David Gemmell - Waylander

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2024-12-23 0 0 868.08KB 136 页 5.9玖币

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Waylander

David A. Gemmell

This book is dedicated with love to Denis and Audrey Ballard, my parents-in-law, for the friendship of two decades.

And to their daughter Valerie, who changed my world on December 22 1965.

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to my agent Leslie Flood, whose support carried me through the lean years; my local editor, Ross

Lempfiere, without whom Waylander would not have stalked the dark woods; Stella Graham, the finest of proof-

readers, and Liza Reeves, Jean Maund, Shane Jarvis, Jonathan Poore, Stewart Dunn, Julia Laidlaw and Tom Taylor.

Special thanks to Robert Breare for the fun of it all, and for holding the fortress against the odds.

Ebook Creation

Scan by A. Nonny Mouse

Preliminary Proofing by A.N.Other

Final Proofing & Indexing by Wordsmith

Contents

Prologue........................................................................................................................................................................5

1....................................................................................................................................................................................6

2..................................................................................................................................................................................10

3..................................................................................................................................................................................16

4..................................................................................................................................................................................21

5..................................................................................................................................................................................26

6..................................................................................................................................................................................33

7..................................................................................................................................................................................39

8..................................................................................................................................................................................45

9..................................................................................................................................................................................50

10 ................................................................................................................................................................................55

11 ................................................................................................................................................................................61

12 ................................................................................................................................................................................65

13 ................................................................................................................................................................................69

14 ................................................................................................................................................................................76

15 ................................................................................................................................................................................83

16 ................................................................................................................................................................................87

17 ................................................................................................................................................................................91

18 ................................................................................................................................................................................95

19 ................................................................................................................................................................................99

20 ..............................................................................................................................................................................104

21 ..............................................................................................................................................................................108

22 ..............................................................................................................................................................................112

23 ..............................................................................................................................................................................117

24 ..............................................................................................................................................................................124

25 ..............................................................................................................................................................................129

Epilogue....................................................................................................................................................................136

Prologue

The monster watched from the shadows as the armed men, torches aloft, entered the darkness of the mountain. He

backed away as they advanced, keeping his huge bulk from the glare.

The men made their way to a rough-hewn chamber and placed the torches in rusty iron brackets on the granite

walls.

At the centre of the twenty-strong group was a figure in armour of bronze, which caught the torchlight and seemed

to blaze like fashioned flames. He removed his winged helm and two retainers erected a wooden skeleton frame. The

warrior placed the helm atop the frame and unbuckled his breastplate. He was past middle age, but still strong - his hair

thinning, his eyes squinting in the flickering light. He passed the armoured breastplate to a retainer who laid it on the

frame, rebuckling the straps.

'Are you sure of this plan, my lord?' asked an elderly figure, slender and blue-robed.

'As sure as I am of anything, Derian. The dream has been with me now for a year and I believe in it.'

'But the Armour means so much to the Drenai.'

'That is why it is here.'

'Could you not - even now - reconsider? Niallad is a young man and he could wait at least two more years. You are

still strong, my lord.'

'My eyes are failing, Derian. Soon I shall be blind. You think that a good trait in a King renowned for his skill in

war?'

'I do not wish to lose you, my lord.' said Derian. 'It may be that I am speaking out of turn, but your son ...'

'I know of his weaknesses,' snapped the King, 'as I know his future. We are facing the end of all we have fought for.

Not now ... not in five years. But soon will come the days of blood and then the Drenai must have some hope. This

Armour is that hope.'

'But, my lord, is not magical. You were magical. This is merely metal which you chose to wear. It could have been

silver, or gold, or leather. It is Orien the King who has built the Drenai. And now you will leave us.'

The King, dressed now in a brown tunic of doeskin, placed his hands on the statesman Is shoulders.

'I have been much troubled these past few years, but always I have been guided by your good counsel. I trust you,

Derian, and I know you will look to Niallad and guide him where you can. But in the days of blood he will be beyond

your advice. My vision is black indeed: I see a terrible army falling upon the Drenai people; I see our forces sundered

and in hiding - and I see this Armour shining like a torch, drawing men to it, giving them faith.'

'And do you see victory, my lord?'

'I see victory for some. Death for others.'

'But what if your vision is not true? What if it is merely a deceit fashioned by the Spirit of Chaos?'

'Look to the Armour, Derian,' said Orien, leading him forward.

It glinted in the torchlight still, but now had gained an ethereal quality which puzzled the eye. 'Reach out and touch

it,' ordered the King. When Derian did so, his hand passed through the image and he recoiled as if stung.

'What have you done?'

'I have done nothing, but it is the first promise of the dream. Only the Chosen One can claim the Armour.'

'There may be some who can undo the spell and steal the Armour?'

'Indeed there may, Derian. But look beyond the torchlight.'

The statesman turned to see scores of eyes blinking at him from the darkness. He stepped back. 'Gods! What are

they?'

'Once they were human, it is said. But the tribes who live in this area talk of a stream that runs black in the summer.

Water from this stream is all there is, but when drunk by pregnant women it becomes a rare poison which deforms the

child in the womb. The Nadir leave the babes on the mountain to die ... obviously not all have done so.'

Derian tugged a torch from its bracket and advanced on the doorway, but the King stopped him.

'Don't look, my friend, it would haunt you to your dying day. But be assured they are ferocious in the extreme. It

would need a great force to come here, and if any but the Chosen One attempts to remove the Armour he will be torn to

pieces by the beasts who dwell in the darkness.'

'And what will you do now, my lord?'

'I will say farewell.'

'Where will you go?'

'Where no one will know me as a king.'

There were tears in Derian's eyes as he dropped to his knees before Orien, but the King pulled him to his feet.

'Put aside rank, old friend. Let us part as comrades.'

The two men embraced.

They had begun to torture the priest when the stranger stepped from the shadows of the trees.

'You stole my horse,' he said quietly. The five men spun round. Beyond them the young priest sagged against the

ropes which held him, raising his head to squint through swollen eyes at the newcomer. The man was tall and broad-

shouldered and a black leather cloak was drawn about him.

'Where is my horse?' he asked.

'Who is to say? A horse is a horse and the owner is the man who rides him,' answered Dectas. When the stranger

first spoke Dectas had felt the thrill of fear course through him, expecting to find several men armed and ready. But

now, as he scanned the trees in the gathering dusk, he knew the man was alone. Alone and mad. The priest had proved

but sorry sport, gritting his teeth against the pain and offering neither curse nor plea. But this one would sing his song

of pain long into the night.

'Fetch the horse,' said the man, a note of boredom in his deep voice.

'Take him!' ordered Dectas and swords sang into the air as the five men attacked. Swiftly the newcomer swept his

cloak over one shoulder and lifted his right arm. A black bolt tore into the chest of the nearest man, a second entered

the belly of a burly warrior with upraised sword. The stranger dropped the small double crossbow and lightly leapt

back. One of his attackers was dead and a second knelt clutching the bolt in his belly.

The newcomer loosened the thong which held his cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground behind him. From twin

sheaths he produced two black-bladed knives.

'Fetch the horse!' he ordered.

The remaining two hesitated, glancing to Dectas for guidance. Black blades hissed through the air and both men

dropped without a sound.

Dectas was alone.

'You can have the horse,' he said, biting his lip and backing towards the trees. The man shook his head.

'Too late,' he answered softly.

Dectas turned and sprinted for the trees, but a sharp blow in the back caused him to lose balance and his face

ploughed the soft earth. Pushing his hands beneath him, he struggled to rise. Had the newcomer thrown a rock, he

wondered? Weakness flowed through him and he slumped to the ground ... the earth was soft as a feather-bed and

sweet-smelling like lavender. His leg twitched.

The newcomer recovered his cloak and brushed the dirt from its folds before fastening the thongs at the shoulder.

Then he recovered his three knives, wiping them clean on the clothes of the dead. Lastly he collected his bolts,

despatching the wounded man with a swift knife-cut across the throat. He picked up his crossbow and checked the

mechanism for dirt before clipping it to his broad black belt. Without a backward glance he strode to the horses.

'Wait!' called the priest. 'Release me. Please!'

The man turned. 'Why?' he asked. The question was so casually put that the priest found himself momentarily

unable to phrase an answer.

'I will die if you leave me here,' he said, at last.

'Not good enough,' said the man, shrugging. He walked to the horses, finding that his own mount and saddlebags

were as he had left them. Satisfied, he untied his horse and walked back to the clearing.

For several moments he stared at the priest, then he cursed softly and cut him free. The man sagged forward into his

arms. He had been badly beaten and his chest had been repeatedly cut; the flesh hung in narrow strips and his blue

robes were stained with blood. The warrior rolled the priest to his back, ripping open the robes, then walked to his

horse and returned with a leather canteen. Twisting the cap he poured water on the wounds. The priest writhed but

made no sound. Expertly the warrior smoothed the strips of skin back into place.

'Lie still for a moment,' he ordered. Taking needle and thread from a small saddlebag, he neatly stitched the flaps. 'I

need a fire,' he said. 'I can't see a damned thing!'

The fire once lit, the priest watched as the warrior went about his work. The man's eyes were narrowed in

concentration, but the priest noted that they were extraordinarily dark, deep sable-brown with flashing gold flecks. The

warrior was unshaven, and the beard around his chin was speckled with grey.

Then the priest slept ...

When he awoke, he groaned as the pain from his beating roared back at him like a snarling dog. He sat up, wincing

as the stitches in his chest pulled tight. His robes were gone and beside him lay clothes obviously taken from the dead

men, for brown blood stained the jerkin which lay beside them.

The warrior was packing his saddlebags and tying his blanket to his saddle.

'Where are my robes?' demanded the priest.

'I burned them.'

'How dare you! Those were sacred garments.'

'They were merely blue cotton. And you can get more in any town or village.' The warrior returned to the priest and

squatted beside him. 'I spent two hours patching your soft body, priest. It would please me if you allowed it to live for a

few days before hurling yourself on the fires of martyrdom. All across the country your brethren are burning, or

hanged, or dismembered. And all because they don't have the courage to remove those damned robes.'

'We will not hide,' said the priest defiantly.

'Then you will die.'

'Is that so terrible?'

'I don't know, priest, you tell me. You were close to it last evening.'

'But you came.'

'Looking for my horse. Don't read too much into it.'

'And a horse is worth more than a man in today's market?'

'It always was, priest.'

'Not to me.'

'So if I had been tied to the tree, you would have rescued me?'

'I would have tried.'

'And we would both have been dead. As it is, you are alive and, more importantly, I have my horse.'

'I will find more robes.'

'I don't doubt that you will. And now I must go. If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome.'

'I don't think that I do.'

The man shrugged and rose. 'In that case, farewell.'

'Wait!' said the priest, forcing himself to his feet. 'I did not wish to sound ungrateful and I thank you most sincerely

for your help. It is just that were I to be with you, it would put you in danger.'

'That's very thoughtful of you,' answered the man. 'As you wish, then.'

He walked to his horse, tightened the saddle cinch and climbed into the saddle, sweeping out his cloak behind him.

'I am Dardalion,' called the priest.

The warrior leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.

'And I am Waylander,' he said. The priest jerked as if struck. 'I see you have heard of me.'

'I have heard nothing that is good,' replied Dardalion.

'Then you have heard only what is true. Farewell.'

'Wait! I will travel with you.'

Waylander drew back on the reins. 'What about the danger?' he asked.

'Only the Vagrian conquerors want me dead, but at least I have some friends - which is more than can be said for

Waylander the Slayer. Half the world would pay to spit on your grave.'

'It is always comforting to be appreciated,' said Waylander. 'Now, Dardalion - if you are coming, put on those

clothes and then we must be away.'

Dardalion knelt by the clothes and reached for a woollen shirt, but as his fingers touched it he recoiled and the

colour drained from his face.

Waylander slid from his saddle and approached the priest. 'Do your wounds trouble you?' he asked.

Dardalion shook his head, and when he looked up Waylander was surprised to see tears in his eyes. It shocked the

warrior, for he had watched this man suffer torture without showing pain. Now he wept like a child, yet there was

nothing to torment him.

Dardalion took a shuddering breath. 'I cannot wear these clothes.'

'There are no lice, and I have scraped away most of the blood.'

'They carry memories, Waylander ... horrible memories ... rape, murder, foulness indescribable. I am sullied even

by touching them and I cannot wear them.'

'You are a mystic, then?'

'Yes. A mystic.' Dardalion sat back upon the blanket shivering in the morning sunshine. Waylander scratched his

chin and returned to his horse, where he removed a spare shirt, leggings and a pair of moccasins from his saddlebag.

'These are clean, priest. But the memories they carry may be no less painful for you,' he said, tossing the clothes

before Dardalion. Hesitantly the young priest reached for the woollen shirt. As he touched the garment he felt no evil,

only a wave of emotional pain that transcended anguish. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind, then he looked up

and smiled.

'Thank you, Waylander. These I can wear.'

Their eyes met and the warrior smiled wryly. 'Now you know all my secrets, I suppose?'

'No. Only your pain.'

'Pain is relative,' said Waylander.

Throughout the morning they rode through hills and valleys torn by the horns of war. To the east pillars of smoke

spiralled to join the clouds. Cities were burning, souls departing to the Void. Around them in the woods and fields were

scattered corpses, many now stripped of their armour and weapons, while overhead crows banked in black-winged

hordes, their greedy eyes scanning the now fertile earth below. The harvest of death was ripening.

Burnt-out villages met the riders' eyes in every vale and Dardalion's face took on a haunted look. Waylander

ignored the evidence of war but he rode warily, constantly stopping to study the back-trails and scanning the distant

hills to the south.

'Are you being followed?' asked Dardalion.

'Always,' answered the warrior grimly.

Dardalion had last ridden a horse five years before when he left his father's cliff-top villa for the five-mile ride to

the temple at Sardia. Now, with the pain of his wounds increasing and his legs chafing against the mare's flanks, he

fought against the rising agony. Forcing his mind to concentrate, Dardalion focused his gaze on the warrior riding

ahead, noting the easy way he sat his saddle and the fact that he held the reins with his left hand, his right never

straying far from the broad black belt hung with weapons of death. For a while, as the road widened, they rode side by

side and the priest studied the warrior's face. It was strong-boned and even handsome after a fashion, but the mouth was

a grim line and the eyes hard and piercing. Beneath his cloak the warrior wore a chain-mail shoulder-guard over a

leather vest which bore many gashes and dents and carefully repaired tears.

'You have lived long in the ways of war?' asked Dardalion.

'Too long,' answered Waylander, stopping once more to study the trail.

'You mentioned the deaths of the priests and you said they died because they lacked the courage to remove their

robes. What did you mean?'

'Was it not obvious?'

'It would seem to be the highest courage to die for one's beliefs,' said Dardalion.

Waylander laughed. 'Courage? It takes no courage to die. But living takes nerve.'

'You are a strange man. Do you not fear death?'

'I fear everything, priest - everything that walks, crawls or flies. But save your talk for the camp-fire. I need to

think.' Touching his booted heels to his horse's flanks, he moved ahead into a small wood where, finding a clearing in a

secluded hollow by a gently flowing stream, he dismounted and loosened the saddle cinch. The horse was anxious to

drink, but Waylander walked him round slowly, allowing him to cool after the long ride before taking him to the

stream. Then he removed the saddle and fed the beast with oats and grain from a sack tied to the pommel. With the

horses tethered Waylander set a small fire by a ring of boulders and spread his blanket beside it. Following a meal of

cold meat - which Dardalion refused - and some dried apples, Waylander looked to his weapons. Three knives hung

from his belt and these he sharpened with a small whetstone. The half-sized double crossbow he dismantled and

cleaned.

'An interesting weapon,' observed Dardalion.

'Yes, made for me in Ventria. It can be very useful; it looses two bolts and is deadly up to twenty feet.'

'Then you need to be close to your victim.'

Waylander's sombre eyes locked on to Dardalion's gaze. 'Do not seek to judge me, priest.'

'It was merely an observation. How did you come to lose your horse?'

'I was with a woman.'

'I see.'

Waylander grinned. 'Gods, it always looks ridiculous when a young man assumes a pompous expression! Have you

never had a woman?'

'No. Nor have I eaten meat these last five years. Nor tasted spirits.'

'A dull life but a happy one,' observed the warrior.

'Neither has my life been dull. There is more to living than sating bodily appetites.'

'Of that I am sure. Still, it does no harm to sate them now and again.'

Dardalion said nothing. What purpose would it serve to explain to a warrior the harmony of a life spent building the

strength of the spirit? The joys of soaring high upon the solar breezes weightless and free, journeying to distant suns

and seeing the birth of new stars? Or the effortless leaps through the misty corridors of time?

'What are you thinking?' asked Waylander.

'I was wondering why you burned my robes,' said Dardalion, suddenly aware that the question had been nagging at

him throughout the long day.

'I did it on a whim, there is nothing more to it. I have been long without company and I yearned for it.'

Dardalion nodded and added two sticks to the fire.

'Is that all?' asked the warrior. 'No more questions?'

'Are you disappointed?'

'I suppose that I am,' admitted Waylander. 'I wonder why?'

'Shall I tell you?'

'No, I like mysteries. What will you do now?'

'I shall find others of my order and return to my duties.'

'In other words you will die.'

'Perhaps.'

'It makes no sense to me,' said Waylander, 'but then life itself makes no sense. So it becomes reasonable.'

'Did life ever make sense to you, Waylander?'

'Yes. A long time ago before I learned about eagles.'

'I do not understand you.'

That pleases me,' said the warrior, pillowing his head on his saddle and closing his eyes.

'Please explain,' urged Dardalion. Waylander rolled to his back and opened his eyes, staring out beyond the stars.

'Once I loved life and the sun was a golden joy. But joy is sometimes short-lived, priest. And when it dies a man

will seek inside himself and ask: Why? Why is hate so much stronger than love? Why do the wicked reap such rich

rewards? Why does strength and speed count for more than morality and kindness? And then the man realises ... there

are no answers. None. And for the sake of his sanity the man must change perceptions. Once I was a lamb, playing in a

green field. Then the wolves came. Now I am an eagle and I fly in a different universe.'

'And now you kill the lambs,' whispered Dardalion.

Waylander chuckled and turned over.

'No, priest. No one pays for lambs.'

The mercenaries rode off, leaving the dead behind them. Seventeen bodies littered the roadside; eight men, four

women and five children. The men and the children had died swiftly. Of the five carts which the refugees had been

hauling, four were burning fiercely and the fifth smouldered quietly. As the killers crested the hills to the south a young

red-haired woman pushed herself clear of the screen of bushes by the road and led three children to the smouldering

cart.

'Put out the fire, Culas,' she told the oldest boy. He stood staring at the corpses, his wide blue eyes blank with shock

and terror. 'The fire, Culas. Help the others put out the fire.' But he saw the body of Sheera and groaned.

'Grandmother ...' muttered Culas, stepping forward on shaking legs. Then the young woman ran to him, taking him

in her arms and burying his head against her shoulder.

'She is dead and she can feel no pain. Come with me and put out the fire.' She led him to the cart and handed him a

blanket. The two younger children -twin girls of seven - stood hand in hand, their backs turned to the dead.

'Come now, children. Help your brother. And then we'll be going.'

'Where can we go, Danyal?' asked Krylla.

'North. The general Egel is in the north, they say, with a great army. We'll go there.'

'I don't like soldiers,' said Miriel.

'Help your brother. Quickly, now!'

Danyal turned away from them, shielding them from her tears. Vile, vile world! Three months back, when the war

had begun, word had reached the village that the Hounds of Chaos were marching on Drenan. The men had laughed at

the news, confident of speedy victory.

Not so the women, who instinctively knew that any army revelling in the title Hounds of Chaos would be bitter

foes. But how bitter few had realised. Subjugation Danyal could understand -what woman could not? But the Hounds

brought more than this; they brought wholesale death and terror, torture, mutilation and horror beyond belief.

Source priests were hunted down and slain, their order outlawed by the new masters. And yet the Source priests

offered no resistance to any government, preaching only peace, harmony and respect for authority. What threat did they

pose?

Farming communities were burnt out and destroyed. So who would gather the crops in the Fall?

Rape, pillage and murder without end. It was incomprehensibly savage and beyond Danyal's ability to understand.

Three times now she had been raped. Once by six soldiers - that they had not killed her was testimony to her skills as

an actress, for she had feigned enjoyment and on each occasion they had let her leave, bruised and humiliated but

always smiling. Some instinct had told her that today would be different and when the riders first appeared she had

gathered the children and fled to the bushes.

The riders were not seeking rape, only plunder and wanton destruction.

Twenty armed men who stopped to butcher a group of refugees.

'The fire is out, Danyal,' called the boy Culas. Danyal climbed into the cart, sorting out blankets and provisions left

by the raiders as being too humble for booty. With lengths of hide she tied three blankets into rucksacks for the

children, then gathered up leather canteens of water which she hung over her shoulder.

'We must go,' she said, and led the trio off towards the north.

They had not moved far when the sound of horses' hooves came drumming to their ears and Danyal panicked, for

they were on open ground. The two girls began to cry, but young Culas produced a long-bladed dagger from a sheath

hidden in his blanket roll.

'Give me that!' yelled Danyal, snatching the blade and hurling it far away from the road while Culas watched in

horror. 'It will avail us nothing. Listen to me. Whatever they do to me, you just sit quietly. You understand? Do not

shout or scream. You promise?'

Two riders rounded the bend in the road. The first was a dark-haired warrior of a type she was coming to know too

well; his face was hard, his eyes harder. The second was a surprise, for he was slender and ascetic, fine-boned and

seemingly gentle of countenance. Danyal tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and smoothed the folds of her

green tunic as they approached, forcing a smile of welcome to her lips.

'You were with the refugees?' asked the warrior.

'No. We just passed that way.'

The young one with the gentle face stepped carefully from the saddle, wincing as if in pain. He approached Danyal

and held out his hands.

'You need not lie to us, sister, we are not of that ilk. I am sorry for your pain.'

'You are a priest?'

'Yes.' He turned to the children. 'Come to me, come to Dardalion,' he said, kneeling and opening his arms.

Amazingly they responded, the little girls first. His slender arms touched all three. 'You are safe for a little while,' he

said. 'I bring you no more than that.'

'They killed grandmother,' said the boy.

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摘要：

WaylanderDavidA.GemmellThisbookisdedicatedwithlovetoDenisandAudreyBallard,myparents-in-law,forthefriendshipoftwodecades.AndtotheirdaughterValerie,whochangedmyworldonDecember221965.AcknowledgementsMythanksgotomyagentLeslieFlood,whosesupportcarriedmethroughtheleanyears;mylocaleditor,RossLempfiere,with...

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David Gemmell - Waylander

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