4

Waylander woke first and made his way from the cave. Stripping off his shirt and leggings, he stepped into the icy steam and lay flat on his back, allowing the water to flow over him. The stream was mere inches deep, running over rounded rocks, but the force of the flow was strong and he felt himself gently sliding down the sloping stream-bed. Rolling over, he splashed his face and beard and stood up before clambering from the water, where he sat on the grass waiting for the dawn breezes to dry his skin.

'You look like a three-day-dead fish,' said Danyal.

'And you're beginning to smell like one,' he responded, grinning. 'Go on, wash yourself!'

For a moment she looked at him closely, then she shrugged and removed the green woollen tunic dress. Waylander leaned back and watched her. Her waist was slim, her hips smooth, her skin …

He turned away to watch a red squirrel leaping in the branches nearby, then stood and stretched. Near the stream was a thick screen of bushes, and within it a small clump of lemon balm. Pulling free a handful of the shield-shaped leaves, he carried them back to where Danyal sat.

'Here, crush these in your hand and wipe them on your skin.'.

'Thank you,' she said, reaching up.

Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Waylander found his clothes and dressed. He wished he still had a spare shirt, but the priest wore it and he was uncomfortably aware of the dust in his own.

Once dressed, Waylander returned to the cave and looped his chain-mail shoulder-guard in place over his black leather jerkin. Taking his boots, he removed the two spare knives and sharpened them with his whetstone before replacing them carefully in the sheaths stitched inside each boot.

Dardalion watched him, noting the care with which he handled his weapons.

'Could you spare me a knife?' he asked.

'Of course. Heavy or light?'

'Heavy.'

Waylander picked up his belt and pulled clear a dark sheath complete with ebony-handled blade. 'This should suffice. The blade is keen enough to shave with and double-edged.'

Dardalion threaded his narrow belt through the sheath and settled it in place against his right hip.

'Are you left-handed?' asked Waylander.

'No.'

'Then angle it on your left hip. That way, when you pull it clear the blade will face your enemy.'

'Thank you.'

Waylander buckled his own belt in place, then rubbed his chin. 'You worry me, priest,' he said.

'Why?'

'Yesterday you would have walked around a crawling bug. Now you are ready to kill a man. Was your faith so weak?'

'My faith remains, Waylander. But now I see things a little more clearly. You gave me that with your blood.'

'I wonder. Was it a gift – or a theft? I feel I have robbed you of something precious.'

'If you have, then be assured I do not miss it.'

'Time will tell, priest.'

'Call me Dardalion. You know that is my name.'

'Is "priest" no longer good enough for you?'

'Not at all. Would you prefer it if I called you "assassin"?'

'Call me what you like. Nothing you say will affect the way I perceive myself.'

'Have I offended you?' asked Dardalion.

'No.'

'You have not asked me about my duel with the enemy.'

'No, I have not.'

'Is it because you do not care?'

'No, Dardalion. I don't know why, but I do care. My reasons are far more simple. I deal in death, my friend – death which is final. You are here, therefore you killed him and he is no longer of interest to me. It disturbs me that you cut away his arms and legs, but I shall get over that, as I shall get over you once you are safely with Egel.'

'I had hoped we could be friends.'

'I have no friends. I wish for none.'

'Was it always so?'

'Always is a long time. I had friends before I became Waylander. But that was another universe, priest.'

'Tell me.'

'I see no reason why I should,' replied Waylander. 'Wake the children. We have a long day before us.'

Waylander strolled from the cave to where he had picketed the horses, then saddled them and rode his own gelding to the spot where he had hung the deer.

Taking a canvas bag, he cut several strips from the carcass and packed them away for the evening meal. Then he pulled the remains from the tree to lie on the grass for the wolves.

'Did you have friends, little doe?' he asked, staring at the blank grey eyes.

He turned his horse towards the cave, remembered the days of camaraderie at Dros Purdol. As a young officer he had excelled, though why he had no idea; he had always disliked authority, but had relished the discipline.

He and Gellan had been closer than brothers, always together whether on patrol or whoring. Gellan had been a witty companion and only in the Silver Sword tourney had they ever found themselves as opponents. Gellan always won, but then the man was inhumanly swift. They had parted when Waylander met Tanya – a merchant's daughter from Medrax Ford, a small town to the south of Skein Pass. Waylander was in love before he knew it and had resigned his commission for life on the farm.

Gellan had been heartbroken. 'Still,' he had said on that last day, 'I expect I won't be long following you. Army life will be dreadfully dull!'

Waylander wondered if Gellan had done so. Was he a farmer somewhere? Or a merchant? Or was he dead in one of the many lost battles fought by the Drenai?

If the latter, Waylander guessed that a neat pile of corpses would surround his body, for his blade moved faster than a serpent's tongue.

'I should have stayed, Gellan,' he said. 'I really should.'

Gellan was hot and tired, sweat sliding down the back of his neck under the chain-mail shoulder-guard and causing his spine to itch unbearably. He removed his black helm and ran his fingers through his hair. There was no breeze and he cursed softly.

Forty miles from Skultik and the relative security of Egel's camp – and the horses were tired, the men weary and dispirited. Gellan raised his right arm with fist clenched, giving the signal to 'Walk Horses'. Behind him the fifty riders dismounted; there was no conversation.

Sarvaj rode his mount alongside Gellan and the two men dismounted together. Gellan hooked his helm over the pommel of his saddle and pulled a linen cloth from his belt. Wiping the sweat from his face, he turned to Sarvaj.

'I don't think we'll find a village standing,' he said. Sarvaj nodded but did not reply. He had served under Gellan for half a year, and knew by now when the officer's comments were rhetorical.

They walked side by side for half an hour, then Gellan signalled for a rest stop and the men sat down beside their horses.

'Morale is low,' said Gellan and Sarvaj nodded. Gellan undipped his red cloak, laying it over his saddle. Pushing his hands into the small of his back he stretched and groaned. Like most tall men, he found long hours in the saddle irksome and was plagued by continual backache.

'I stayed too long, Sarjav. I should have quit last year. Forty-one is too old for a Legion officer.'

'Dun Esterik is fifty-one,' Sarvaj commented.

Gellan grinned. 'If I had quit, you would have taken over.'

'And what a fine time to do so, with the army crushed and the Legion skulking in the woods. No thank you!'

They had stopped in a small grove of elm and Gellan wandered off to sit alone. Sarvaj watched him go and then removed his helm; his dark brown hair was thinning badly and his scalp shone with sweat. Self-consciously he swept his hair back over the bald patches and replaced the helm. Fifteen years younger than Gellan, yet here he was looking like an old man. Then he grinned at his vanity and pulled the helm clear.

He was a stocky man – ungainly when not in the saddle – and one of the few career soldiers left in the Legion following the savage reductions of the previous autumn, when King Niallad had ordered a new militia programme. Ten thousand soldiers had been dismissed and only Gellan's determination had saved Sarvaj.