Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘Is your father still alive?’

‘I don’t know. The Vagrians burned Sardia and murdered the priests. I assume they did the same with neighbouring townsfolk.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘I was not there for the horror; the Abbot sent me to Skoda with messages for the Mountain Monastery, but when I arrived that also was burning. I was on my way back when I was captured, then Waylander rescued me.’

‘He does not seem like a man who would bother to rescue anyone.’

Dardalion chuckled. ‘Well, no. He was actually recovering his horse which the mercenaries had stolen and I was, somewhat ignominiously, part of the package.’ Dardalion laughed once more, then took Danyal by the hand. ‘My thanks to you, sister.’

‘For what?’

‘For taking the time to lead me away from the paths of self-pity. I’m sorry I burdened you.’

‘It was no burden. You are a kind man and you are helping us.’

‘You are very wise and I am glad we met,’ said Dardalion, kissing her hand. ‘Come, let us wake the children.’

Throughout the day Dardalion and Danyal played with the children in the woods. The priest told them stories while Danyal led them on a treasure hunt, collecting flowers and threading garlands. The sun shone for most of the morning, but the sky darkened in mid-afternoon and rain drove the group back to the camp-site to shelter beneath a spreading pine. Here they ate the last of the bread and some dried fruit left by Waylander.

‘It’s getting dark,’ said Danyal. ‘Do you think it’s safe to light the fire?’

Dardalion did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the seven men advancing through the trees, swords in hand.

3

Wearily Dardalion pushed himself to his feet. The stitches pulled tight against the skin of his chest and the bruises around his ribs made him wince. Even were he a warrior, he could not have stood alone against even one of the men walking slowly towards him.

Leading them was the man who had filled him with fear the night before, smiling as he approached. Behind him, advancing in a half-circle, were six soldiers with their long blue cloaks fastened over black breastplates. Their helms covered their faces and only their eyes were visible through rectangular slits in the metal.

Behind Dardalion Danyal had turned away from the warriors and put her arms around the children, pulling them in close to her so that, at the very least, they would be spared the terror of the kill.

The priest felt a terrible hopelessness seep into him. Only days before, he had been willing to bear torture – torture and death. But now he could feel the children’s fear, and he wished he had a sword or bow to defend them.

The advancing line stopped and the lead warrior swung away from Dardalion, staring across the hollow. Dardalion looked back.

There in the fading red glow of dusk stood Waylander, his cloak drawn close about him. The sun was setting behind him and the warrior was silhouetted against the blood-red sky – a still figure, yet so powerful that he laid a spell upon the scene. His leather cloak glistened in the dying light and Dardalion’s heart leapt at the sight of him. He had seen this drama played out once before and knew that beneath his cloak Waylander carried the murderous crossbow, strung and ready.

But even as hope flared, so it died. For where before there had been five unsuspecting mercenaries, here there were seven warriors in full armour. Trained killers. The Vagrian Hounds of Chaos.

Waylander could not stand against such as these.

In those first frozen moments Dardalion found himself wondering just why the warrior had come back on such a hopeless mission. Waylander had no cause to give his life for any of them – he had no beliefs, no strongly-held convictions.

But there he stood, like a forest statue.

The silence was unnerving, more so for the Vagrians than for Dardalion. The warriors knew that in scant seconds lives would be lost, death would strike in the clearing and blood seep through the soft loam. For they were men of war who walked with death as a constant companion, holding him at bay with skill or with rage, quelling their fears in blood-lust. But here they were caught cold … and each felt alone.