Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘Then Dardalion did kill his enemy?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘It makes me feel uneasy – I don’t know why.’

‘It was a spirit of evil. What else would you expect a priest to do? Bless it?’

‘Why are you always so unpleasant, Waylander?’

‘Because I choose to be.’

‘In that case, I don’t suppose you have many friends.’

‘I don’t have any friends.’

‘Does that make you lonely?’

‘No. It keeps me alive.’

‘And what a life it must be for you, full of fun and laughter!’ she mocked. ‘I’m surprised you’re not a poet.’

‘Why so angry?’ he asked. ‘Why should it affect you?’

‘Because you are part of our lives. Because for as long as we live, you will remain in our memories. Speaking for myself, I would have preferred another saviour.’

‘Yes, I have seen the arena-plays,’ said Waylander. ‘The hero has golden hair and a white cloak. Well, I am not a hero, woman -I am a man trapped in the priest’s web. You think he has been sullied? Well, so have I. The difference is that he needed my darkness to survive. But his Light will destroy me.’

‘Will you two never stop rowing?’ asked Dardalion, sitting up and stretching his arms.

Danyal ran to his side. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Ravenous!’ He threw aside the blanket and moved to the fire, casually spearing two strips of venison with the spit. Laying it in place, he added fuel to the dwindling blaze.

Waylander said nothing, but sadness settled on him like a dark cloak.

4

Waylander woke first and made his way from the cave. Stripping off his shirt and leggings, he stepped into the icy steam and lay flat on his back, allowing the water to flow over him. The stream was mere inches deep, running over rounded rocks, but the force of the flow was strong and he felt himself gently sliding down the sloping stream-bed. Rolling over, he splashed his face and beard and stood up before clambering from the water, where he sat on the grass waiting for the dawn breezes to dry his skin.

‘You look like a three-day-dead fish,’ said Danyal.

‘And you’re beginning to smell like one,’ he responded, grinning. ‘Go on, wash yourself!’

For a moment she looked at him closely, then she shrugged and removed the green woollen tunic dress. Waylander leaned back and watched her. Her waist was slim, her hips smooth, her skin …

He turned away to watch a red squirrel leaping in the branches nearby, then stood and stretched. Near the stream was a thick screen of bushes, and within it a small clump of lemon balm. Pulling free a handful of the shield-shaped leaves, he carried them back to where Danyal sat.

‘Here, crush these in your hand and wipe them on your skin.’.

‘Thank you,’ she said, reaching up.

Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Waylander found his clothes and dressed. He wished he still had a spare shirt, but the priest wore it and he was uncomfortably aware of the dust in his own.

Once dressed, Waylander returned to the cave and looped his chain-mail shoulder-guard in place over his black leather jerkin. Taking his boots, he removed the two spare knives and sharpened them with his whetstone before replacing them carefully in the sheaths stitched inside each boot.

Dardalion watched him, noting the care with which he handled his weapons.

‘Could you spare me a knife?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Heavy or light?’

‘Heavy.’

Waylander picked up his belt and pulled clear a dark sheath complete with ebony-handled blade. ‘This should suffice. The blade is keen enough to shave with and double-edged.’

Dardalion threaded his narrow belt through the sheath and settled it in place against his right hip.

‘Are you left-handed?’ asked Waylander.

‘No.’

‘Then angle it on your left hip. That way, when you pull it clear the blade will face your enemy.’

‘Thank you.’

Waylander buckled his own belt in place, then rubbed his chin. ‘You worry me, priest,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Yesterday you would have walked around a crawling bug. Now you are ready to kill a man. Was your faith so weak?’

‘My faith remains, Waylander. But now I see things a little more clearly. You gave me that with your blood.’