose-feathered shaft had pierced the base of his skull.