Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘Darkness or Light … word tricks of confusion. I serve the Prince of Lies, the Creator of Chaos.’

‘Why do you hunt Waylander? He is not a mystic.’

‘He killed the wrong man, though doubtless the death was well-deserved. And now it is decreed that he must die. Will you deliver him to me?’

‘I cannot.’

‘Go your way then, worm. Your passivity offends me. I shall kill you tomorrow – just after dark. I will seek out your spirit wherever it hides and I will destroy it.’

‘Why? What will you gain?’

‘Only pleasure,’ answered the warrior. ‘But that is enough.’

‘Then I will await you.’

‘Of course you will. Your kind like to suffer – it makes you holy.’

Waylander was angry, which surprised him, leaving him uneasy and ridiculously resentful. He rode his horse to a wooded hill and dismounted. How can you resent the truth, he asked himself?

And yet it hurt to be bracketed with the likes of mercenaries who raped and plundered the innocent, for despite his awesome reputation as a bringer of death he had never killed a woman or a child. Neither had he ever raped nor humiliated anyone. So why did the woman make him feel so sullied? Why did he now see himself in such dark light?

The priest.

The damned priest!

Waylander had lived the last twenty years in the shadows, but Dardalion was like a lantern illuminating the dark corners of his soul.

He sat down on the grass. The night was cool and clear, the air sweet.

Twenty years. Vanished into the vacuum of memory. Twenty years without anger as Waylander clung like a leech to the ungiving rock of life.

But what now?

‘You are going to die, you fool,’ he said aloud. The priest will kill you with his purity.’

Was that it? Was that the spell he feared so much?

For twenty years Waylander had ridden the mountains and plains of the civilised nations, the Steppes and outlands of the Nadir savages and the far deserts of the nomads. In that time he had allowed himself no friends. No one had touched him. Like a mobile fortress, deep-walled and safe, Waylander had ghosted through life as alone as a man could be.

Why had he rescued the priest? The question tormented him. His fortress had crumbled and his defences fallen apart like wet parchment.

Instinct told him to mount up and leave the little group – and he trusted his instincts, for they were honed by the danger his occupation aroused. Mobility and speed had kept him alive; he could strike like a snake and be gone before the dawn.

Waylander the Slayer, a prince among assassins. Only by chance could he ever be captured, for he had no home – only a random list of contacts who held contracts for him in a score of cities. In the deepest darkness he would appear, claim his contracts or his fees and then depart before the dawn. Always hunted and hated, the Slayer moved among shadows, haunting the dark places.

Even now he knew his pursuers were close. Now, more than ever, he needed to vanish into the out-lands or across the sea to Ventria and the eastern kingdoms.

‘You fool,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want to die?’

Yet the priest held him with his uncast spell.

‘You have clipped the eagle’s wings, Dardalion,’ he said softly.

There had been a flower-garden at the farm, bright with hyacinths and tulips and ageing daffodils. His son had looked so peaceful lying there and the blood had not seemed out of place among the blooms. The pain tore into him; memories jagged like broken glass. Tanya had been tied to the bed and then gutted like a fish. The two girls … babes …

Waylander wept for the lost years …

He returned to the camp-site in the hour before dawn and found them all sleeping. He shook his head at their stupidity and stirred the fire to life, preparing a meal of hot oats in a copper pan. Dardalion was the first to wake; he smiled a greeting and stretched.

‘I am glad you came back,’ he said, moving to the fire.