And he killed the demon spirit hunting him.
To save Dardalion’s life, Waylander had sullied the priest’s soul.
‘You sullied me too,’ whispered Waylander. ‘You touched me with your purity. You shone a light on the dark places.’ Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. From here he could see the town below, the small church a stone’s throw from the bloodstained bear-pit, the timber-built homes and stables. He had no wish to journey there. South lay his home; south was where Danyal waited, silent among the flowers and the glittering falls.
Once under cover of the trees he relaxed a little, feeling the slow, eternal heartbeat of the forest all around him. What did these trees care for the hopes of Man? Their spirits were everlasting, born into the leaf, carried back to the ground, merging with the earth, feeding the tree, becoming leaves. An endless passive cycle of birth and rebirth through the eons. No murders here, no guilt. He felt the weight of his weapons, and wished he could cast them all aside and walk naked in the forest, the soft earth beneath his feet, the warm sun upon his back.
A shout of pain came from some way to his left, followed by the sound of cursing. Stepping swiftly, knife in hand, he pushed back a screen of bushes and saw four men standing close to the mouth of a shallow cave some fifty paces away, at the foot of a gentle slope. Three were carrying wooden clubs, the fourth a shortsword which, even at this distance, Waylander could see was part-rusted.
‘Bastard damn near took my arm off,’ complained a burly balding man, blood dripping from a shallow wound in his forearm.
‘We need a bow, or spears,’ said another.
‘Leave the beast. It’s a demon,’ said a third, backing away, ‘and it’s dying anyway.’
One by one they moved back from the cave mouth, but the last man stopped and threw a large stone into the dark recesses of the cave. A deep growl was heard and a huge hound appeared in the entrance, blood on its fangs. The men suddenly panicked and ran back up the slope. The first of them, the balding fat man with the injured arm, saw Waylander standing there and paused.
‘Don’t go down there, friend,’ he said. “The dog is a killer.’
‘Rabid?’ queried Waylander.
‘Nah. It was one of the pit dogs. There was a bear-fight this morning, damn fine one at that. But one of Jezel’s hounds got loose. Worst of them too, part-wolf. We thought the bear had killed it and we were hauling the bodies out, but it wasn’t dead. Bastard reared up and tore Jezel’s throat away. Terrible thing. Terrible. Then it ran. The gods alone know how it managed it. Ripped up by the bear and all.’
‘Not many dogs would turn on their owners that way,’ observed Waylander.
‘Pit dogs will,’ said a second man, tall and skeletally thin. ‘It’s the training you see, the beatings and the starving and the like. Jezelis…was…a damn fine trainer. The best.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Waylander.
‘Not at all,’ replied the thin man. ‘You looking for lodgings for the night? I own the inn. We’ve a good room.’
‘Thank you, no. I have no coin.’
The man’s interest died instantly; with a swift smile he moved past Waylander and, followed by the others, strode off in the direction of the town. Waylander transferred his gaze to the hound, which had slumped exhausted to the grass and was now lying on its right side breathing hoarsely, its blood-covered flanks heaving.
Waylander moved slowly down the slope, halting some ten feet from the injured animal. From here he could see that its wounds were many, and its grey flanks carried other, older scars from claw and fang and whip. The hound gazed at him through baleful eyes, but its strength was gone, and when Waylander rose and moved to its side it managed only a weary growl.
‘You can stop that,’ said Waylander, gently stroking the hound’s huge grey head. From the gashes and cuts he could see the dog had attacked the bear at least three times. There was blood seeping from four parallel rips in the hide, the skin peeled back exposing muscle and bone. Judging by the size of the clawmarks, the bear must have been large indeed. Sheathing his knife Waylander examined the injuries. There were muscle tears, but no broken bones that he could find.