Waylander by David A. Gemmell

A scraping sound caused Waylander to turn.

From the cave came a score of beasts, twisted and deformed. They ran to the bodies of the slain, cackling their delight. Waylander watched the corpses being dragged into the blackness of the inner mountain.

‘I won’t tell anybody,’ he whispered to the dead Durmast.

And the creatures loomed above him.

24

Below the ramparts Gellan, Jonat and one hundred warriors waited, listening to the sounds of battle from above. All were dressed in the black armour of the Vagrian Hounds, blue capes over gilded breastplates. Gellan alone wore the officer’s helm with its white horsehair plume.

It was almost midnight and the attack wore on. Gellan swallowed hard and tightened the helm’s chinstrap.

‘I still say this is madness,’ whispered Jonat.

‘I know – at this moment I’m inclined to agree with you.’

‘But we’ll go anyway,’ muttered Jonat. ‘One of these days someone is going to listen to my advice and I’ll probably die of the shock!’

A Drenai soldier ran down the battlement steps, a bloody sword in his hand.

‘They’re retreating,’ he said. ‘Get ready!’

The man crouched on the steps, watching the ramparts.

‘Now!’ he shouted. Gellan waved his arm and the hundred soldiers followed him up the steps and over the wall. Ladders and ropes were still in place and Gellan took hold of a wooden slat and glanced down. Three men were still on the ladder and almost at the foot of the wall. Swinging his leg over the ramparts, he began to descend. Behind him some of the soldiers were waving their swords, pretending combat to fool any watchers in the Vagrian camp; Gellan found it unconvincing. Swiftly he climbed to the ground and waited for his men to join him. They they began the long walk to the Vagrian camp.

Several enemy soldiers joined them, but there was no conversation. The men were bone-weary and demoralised following another grim, fruitless day.

Gellan nicked a glance at Jonat. The man was tense, yet his face was set and, as always, he had pushed his bitterness aside and was ready to give his all for the job in hand.

All around them men were sitting down by camp-fires, and to the right a unit of cooks were preparing a hot meal in three bubbling cauldrons.

The aroma swamped Gellan’s sense and his dry mouth suddenly swam with saliva. No one at Purdol had eaten for three days.

The daring plan had been Karnak’s. Masquerading as Vagrians, a party of Drenai warriors would raid the warehouse and carry back precious food to the starving defenders. It had sounded fine when sitting around the great table of the Purdol hall. But now walking through the enemy camp, it seemed suicidal.

An officer stepped out of the darkness.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked Gellan.

‘None of your damned business,’ he replied, recognising the rank of the man by the bronze bars on his epaulettes.

‘Just a moment,’ said the officer in a more conciliatory manner, ‘but I have been told no one is to enter the eastern quarter without authorisation.

‘Well, since we are due to be guarding the docks, I would appreciate you telling me how we can accomplish that without being there.’

‘Third wing are on dock duty,’ said the man. ‘I have it written down.’

‘Fine,’ said Gellan. ‘In that case I shall ignore the First General’s instructions and take my men back for some rest. But in case he asks me why I did so what is your name?’

‘Antasy, sixth wing,’ replied the officer, snapping to attention, ‘But I’m sure it won’t be necessary to mention my name. Obviously there’s been an error in the orders.’

‘Obviously,’ agreed Gellan, swinging away from him. ‘Forward!’

As the men trooped wearily past the officer and on through the winding streets of the dockside, Jonat moved up alongside Gellan.

‘Now comes the difficult part,’ he said softly.

‘Indeed it does.’

Ahead of them a party of six soldiers was stationed at the front of a wooden warehouse. Two were sitting on empty boxes while the other four were playing dice.

‘On your feet!’ bellowed Gellan. ‘Who is in charge here?’