‘What is the matter with you, Durmast? This display is more than a little out of character.’
‘Don’t tell me about my character, you lump of chicken dung! Just move away from him.’
‘Or else what?’ snarled Tchard.
‘Or else you die,’ said Durmast.
‘You think to kill eight members of the Brotherhood? Your wits are addled.’
‘Try me,’ urged Durmast, moving forward with axe raised.
Tchard moved to meet him, while the other seven warriors spread out in a semi-circle with swords drawn.
Suddenly Tchard pointed at Durmast. ‘You cannot move!’ he shouted and Durmast staggered and froze. Grim laughter came from Tchard as slowly he drew his sword and advanced.
‘You great plodding fool! Of all the people unsuited to the part of hero, you take pride of place. You are like a great child among your elders and betters – and like all unruly children, you must be punished. I will listen to your song of pain for many, many hours.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Durmast as his axe smashed down through Tchard’s shoulder, exploding his ribs and exiting through his smashed hip.
‘Any other speeches?’ asked Durmast. ‘Any more mind games? No? Then let’s start killing one another!’
With a terrible cry he ran at the warriors, the axe swinging in a murderous arc of flashing silver. They leapt back, one falling to roll clear but another going down as the axe-blade tore into his skull. Waylander fought his way to his knees, but could not rise.
Taking a throwing knife he waited, praying for the strength to aid the giant.
A sword slid into Durmast’s back and he twisted, tearing the blade loose from the assailant’s hand and backhanding the axe across his neck. Another sword lanced his chest, the wielder dying as Durmast hit him in the throat with his fist. The warriors closed in around the giant then, swords burying themselves deep in his huge body. But still the axe scythed into them. Only two of the Brotherhood were left now and these moved away from the wounded Durmast.
Waylander waited as they backed towards him. Wiping his fingers on his jerkin to free them of sweat and blood, he took the throwing knife in his fingers and hurled it. It thudded home under the helm of the warrior on the left, slicing down through the jugular. Blood pumped from the wound and the man lurched to the left, his hand clasped to his throat, seeking vainly to stem the red tide.
Durmast charged the only remaining warrior, who ducked under the sweeping axe to bury his blade in Durmast’s belly. The giant dropped the axe and grabbed the warrior by the throat, snapping his neck with a surging twist of the wrists. Then he fell to his knees.
Waylander crawled agonisingly across the rocks to where the dying man knelt, his great hands closed around the sword-hilt protruding from his body.
‘Durmast!’
The giant slid sideways to the ground beside Waylander. He smiled through bloody lips.
‘Why?’ whispered Durmast.
‘What, my friend?’
‘Why was I chosen?’
Waylander shook his head. Reaching out he took
Durmast’s hand, gripping it firmly. The giant’s body was seeping blood from a score of wounds.
Durmast swore softly, then he smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’
‘Yes.’
‘I bet the bastard was surprised when I cut him in half.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘Damned if I know!’ Durmast winced and his head sagged back.
‘Durmast?’
‘I’m here … for a while. Gods, the pain is terrible! You think his power could not work against me because I am the Chosen One?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
‘It would be nice.’
‘Why did you come back?’
Durmast chuckled, but a coughing spasm struck him and blood bubbled from his mouth. He choked and spat. ‘I came to kill you for the bounty,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t believe myself sometimes!’
For a while they lay in silence.
‘You think this counts as a decent deed?’ asked Durmast, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘I would think so,’ said Waylander, smiling.
‘Don’t tell anybody,’ said Durmast. His head rolled and a grating whisper of breath rattled in his throat.