Waylander by David A. Gemmell

‘I have such a friend.’

‘Does he sit in a fortress under siege?’

‘He may. I do not know.’

‘He is in great danger.’

‘I cannot help him.’

‘You are the key, I think.’

‘We shall see. How long ago did these riders come?’

‘Did they say they would return?’

‘They did not say … but I know. They will ride into my camp at sunset.’

‘From which direction?’

‘From the east. Your journey to the north will avoid them – but only for now. Your paths will cross and nothing can change that. You need more friends, Oxskull – alone, you are lost.’ The old Notas closed his eyes and shivered. When a sudden cool breeze sprang up within the tent, guttering the candles, he shook and trembled, his eyes flaring open.

‘You must go from here and I must move camp,’ he said, fear shining in his dark slanted eyes.

‘What do you see?’

‘Your enemies are powerful indeed. They have opened the ninth gate of Hell and the Shapeshifters are unleashed. You must ride far and fast, Oxskull.’

‘What are the Shapeshifters?’

‘I can tell you nothing more. Time is gone and every heartbeat brings us closer to destruction. Bear this in your soul: Do not try to fight them. Run! They are power and they are death. Run!’

The old man sprang to his feet and raced from the tent. Waylander could hear his shouted orders and the edge of panic in his voice. Finding that his possessions had been placed in a neat pile beside his horse, he packed them swiftly and rode from the camp, leaving Cadoras’ mount in payment for the aid they had given him.

Now, camped some eight miles away, he pondered the old man’s words: ‘Do not fight. Run.’

But what were they, these Shapeshifters? Why could he not kill them? Did they lack a beating heart? What manner of thing could survive an encounter with Waylander the Slayer?

The old man was no coward. He had sensed the evil of the Brotherhood riders, but was not cowed by them. Yet this new threat had all but unmanned him. Why move his camp? Waylander added sticks to the blaze and warmed his hands. The night breeze rustled the branches of the trees, while in the distance a wolf howled.

The assassin looked to his weapons, honing the blades of his throwing knives. Then he checked his crossbow, a beautiful weapon designed to his specifications and fashioned by a Ventrian armourer. The stock was polished ebony and the two triggers were dulled bronze. The Grafting of the weapon was beyond compare, and Waylander had paid the man a fortune in opals. That they were stolen gems took nothing from the gift and the armourer had blinked in astonishment when Waylander poured them into his outstretched hands.

‘You are an artist, Aries, and this is a masterpiece.’

Suddenly Waylander’s horse whinnied in terror and the assassin came smoothly to his feet, stringing the crossbow swiftly and slipping two bolts in place. The animal was tugging at the reins, seeking to pull them clear of the low-hanging branch to which they were tied. Its ears were flat to its skull and its eyes wide with fear.

‘Do not fight. Run!’ The old man’s words hammered at him.

Scooping his blanket from beside the fire, Waylander rolled it and ran to his horse. It took some seconds to tighten the saddle cinch and settle the blanket in place, then he tugged the reins loose and vaulted into the saddle. He was almost thrown as the horse sprang to a gallop, then they were clear of the wood and racing north.

Waylander swivelled in the saddle – behind him several dark shapes had emerged from the wood. He blinked, but a cloud obscured the moon and they faded into darkness. He fought to control the mad gallop, hauling on the reins. It was madness to race across the Steppes in darkness. A pothole, a rabbit’s burrow, a large rock – all could bring down his horse with a broken leg.

After about a mile the horse began to lose his wind and Waylander dragged him to a halt, then walked him gently. The beast’s sides were lathered, his breathing ragged. Waylander stroked the long neck and whispered soothing words. He glanced back, but could see nothing. He had caught only a brief glimpse of his pursuers, but his memory was of huge men in wolfskin cloaks, running bent double. He shook his head – it must have been a trick of the light, for their speed was awesome. Now travelling at a more sedate pace, he stripped the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings.