‘He is a man of power,’ agreed Vishna. ‘I could feel that.’
‘He is the deadliest man I ever met. Those hunting him will find the truth of that, I fear.’
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Waylander found his anger hard to control as he followed the winding hill path that led down to the forest. He paused and sat at the edge of the path. Anger blinds, he told himself. Anger dulls the senses! He took a deep, slow breath.
What did you expect of him?
More than I received.
It was galling, for he had loved the priest. And admired him – the gentleness of his soul, the bottomless well of forgiveness and understanding he could bring to bear. What changed you, Dardalion, he wondered. But he knew the answer, and it lay upon his heart with all the weight only guilt can muster.
Ten years ago he had found the young Dardalion being tortured by robbers. Against his better judgement he had rescued him, and in so doing had been drawn into the Vagrian War, helping Danyal and the children, finding the Armour of Bronze, fighting were-beasts and demonic warriors. The priest had changed his life. Dardalion had been pure then, a follower of the Source, unable to fight, even in order to survive, unwilling to eat meat. He could not even hate the men who tortured him, nor the vile enemy that swept across the land bringing blood and death to thousands.
Waylander had changed him. With the priest in a trance, his spirit hunted across the Void, Waylander had cut his own arm, holding it above Dardalion’s face. And the blood had splashed to the priest’s cheek, staining his skin and lips, flowing into his mouth. The unconscious Dardalion had reacted violently, his body arching in an almost epileptic spasm.
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
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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