‘I care nothing for that. But you have not answered my question.’
True. Why you? Because you alone have the chance, slim as it is, to change the course of this nation’s history.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘A pointless question – you will not.’
‘Why so sure?’
‘Honour, Waylander. You are cursed with it.’
‘Do you not mean blessed?’
‘Not in your case. It will kill you.’
‘Strange. I thought I would live for ever.’
He stood to leave, but the old woman raised her hand.
‘I can give you one warning: beware the love of life. Your strength is that you care not about death. The powers of Chaos are many and not all of them involve pain and sharp blades.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘Love, Waylander. Beware of love. I see a red-haired woman who could bring you grief.’
‘I shall not see her again, Hewla.’
‘Maybe,’ grunted the old woman.
As Waylander stepped from the cabin, a shadow flickered to his left and he dived forward as a sword blade whistled over his head. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled to his knees, his knife flashing through the air to take his attacker under the chin. The wounded man sank to his knees, tearing the blade loose, blood gushing from his throat as he toppled forward. Waylander swung round, scanning the trees, then rose and walked to the corpse. He had never seen the man before.
He cleaned his knife and sheathed it as Hewla stepped into the doorway.
‘You are a dangerous man to know,’ she said grinning.
His dark eyes fixed on her wrinkled face, ‘You knew he was here, you crone.’
‘Yes. Good luck on your quest, Waylander! Walk warily.’
Waylander rode east through the darkest section of the forest, his crossbow primed and his dark eyes scanning the undergrowth for movement. Above him the branches interlaced and shafts of sunlight splayed the trees. After an hour he turned north, the tension growing within him causing his neck to ache.
Cadoras was not a man to be taken lightly. His was a name spoken in whispers in the darkest alleyways of forbidden cities: Cadoras the Stalker, the Dream Ender. It was said that none could match him for cunning and few for cruelty, but Waylander dismissed the more wild stories, for he knew how legend could add colour to the whitest of deeds.
For he, of all men, could understand Cadoras.
Waylander the Slayer, the Soul Stealer, the Chaos Blade.
Saga-poets sang dark songs about the wandering assassin, the stranger, the Waylander, choosing always to finish their tale-telling with Waylander’s exploits as the fires guttered low and the tavern dwellers prepared for a walk home in the dark. Waylander had sat unnoticed in more than one inn while they entertained the crowds with his infamy. They would begin their performances with stories of golden heroes, beautiful princesses, courageous tales of shadow-haunted castles and silver knights. But as the hours passed they introduced an edge of fear, a taste of terror, and men would walk out into darkened streets with fearful eyes which searched the shadows for Cadoras the Stalker, or for Waylander.
How the poets would dance with glee when they heard that Cadoras had been paid to stalk the Slayer!
Waylander turned west along the line of the Delnoch mountains until he entered a large clearing where some thirty wagons were waiting. Men, women and children sat at breakfast fires while the giant Durmast walked among the groups collecting his payments.
Once out of the trees, Waylander relaxed and cantered in to the camp-site. He removed the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings; clipping the weapon to his belt, he slid from the saddle. Durmast – two leather saddlebags drooped over one huge shoulder – spotted him and waved. Moving to a nearby wagon, he heaved the bags inside and wandered back to Waylander.
‘Welcome,’ he said, grinning. ‘This war is making for good business.’
‘Refugees?’ queried Waylander.
‘Yes, heading for Gulgothir. With all their worldly possessions.’
‘Why do they trust you?’
‘Just stupidity,’ said Durmast, his grin widening. ‘A man could get rich very quickly!’
‘I don’t doubt it. When do we leave?’