Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘Use the Shapeshifters then – hunt him down.’

‘They are a last resort,’ snapped Kesa Khan, rising to his feet. ‘I must think.’ Replacing the knuckle bones in a goatskin sack, he moved outside the tent and stared up at the stars. Around him there was little movement, except among the sentries guarding Butaso; eight men ringed his tent with swords in hand, facing outwards silently, occasionally stamping their feet against the cold.

Kesa Khan walked to his own tent, where the slave girl Voltis had prepared a brazier of burning coals to warm the air. She had also poured a bowl of Lyrrd and placed three warmed rocks in his bed. He smiled at her and drank the Lyrrd in a single swallow, feeling the alcohol pouring fire into his veins.

‘You are a fine girl, Voltis. I do not deserve you.’

‘You have been kind,’ she said, bowing.

‘Would you like to return home?’

‘No, Lord. I wish to serve you.’ He was touched by her sincerity and leaning forward he lifted her chin … then froze.

Eight

The guard on Butaso’s tent was normally seven!

Butaso turned as the guard entered. ‘What do you want?’

‘The return of my gift,’ said Waylander. Butaso spun on his heel, a scream beginning in his throat -a scream cut off by six inches of shimmering steel hammering into his neck. His fingers scrambled for the blade, and his eyes widened in agony; then he fell to his knees, his gaze fixed on the tall figure standing impassively before him.

The last thing he heard as his eyes closed was the clash of steel as his guards rushed into the tent.

Waylander turned, his sword blocking a wild cut. Twisting his wrist, he sent his opponent’s blade flying through the air. The guard wrenched a knife from its scabbard, but died as Waylander’s sword lanced his ribs. More guards pushed forward, forcing the assassin back to the centre of the tent.

‘Put down your sword,’ hissed Kesa Khan from the entrance. Waylander gazed coolly at the ring of steel closing in on him.

‘Come and take it,’ he said.

As the Nadir surged forward, Waylander’s sword flickered out and a man fell screaming. Then a blade crashed side on against his head and he fell. He struggled to rise, but pounding fists pushed him down and a sea of darkness washed over him …

Pain woke him – deep throbbing, insistent pain. His fingers were swollen and the sun beat mercilessly down on his naked body. He was hanging by his wrists from a pole at the centre of the Nadir camp; they had stripped him of his Nadir clothes and strung him in the sun, and already he could feel the burning of his marble-white skin. His face and arms were in no danger, burnt as they were to the colour of leather, but his body had never been exposed to harsh sunlight and already his chest and shoulders felt as if on fire. He tried to open his eyes, but only the left would function; the right was swollen shut. His mouth was dry, his tongue a stick.

His hands were throbbing and almost purple. Getting his feet under him he pushed himself upright, taking pressure from his swollen wrists. Immediately a fist lashed into his stomach and he winced and bit his swollen lip so hard that blood flowed to his chin.

‘We have fine things in store for you, you round-eyed son of a slut,’ said a voice. Waylander tilted his head to see before him a young man of middle height – his greasy black hair tied in a pony tail, his features obscured by the ash of mourning.

Waylander looked away and the man struck him again.

‘Leave him!’ ordered Kesa Khan.

‘He is mine.’

‘Obey me, Gorkai,’ ordered the old man.

‘He must die hard, and then serve my father in the Void.’

The young man walked away and Waylander looked at the old man.

‘You did well, Soul Stealer, you took the life of a fool who would have led us to ruin.’

Waylander said nothing. His mouth was full of blood which moistened his dry tongue and eased his throat.