Waylander by David A. Gemmell

The sun was dropping in the sky and the shadows lengthened.

The Nadir would wait for night …

And Waylander could not stop them.

The fingers of his left hand felt numb and he clenched them into a weak fist. Pain swept up and around the Nadir knife in his shoulder and Waylander swore. As best he could, he bound the wound in his thigh, but it continued to ooze blood.

He felt cold and began to shiver. As he lifted his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes a Nadir bowman leapt into view and an arrow flashed from his bow. Waylander lurched left and fired and the archer vanished from sight. As Waylander sank back against the wall of the path he glanced down and saw that the black-feathered shaft had struck him above the left hip and punched its way through the flesh and muscle. Gingerly he reached behind him. The point of the arrow had exited high under his ribs and with a groan he snapped the shaft.

The Nadir charged …

Two bolts punched home and the enemy dropped behind the rocks.

But they were closer now and knew he was badly wounded. He struggled to re-string the crossbow, but his fingers were slippery with sweat and the effort tore at his wounded side.

How many more of them were there?

He found he could not remember how many he had slain.

Licking his lips with a dry tongue, he leaned against the wall. About twelve paces ahead of him was a round boulder and behind it, he knew, crouched a Nadir warrior. The wall beyond had a curving jut. Waylander aimed the crossbow and loosed the bolt, which struck the wall and ricocheted right. A piercing scream rent the air and a warrior loomed into sight with blood streaming from a wound at his temple. Waylander’s second bolt plunged between his shoulder-blades and he fell without a sound.

Once more the assassin strung the bow. His left arm was now all but useless.

A sudden terrible cry froze Waylander’s blood. He risked a glance down the path and saw the last of the werewolves surrounded by Nadir warriors. They hacked and cut at the beast, but its talons flashed among them and its great jaws tore at their flesh.

Six were down, with at least three for sure – and two men only remained to fight the beast. It leapt upon the first, who bravely tried to thrust his sword into its belly; the blade entered the fur-covered flesh just as the beast’s fangs closed over the head of the warrior and his face disappeared in a crimson spray. The last Nadir fled down the slope.

And the werebeast advanced on Waylander.

The assassin pushed himself to his feet, staggered and regained balance.

The beast came on, slowly, painfully, blood pouring from countless wounds. It looked pitifully thin and its tongue was swollen and black. The Nadir sword jutted from its belly.

Waylander lifted his crossbow and waited.

The beast loomed above him, red eyes glittering.

Waylander squeezed the triggers and two black bolts flew into the beast’s mouth, skewering its brain. It arched back and rolled over as Waylander fell to his knees.

The beast reared up once more, its taloned claw raking at the sky.

Then its eyes glazed and it pitched back down the path.

‘And now you will rot in Hell,’ said a voice.

Waylander turned.

The nine warriors of the Brotherhood emerged from the left-hand path with dark swords in their hands, their black armour seemingly ablaze in the fading light of the dying day as they moved forward. Waylander struggled to rise, but fell back against the cold stone, groaning as the arrow-head gouged back into his flesh. The Brotherhood warriors loomed closer, black helms covering their faces, black cloaks billowing behind them as the breeze picked up. Waylander tugged a throwing knife from its baldric sheath and hurled it, but the blade was contemptuously batted aside by a black-gauntleted hand.

Fear struck the assassin, overwhelming even his pain.

He did not want to die. The peace he had felt earlier evaporated, leaving him lost and as frightened as a child in the dark.