Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘You don’t have to fight, sir,’ said Sarvaj. ‘It’s not obligatory.’

‘Thank you, but I have chosen my path. Would you help me choose a weapon? I am not skilled in such matters.’

‘Of course. Tell me about your friend.’

‘What would you like to hear?’ asked Dardalion.

Sarvaj grinned. ‘He seems more of a loner,’ he said lamely. ‘Not someone I would expect to see in the company of a woman and children.’

‘He saved our lives,’ said Dardalion, ‘and that speaks more highly of him than his looks.’

‘Indeed it does,’ admitted Sarvaj. ‘What is his name?’

‘Dakeyras,’ said Dardalion swiftly. Sarvaj caught the look on Danyal’s face and did not press the matter; there were far more important issues at stake than a change of name. It was likely that Dakeyras was an outlaw, which six months ago would have meant something. Now it was immaterial.

‘He spoke of Vagrian outriders. Did you see them?’

‘There are just under five hundred soldiers,’ said Dardalion. ‘They were camped in a gully to the north-east.’

‘Were?’

‘They moved out an hour before dawn, seeking sign of your wagons.’

‘You know a great deal about their movements.’

‘I am a mystic, once a priest of the Source.’

‘And you want weapons?’

‘I have experienced a change of perspective, Sarvaj.’

‘Can you see where the Vagrians are now?’

Dardalion closed his eyes, resting his head on his elbows. Seconds later he opened them again.

“They have found the tracks where you cut to the west. Now they are moving this way.’

‘What regiment are they?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Describe their armour.’

‘Blue cloaks, black breastplates and helms that cover their faces.’

‘Are the visors clear or embossed?’

‘On the forehead is an image of a snarling wolf.’

‘Thank you, Dardalion. Excuse me.’ Sarvaj rose from the table and returned to the battlements, where Gellan was supervising the distribution of arrows to the men: quivers of fifty shafts allocated to each archer.

Sarvaj removed his helm and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

‘You trust this man?’ asked Gellan, after Sarvaj had given him the news.

‘I would say that he is honest. I could be wrong.’

‘We will know within the hour.’

‘Yes. But if he’s right we are up against the Hounds.’

‘They are men, Sarvaj; there’s nothing supernatural about them.’

‘It is not the supernatural that worries me,’ said the soldier. ‘It is the fact that they always win.’

Waylander unsaddled his horse, stowing his saddlebags inside the Keep. Then he took his weapons to the decaying battlements of the western wall. Six throwing knives and two quivers of bolts for his crossbow he left leaning against the ramparts. Then he saw Dardalion and Sarvaj standing at a wagon below the eastern wall; here the wagons had been drawn in a line to create a pen for the oxen.

Waylander strolled across the courtyard. Dardalion had put aside the sword and scabbard he had taken from the dead robber and had selected a sabre of blue steel. The broadsword had been too heavy for the slender priest. Sarvaj produced a breastplate from under the tarpaulin. It was wrapped in oilskin, and when he brought it out into the sunshine it shone like silver.

‘A Vagrian officer of the Blue Riders,’ said Sarvaj.

‘Made to order. Try it on.’ Delving deeper into the depths of the wagon, he pulled clear a large parcel. Ripping it open he discovered a white cloak, trimmed with leather.

‘You’ll stand out like a dove among crows,’ said Waylander, but Dardalion merely grinned and swept the cloak over his shoulders. Shaking his head, Waylander climbed on to the wagon where he selected two short swords of blue steel in matching black scabbards; these he threaded to his belt. The edges were dulled and he moved away to the battlements to hone them.

When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion’s thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.