Waylander by David A. Gemmell

Derian tugged a torch from its bracket and advanced on the doorway, but the King stopped him.

‘Don’t look, my friend, it would haunt you to your dying day. But be assured they are ferocious in the extreme. It would need a great force to come here, and if any but the Chosen One attempts to remove the Armour he will be torn to pieces by the beasts who dwell in the darkness.’

‘And what will you do now, my lord?’

‘I will say farewell.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Where no one will know me as a king.’

There were tears in Derian’s eyes as he dropped to his knees before Orien, but the King pulled him to his feet.

‘Put aside rank, old friend. Let us part as comrades.’

The two men embraced.

1

They had begun to torture the priest when the stranger stepped from the shadows of the trees.

‘You stole my horse,’ he said quietly. The five men spun round. Beyond them the young priest sagged against the ropes which held him, raising his head to squint through swollen eyes at the newcomer. The man was tall and broad-shouldered and a black leather cloak was drawn about him.

‘Where is my horse?’ he asked.

‘Who is to say? A horse is a horse and the owner is the man who rides him,’ answered Dectas. When the stranger first spoke Dectas had felt the thrill of fear course through him, expecting to find several men armed and ready. But now, as he scanned the trees in the gathering dusk, he knew the man was alone. Alone and mad. The priest had proved but sorry sport, gritting his teeth against the pain and offering neither curse nor plea. But this one would sing his song of pain long into the night.

‘Fetch the horse,’ said the man, a note of boredom in his deep voice.

‘Take him!’ ordered Dectas and swords sang into the air as the five men attacked. Swiftly the newcomer swept his cloak over one shoulder and lifted his right arm. A black bolt tore into the chest of the nearest man, a second entered the belly of a burly warrior with upraised sword. The stranger dropped the small double crossbow and lightly leapt back. One of his attackers was dead and a second knelt clutching the bolt in his belly.

The newcomer loosened the thong which held his cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground behind him. From twin sheaths he produced two black-bladed knives.

‘Fetch the horse!’ he ordered.

The remaining two hesitated, glancing to Dectas for guidance. Black blades hissed through the air and both men dropped without a sound.

Dectas was alone.

‘You can have the horse,’ he said, biting his lip and backing towards the trees. The man shook his head.

‘Too late,’ he answered softly.

Dectas turned and sprinted for the trees, but a sharp blow in the back caused him to lose balance and his face ploughed the soft earth. Pushing his hands beneath him, he struggled to rise. Had the newcomer thrown a rock, he wondered? Weakness flowed through him and he slumped to the ground … the earth was soft as a feather-bed and sweet-smelling like lavender. His leg twitched.

The newcomer recovered his cloak and brushed the dirt from its folds before fastening the thongs at the shoulder. Then he recovered his three knives, wiping them clean on the clothes of the dead. Lastly he collected his bolts, despatching the wounded man with a swift knife-cut across the throat. He picked up his crossbow and checked the mechanism for dirt before clipping it to his broad black belt. Without a backward glance he strode to the horses.

‘Wait!’ called the priest. ‘Release me. Please!’

The man turned. ‘Why?’ he asked. The question was so casually put that the priest found himself momentarily unable to phrase an answer.

‘I will die if you leave me here,’ he said, at last.

‘Not good enough,’ said the man, shrugging. He walked to the horses, finding that his own mount and saddlebags were as he had left them. Satisfied, he untied his horse and walked back to the clearing.