Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘How dare you preach to me!’ said Waylander. ‘You talk of mirrors? Tell me what you have become since killing two men.’

‘Six men. And there will be more,’ said Dardalion.

‘Yes, that is why I understand you. I may be wrong in all that I do, but I will stand before my God and I will say that I did what I felt was; right – that I defended the weak against the evil strong. You taught me that. Not Waylander the man who kills for money, but Dakeyras, the man who saved the priest.’

‘I do not want to talk any more,’ said Waylander, staring away.

‘Did Orien know that you killed his son?’

The assassin swung back. ‘Yes, he knew. It was my foulest deed. But I will pay for it, priest. Orien saw to that. You know, I used to think that hatred was the most powerful force on earth. And yet last night I learned something bitter. He forgave me … and that is worse than hot irons on my flesh. You understand?’

‘I think I do.’

‘So now I will die for him, and that will settle my debts.’

‘Your death will settle nothing. What did he ask you to do?’

‘To fetch his Armour.’

‘From Raboas, the Sacred Giant.’

‘He told you?’

‘Yes. He also told me that a man named Kaem would be hunting the same treasure.’

‘Kaem hunts me. But he would be wise not to find me.’

Kaem’s dreams were troubled. The Vagrian general had commandeered a fine house overlooking the Purdol harbour, and guards patrolled the gardens, while his two most trusted soldiers stood outside his door. The window was barred and the heat within the small room oppressive.

He came awake with a jerk and sat up scrabbling for his sword, the door opened and Dalnor ran inside, blade in hand.

‘What is it, my lord?’

‘It is nothing. A dream. Did I call out?’

‘Yes, my lord. Shall I stay with you?’

‘No.’ Kaem took a linen towel from the chair beside the bed and wiped the sweat from his face and head. ‘Damn you, Waylander,’ he whispered.

‘My lord?’

‘Nothing. Leave me.’ Kaem swung his legs from the bed and walked to the window. He was a thin man and totally hairless, his wrinkled skin giving him the appearance of a beached turtle robbed of his shell. Many thought him a comical figure on first sight, but most came to see him as he was: the finest strategist of the age, the man dubbed the Prince of War. His soldiers respected him, though not with the adoration reserved for some other and more charismatic generals. But that suited him, for he was uncomfortable with emotions and found such displays among the men childlike and foolish. What he wanted was obedience from his officers and courage from his men. He expected both. He demanded both.

Now his own courage was being tested. Waylander had killed his son and he had sworn to see him dead. But Waylander was a skilled hunter, and Kaem felt sure that one dark night he would once more wake to feel a knife at his throat.

Or worse … he might not wake at all. The Brotherhood were hunting the assassin, but first reports were not encouraging. A tracker dead, and now talk amongst the Brotherhood of a mystic warrior priest who travelled with the assassin.

Kaem, for all his strategic skills, was a cautious man. As long as Waylander lived he was a threat to Kaem’s plans. Such grand plans – that when this conquest was complete he would rule an area greater than Vagria itself. Lentria, Drenai, and the Sathuli lands to the north – sixteen ports, twelve major cities and the spice routes to the east.

Then the civil war could begin, and Kaem would risk his strength against the failing guile of the Emperor. Kaem wandered to the bronze mirror on the far wall and gazed at his reflection. The crown would look out of place upon his bony head, but then he would not have to wear it often.

He returned to his bed, calmer now. And slept.