Waylander by David A. Gemmell

Whatever men were behind him, they were on foot and would not catch him this night.

He dismounted and led his horse on towards the north, pausing only to wipe him clear of lather. ‘I think you saved my life,’ he whispered, stroking the velvet neck.

The clouds cleared and the moon shone silver above the distant mountains as Waylander walked the horse for about a mile before stepping into the saddle once more.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned, drawing his cloak tightly about him. The need to sleep rose in him like a warm blanket around his mind.

A night owl swooped overhead, then dropped like a stone with talons outstretched … a tiny rodent squealed as the owl struck.

A dark shadow moved to Waylander’s right and he swung in the saddle, yet saw nothing but a screen of low bushes. Instantly alert, he glanced left to see two dark shapes emerging from the long grass at terrifying speed. His horse reared and came down running as Waylander’s boots hammered into its side. Then it sprinted away with Waylander leaning low in the saddle.

A figure loomed ahead and the horse swerved. When the figure leapt, Waylander’s blood chilled as he saw the demonic face, fangs bared, hurtling towards him. The assassin’s fist lashed out to catch the creature on the side of the head; the horse’s shoulder cannoned into the beast, sending it sprawling. This time Waylander made no effort to check its mad rush into the night. His own fear was as great, his mind filled with the image of those terrible red eyes and the dripping fangs. His heart was drumming against his chest as he rode. No wonder the old man was so desperate to move his camp – he was taking it away from Waylander’s scent.

Three miles further on, Waylander regained control of himself. The horse had begun to tire badly and was now barely cantering. He slowed it and glanced back.

There was nothing to be seen, but he knew they were there; loping along his trail, smelling his fear. He searched the horizon for some hiding-place, but none was in sight. So he pushed on, knowing the beasts would run him down, for his horse was weary and, though faster on the short sprint, could not stay ahead on a long chase.

How many of the beasts were there? He had seen at least three. Three was not so terrible – surely he could handle three? He doubted it.

Anger flared in him. Dardalion had told him he was serving the Source, but what kind of a god left a man in such peril? Why did all the strength remain with the enemy?

‘What do you want from me?’ he shouted, staring up at the sky.

Ahead, a low line of hills rose gently from the plain; there were no trees and little cover in sight. Slowly his horse plodded up the slope and at the top Waylander pulled on the reins and studied his back trail. At first he could see nothing, then in the distance he glimpsed them – six dark shapes running together, hugging his trail. Only minutes separated them now.

Waylander strung his crossbow, slipping the bolts into place. Two of the beasts he could take swiftly, maybe a third with his sword.

He glanced over the brow of the hill and saw the river below, winding towards the mountains like a silver ribbon. At the foot of the hills was a shack and beyond it a small ferry. Hope rose within him and he urged the horse onward.

Halfway down the hill he began to shout for the ferryman.

A lantern flared in the window of the shack and a tall man walked out into the night.

‘Take me across the river,’ said Waylander.

I’ll take you in the morning,’ replied the man. ‘You can bed down in the house.’

‘In the morning we’ll be dead. There are six beasts from Hell just behind me. If you have family in the house, get them on the ferry.’

The man held up his lantern. He was tall, with wide shoulders and a thick black beard; his eyes, though slanted, gave evidence of his mixed blood. ‘You’d better explain,’ he said.