‘I wonder. Was it a gift – or a theft? I feel I have robbed you of something precious.’
‘If you have, then be assured I do not miss it.’
Time will tell, priest.’
‘Call me Dardalion. You know that is my name.’
‘Is “priest” no longer good enough for you?’
‘Not at all. Would you prefer it if I called you “assassin”?’
‘Call me what you like. Nothing you say will affect the way I perceive myself.’
‘Have I offended you?’ asked Dardalion.
‘No.’
‘You have not asked me about my duel with the enemy.’
‘No, I have not.’
‘Is it because you do not care?’
‘No, Dardalion. I don’t know why, but I do care. My reasons are far more simple. I deal in death, my friend – death which is final. You are here, therefore you killed him and he is no longer of interest to me. It disturbs me that you cut away his arms and legs, but I shall get over that, as I shall get over you once you are safely with Egel.’
‘I had hoped we could be friends.’
‘I have no friends. I wish for none.’
‘Was it always so?’
‘Always is a long time. I had friends before I became Waylander. But that was another universe, priest.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I see no reason why I should,’ replied Waylander. ‘Wake the children. We have a long day before us.’
Waylander strolled from the cave to where he had picketed the horses, then saddled them and rode his own gelding to the spot where he had hung the deer.
Taking a canvas bag, he cut several strips from the carcass and packed them away for the evening meal. Then he pulled the remains from the tree to lie on the grass for the wolves.
‘Did you have friends, little doe?’ he asked, staring at the blank grey eyes.
He turned his horse towards the cave, remembered the days of camaraderie at Dros Purdol. As a young officer he had excelled, though why he had no idea; he had always disliked authority, but had relished the discipline.
He and Gellan had been closer than brothers, always together whether on patrol or whoring. Gellan had been a witty companion and only in the Silver Sword tourney had they ever found themselves as opponents. Gellan always won, but then the man was inhumanly swift. They had parted when Waylander met Tanya – a merchant’s daughter from Medrax Ford, a small town to the south of Skein Pass. Waylander was in love before he knew it and had resigned his commission for life on the farm.
Gellan had been heartbroken. ‘Still,’ he had said on that last day, ‘I expect I won’t be long following you. Army life will be dreadfully dull!’
Waylander wondered if Gellan had done so. Was he a farmer somewhere? Or a merchant? Or was he dead in one of the many lost battles fought by the Drenai?
If the latter, Waylander guessed that a neat pile of corpses would surround his body, for his blade moved faster than a serpent’s tongue.
‘I should have stayed, Gellan,’ he said. ‘I really should.’
Gellan was hot and tired, sweat sliding down the back of his neck under the chain-mail shoulder-guard and causing his spine to itch unbearably. He removed his black helm and ran his fingers through his hair. There was no breeze and he cursed softly.
Forty miles from Skultik and the relative security of Egel’s camp – and the horses were tired, the men weary and dispirited. Gellan raised his right arm with fist clenched, giving the signal to ‘Walk Horses’. Behind him the fifty riders dismounted; there was no conversation.
Sarvaj rode his mount alongside Gellan and the two men dismounted together. Gellan hooked his helm over the pommel of his saddle and pulled a linen cloth from his belt. Wiping the sweat from his face, he turned to Sarvaj.
‘I don’t think we’ll find a village standing,’ he said. Sarvaj nodded but did not reply. He had served under Gellan for half a year, and knew by now when the officer’s comments were rhetorical.
They walked side by side for half an hour, then Gellan signalled for a rest stop and the men sat down beside their horses.