At first, as he rode away from the clearing and the dying Cadoras, the pain had been bearable but now, with the coming of night, it was insufferable. A fresh flood of agony struck him and he groaned, cursing himself for his weakness. He sat up, shivering, and moved deeper into the cave, where with trembling hands he shredded some bark for tinder and lit a small fire. His horses, tethered at the rear of the cave, whinnied and the sound ripped through him. He stood, staggered and then recovered his balance, moving to the beasts and patting their necks. Loosening the saddle cinch of his own mount, he spread a blanket over the beast’s back before returning to the fire.
Adding thicker sticks to the blaze, he felt the warmth spread through him and slowly removed his shirt, wincing as the wool pulled clear of the blisters on his shoulders. Then he opened a leather pouch at his belt and drew out the long green leaves he had picked before dusk. There was danger in using Lorassium. In small quantities it eased pain and gave rise to colourful dreams; in large quantities it killed. And Waylander had no idea how much or how little to take – or how to prepare it. He crushed a leaf in his hand and smelled it, then placed it in his mouth and chewed slowly. It was bitter and he gagged. Anger rose in him, making his head pound, and he chewed faster. When after ten minutes there was no relief, and he ate a second leaf.
Now flame dancers leapt above the tiny blaze, twisting and pirouetting, flinging their arms high with sparks streaming from their tiny fingers, the walls of the cave creaked and swelled and Waylander chuckled as his horse grew wings and horns. The chuckle faded as he saw his own hands had become scaled and taloned. Now the fire reshaped itself into a face, broad and handsome with flaming hair.
‘Why do you seek to thwart me, man?’ asked the fire.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am the Morning Star, the Lord of Dark Light.’
Waylander leaned back and threw a stick at the face. Fire leapt from its mouth and devoured the stick; the tongue of flame, Waylander noticed, was forked.
‘I know you,’ said the assassin.
‘So you should, child, you have served me for many years. I am filled with sadness that you should betray me now.’
‘I never served you. I have always been my own man.’
‘Think you so? Then we will leave it at that.’
‘No – tell me.’
‘What is there to tell, Waylander? You have hunted and killed for many years. Do you think your actions aided the Source? They served the cause of Chaos. My cause! You are mine, Waylander – you have always been mine. And in my way I have protected you from harm, turned aside the daggers in the night. Even now I protect you from the Nadir huntsmen who have sworn to eat your heart.’
‘Why would you do this for me?’
‘I am a good friend to those who serve me. Did I not send Cadoras to you in your need?’
‘I don’t know. Yet I do know you are the Prince of Deceivers, so I doubt it.’
‘Harsh words, mortal. Words of death, if I so choose.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to rid you of your taint. You are less of a man since Dardalion touched you with his weakness. I can remove it – I almost did when you went hunting Butaso – but now I see it reaffirming itself like a cancer in your heart.’
‘How will you rid me of this taint?’
‘Merely say that you desire it and it will be gone.’
‘I do not desire it.’
‘You think the Source will take you? You are defiled by the blood of the innocents you have slain. Why risk death for a God who despises you?’
‘It is not for any God, it is for myself.’
‘Death is not the end, Waylander – not for such as you. Your soul will enter the Void, be lost in the darkness, but I will find it and lash it with tongues of flame for eternity. Can you understand what you are risking?’