‘An interesting weapon,’ observed Dardalion.
‘Yes, made for me in Ventria. It can be very useful; it looses two bolts and is deadly up to twenty feet.’
‘Then you need to be close to your victim.’
Waylander’s sombre eyes locked on to Dardalion’s gaze. ‘Do not seek to judge me, priest.’
‘It was merely an observation. How did you come to lose your horse?’
‘I was with a woman.’
‘I see.’
Waylander grinned. ‘Gods, it always looks ridiculous when a young man assumes a pompous expression! Have you never had a woman?’
‘No. Nor have I eaten meat these last five years. Nor tasted spirits.’
‘A dull life but a happy one,’ observed the warrior.
‘Neither has my life been dull. There is more to living than sating bodily appetites.’
‘Of that I am sure. Still, it does no harm to sate them now and again.’
Dardalion said nothing. What purpose would it serve to explain to a warrior the harmony of a life spent building the strength of the spirit? The joys of soaring high upon the solar breezes weightless and free, journeying to distant suns and seeing the birth of new stars? Or the effortless leaps through the misty corridors of time?
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Waylander.
‘I was wondering why you burned my robes,’ said Dardalion, suddenly aware that the question had been nagging at him throughout the long day.
‘I did it on a whim, there is nothing more to it. I have been long without company and I yearned for it.’
Dardalion nodded and added two sticks to the fire.
‘Is that all?’ asked the warrior. ‘No more questions?’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘I suppose that I am,’ admitted Waylander. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Shall I tell you?’
‘No, I like mysteries. What will you do now?’
‘I shall find others of my order and return to my duties.’
‘In other words you will die.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It makes no sense to me,’ said Waylander, ‘but then life itself makes no sense. So it becomes reasonable.’
‘Did life ever make sense to you, Waylander?’
‘Yes. A long time ago before I learned about eagles.’
‘I do not understand you.’
That pleases me,’ said the warrior, pillowing his head on his saddle and closing his eyes.
‘Please explain,’ urged Dardalion. Waylander rolled to his back and opened his eyes, staring out beyond the stars.
‘Once I loved life and the sun was a golden joy. But joy is sometimes short-lived, priest. And when it dies a man will seek inside himself and ask: Why? Why is hate so much stronger than love? Why do the wicked reap such rich rewards? Why does strength and speed count for more than morality and kindness? And then the man realises … there are no answers. None. And for the sake of his sanity the man must change perceptions. Once I was a lamb, playing in a green field. Then the wolves came. Now I am an eagle and I fly in a different universe.’
‘And now you kill the lambs,’ whispered Dardalion.
Waylander chuckled and turned over.
‘No, priest. No one pays for lambs.’
2
The mercenaries rode off, leaving the dead behind them. Seventeen bodies littered the roadside; eight men, four women and five children. The men and the children had died swiftly. Of the five carts which the refugees had been hauling, four were burning fiercely and the fifth smouldered quietly. As the killers crested the hills to the south a young red-haired woman pushed herself clear of the screen of bushes by the road and led three children to the smouldering cart.
‘Put out the fire, Culas,’ she told the oldest boy. He stood staring at the corpses, his wide blue eyes blank with shock and terror. ‘The fire, Culas. Help the others put out the fire.’ But he saw the body of Sheera and groaned.
‘Grandmother …’ muttered Culas, stepping forward on shaking legs. Then the young woman ran to him, taking him in her arms and burying his head against her shoulder.
‘She is dead and she can feel no pain. Come with me and put out the fire.’ She led him to the cart and handed him a blanket. The two younger children -twin girls of seven – stood hand in hand, their backs turned to the dead.