Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘Drink?’ asked the man, offering Waylander a canteen.

‘No.’

‘It’s not water,’ said the soldier, grinning.

Waylander sipped it and his eyes bulged.

‘They call it Lentrian Fire,’ commented Vanek.

‘I can see why!’

‘It makes for sweet dreams,’ said Vanek, stretching out and resting his head on his arms. ‘Wake me if they come back, will you?’

The Vagrians had retired out of bowshot and were massed together listening to their general. Waylander could not hear his words, but the gestures spoke most powerfully. He sat on a tall grey horse, his white cloak billowing in the afternoon breeze; his fist was being waved about extravagantly, and the men were cowed. Waylander scratched his chin and took a long swallow of Lentrian Fire.

What spell had the priest cast, he wondered, that could so demoralise such excellent fighting men? He glanced at the sky and raised the canteen to the clouds.

‘Maybe you have some power after all,’ he acknowledged.

He drank deeply and sat down abruptly, his head spinning. Then with great care he replaced the stopper in the canteen and laid it at his side.

Stupid, he told himself. The Vagrians would be back. He chuckled. Let Dardalion handle them! He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. The sky was bright and clear, but dark shapes wheeled and dived over the fort.

‘You can smell the death, can you?’ said Waylander, and the raucous cries of the crows floated back to him on the wind. Waylander shivered. He had seen these birds feast before, tearing eyes from sockets and squabbling over juicy morsels from still-warm corpses. He transferred his gaze to the courtyard.

Men were working to clear away the bodies. The Vagrians were dumped outside the breach, while the Drenai dead were laid side by side against the northern wall with their cloaks over their faces. Twenty-two bodies were laid out. Waylander counted the remaining men. Only nineteen were in view – not enough to hold the fort against another charge. A shadow fell across him and he glanced up to see Jonat carrying a small bundle of his bolts.

‘I thought you might need these,’ said the under-officer. Waylander accepted them with a lopsided grin.

‘Drink?’ he asked.

‘No. Thank you.’

‘It’s not water,’ said Waylander.

‘I know, I recognised Vanek’s canteen! Dun Gellan would like to see you.’

‘He knows where I am.’

Jonat squatted down and smiled grimly. ‘I like you, Dakeyras. It would be unseemly if I had three men drag you into the Keep – unseemly and ridiculous.’

‘True. Help me up.’

Waylander’s legs were unsteady, but with an effort he walked alongside Jonat, through the main hall to a small room at the rear. Gellan was sitting on a pallet bed with quill in hand, completing his reports.

Jonat saluted and backed out of the door, pulling it closed behind him. For want of a better place, Waylander sat on the floor with his back to the wall.

‘I was wrong,’ said Gellan. ‘You have changed.’

‘We all change. It’s part of the process of dying.’

‘I think you know what I mean.’

‘You tell me – it’s your fort.’

‘You’re cold, Dak. We were friends once. Brothers. Yet out there you greeted me like a one-time acquaintance.’

‘So?’

‘So tell me what’s happened to you.’

‘If I want confession, I can find a temple. And besides, you have more important problems to consider. Like an army waiting to destroy you.’

‘Very well,’ said Gellan sadly, ‘we might forget our past friendship. Tell me of your friend. What vast powers does he have – and from where does he come by them?’

‘Damned it I know,’ said Waylander. ‘He is a Source priest. I stopped some men from torturing him to death, since when he has been a positive burden to me. But I have not seen any evidence of powers before today.’

‘He could be valuable to us.’

‘He certainly could. Why don’t you talk to him?’

‘I shall. Will you be coming to Skultik?’

‘Probably. If we survive.’

‘Yes, if we survive. Well, if you do, do not carry that crossbow.’

‘It is a good weapon,’ said Waylander.