Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘That’s a little unfair,’ said a lantern-jawed soldier with deep-set eyes.

‘Maybe it is, brother Dagon, but I speak as I see. Do not misunderstand me – I respect the man, I’d even vote for him. But he’s not like us; he has the mark of greatness on him and he put it there himself, if you understand me.’

‘I don’t,’ said Dagon. ‘As far as I can see he’s a great warrior and he’s fighting for the Drenai same as me.’

‘Then let’s leave it at that,’ said Vanek, smiling. ‘We both agree he’s a great warrior, and brothers like us shouldn’t quarrel.’

Above them in the gate tower Karnak, Dundas and Gellan sat under the new stars and listened to the conversation. Karnak was grinning broadly as he signalled Gellan to the other side of the ramparts where their talk could not be overheard.

‘Intelligent man, that Vanek,’ said Karnak softly, his eyes locked on Gellan’s face.

Gellan grinned. ‘Yes, he is, sir. Except for women!’

‘There isn’t a man alive who knows how to deal with women,’ said Karnak. ‘I should know – I have been married three times and never learned a damned thing.’

‘Does Vanek worry you, sir?’

Karnak’s eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of humour in them. ‘And if he does?’

‘If he did, you wouldn’t be a man I follow.’

‘Well put. I like a man who stands by his own. Do you share his views?’

‘Of course, but then so do you. There are no saga-poet heroes. Each man has his own reason for being prepared to die, and most of the reasons are selfish – like protecting wife, home or self. You have bigger dreams than most men, general; there’s no harm in that.’

‘I am glad you think so,’ said Karnak, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

‘When you do not want to hear the truth, sir, let me know. I can lie as glibly as any man.’

‘The truth is a dangerous weapon. Gellan. For some it is like sweet wine, for others it is poison, yet it remains the same. Go and get some sleep – you look exhausted, man.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Dundas as Gellan moved into the torch-lit stairwell.

Karnak shrugged and walked to the ramparts, gazing r ut over the camp-fires of the Vagrian army around the harbour. Two ships were gliding on a jet-black sea towards the dock, their decks lined with men.

‘Gellan worries me,’ said Karnak.

‘In what way? He’s a good officer – you’ve said that yourself.’

‘He gets too close to his men. He thinks he is cynic, but in fact he’s a romantic – searching for heroes in a world that has no use for them. What makes a man like that?’

‘Most men think you are a hero, sir.’

‘But Gellan does not want a pretend hero, Dundas. What was it Vanek called me? A political whoreson? Is it a crime to want a strong land, where savage armies cannot enter??’

‘No, sir, but then you are not a pretend hero. You are a hero who pretends to be otherwise.’

But Karnak appeared not to have heard. He was staring out over the harbour as three more ships ghosted in towards the jetty.

Dardalion touched the wounded soldier’s forehead and the man’s eyes closed, the lines of pain disappearing from his face. He was young and had not yet found need of a razor. Yet his right arm was hanging from a thread of muscle and his torn stomach was held in place by a broad leather belt.

There is no hope for this one,’ Astila’s mind pulsed.

‘I know,’ answered Dardalion. ‘He sleeps now … the sleep of death.’

The makeshift hospital was packed with beds, pallets and stretchers. Several women moved among the injured men – changing bandages, mopping brows, talking to the wounded in soft compassionate voices. Karnak had asked the women to help and their presence aided the men beyond even the skill of the surgeons, for no man likes to appear weak before a woman and so the injured gritted their teeth and made light of their wounds.