'Then let's say that the Source chooses the right company.'
The old man rubbed his ruined sockets and leaned back.
'You have no chance,' he admitted.
"That's what I thought.'
'But that is no reason to refuse.'
'You are asking me to ride a thousand miles through hostile lands swarming with savages. You tell me that the Brotherhood are also seeking the Armour? Do they know it is in Nadir lands?'
'They know.'
'So they will be hunting me also?'
"They are alfeady hunting you.'
'Agreed. But they don't know where I'm going. If I set off on this quest of yours, they'll soon find out.'
'True.'
'So ... there will be Nadir warriors, warrior wizards and Vagrian troops. And if I get through those I have to scale the Sacred Giant, the holiest place on the Steppes, and risk myself in the bowels of a dark mountain. Then I merely have to ride out again, burdened down with half a ton of armour.'
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'Eighty pounds.'
'Whatever!'
'There are also the werebeasts who live in the caves of Raboas. They don't like fire.'
'That's comforting,' said Waylander.
'So will you go?'
'I am beginning to understand your comments concerning foolishness,' said the warrior. 'But yes, I will go.'
'Why?' asked Orien.
'Does there have to be a reason?'
'No. But I am curious.'
'Then let us say it's in memory of a dog that should not have died.'
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Dardalion closed his eyes. Danyal was asleep beside the sisters and the young priest released his spirit to the Void. The moon was an eldritch lantern and silver light bathed the vast Sentran Plain, while the forest of Skultik spread like a stain from the Delnoch mountains.
Dardalion hovered below the clouds, his mind free of doubts and cares. Normally when he soared he found himself clothed in shimmering robes of pale blue. But now he was naked and, try as he might, no robes appeared. He didn't care. In the blink of an astral eye he was garbed in silver armour, a white cloak flowing from his shoulders. By his side hung two silver swords and as he drew them exhilaration flooded him. Far to the west, the camp-fires of a Vagrian army blazed like fallen stars. Dardalion sheathed his swords and flew towards them. More than ten thousand men were camped in the foothills of the Skoda mountains. Eight hundred tents lined the area in ranks of four and a wooden corral had been hastily erected for two thousand horses. Cattle grazed on the mountainside and a sheep-pen had been built beside a fast-moving stream.
Dardalion moved south over rivers and plains, hills and forests. A second Vagrian force was camped outside Drenan - no fewer than thirty thousand men and twenty thousand horses. The city gates
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of oak and bronze had been sundered, and no citizens could be seen within its walls. To the east of the city a vast trench had been carved from the earth and Dardalion swooped towards it - then veered away, repulsed. The trench was filled with bodies. Two hundred yards in length and six yards wide, the enormous grave housed more than a thousand corpses. Not one wore the armour of a soldier. Steeling himself, Dardalion returned to the trench.
It was over ten feet deep.
Returning to the night sky, the priest headed east where a Vagrian army was waiting on the borders of Lentria. The Lentrian force, only two thousand strong, was camped within a mile, waiting grimly for the invasion. North travelled Dardalion, following the line of the sea until he reached the eastern valleys and finally the sea citadel of Purdol. By torchlight the battle for Purdol was still being waged. The Drenai fleet was sunk in the harbour mouth and the Vagrian army camped in the area of the docks. The fortress of Purdol, manned by six thousand Drenai warriors, was holding back a Vagrian force of more than forty thousand led by Kaem, the Prince of War.
Here, for the first time, the Vagrians were facing a setback.
With no siege engines they could not storm the thirty-foot walls, and were relying on ladders and ropes. They were dying in their hundreds.
Dardalion soared to the west until he reached Skultik, the forest of dark legend. It was immense, thousands of square miles of trees, clearings, hills and valleys. Three towns - one verging on city status - had been built within the forest: Tonis, Preafa and Skarta. To the last of these flew Dardalion.
Here Egel was camped with four thousand Legion
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warriors. As Dardalion neared the clearing he felt the presence of another mind and his swords flashed into his hand. Before him hovered a slender man in the blue robes of the Source priest.
'Do not pass me,' said the man quietly.
'If you say not, brother,' answered Dardalion.
'Who are you that calls me brother?'
'I am a priest, even as you.'
'A priest of what?'
'Of the Source.'
'A priest with swords? I think not. If you must slay me, do so.'
'I am not here to slay you. I am as I claim.'
'Then you were a priest?'
'I am a priest?'
'I sense death upon you. You have klled.'
'Yes. An evil man.'
'Who are you to judge?'
'I did not judge him - his own deeds did that for him. Why are you here?'
'We are watching.'
'We?'
'My brothers and I. We tell the Lord Egel when the enemy is approaching.'
'How many brothers are here?'
'Almost two hundred. There were three hundred and seven of us at the start. One hundred and twelve have joined the Source.'
'Murdered?'
'Yes,' said the man sadly. 'Murdered. The Dark Brotherhood destroyed them. We try to be careful as we soar, for they are swift and merciless.'
'One tried to kill me,' said Dardalion, 'and I learned to fight.'
'Each man choses his own path.'
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'You do not approve?'
'It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I do not judge you. How can I?'
'You thought I was of the Brotherhood?'
'Yes. For you carry a sword.'
'And yet you stood before me. You have great courage.'
'It is no hardship for me to be sent to join my God.'
'What is your name?'
'Clophas. And you?'
'Dardalion.'
'May the Source bless you, Dardalion. But I think you should leave now. As the moon reaches its height, the Brotherhood take to the sky.'
'Then I shall wait with you.'
'I do not desire your company.'
'You have no choice.'
'So be it.'
They waited in silence as the moon climbed higher. Clophas refused to speak and Dardalion took to studying the forest below. Egel had camped his army outside the southern wall of Skarta and the priest could see scouts patrolling the edge of the trees. It would be no easy task for the Vagrians to conquer the Earl of the North, for few were the sites for pitched battles within Skultik. On the other hand were they to attack the towns Egel would be left with an army intact, but no one to defend. Egel himself was faced with similar problems. Staying where he was guaranteed short term safety, but could not win him the war. Leaving Skultik was suicidal for he had not the resources to conquer one Vagrian army. To stay was to lose, to leave was to die.
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And while the problems mounted the lands of the Drenai were becoming the charnel house of the continent.
Dardalion found the thought depressing in the extreme, and was about to return to his body when he heard the soul scream from Clophas.
He glanced round to see that the priest had gone and five black-armoured warriors floated below him, dark swords in their hands.
Furious, Dardalion drew his swords and attacked. The five warriors did not see him until he was upon them, and two vanished into oblivion as his silver blades pierced their astral bodies. Then as the rem
aining three rushed him, he parried a thrust with his left-hand blade and blocked a sweeping cut with his right. His fury gave him lightning speed and his eyes blazed as he fought. Twisting his right wrist, he slid his sword under one warrior's guard, the blade piercing the man's throat. The warrior vanished. The last two pulled back from the fight and sped west, but Dardalion flew after them, catching the first just above the Skoda mountain range and killing him with a savage cut. The sole survivor returned to the sanctuary of his body with but a second to spare . . .
His eyes jerked open and he screamed. Soldiers ran to his tent and he lurched to his feet. Sprawled on the ground beside him lay his four companions, rigid in death.
'What in Hell's name is happening here?' demanded an officer, pushing men aside as he entered the tent. He gazed down at the corpses, then up at the survivor.
'The priests have learned to fight,' muttered the warrior, his breath coming in short gasps and his heart pounding.
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'You are telling me that these men were killed by Source priests? It is inconceivable.'
'One priest,' said the man.
The officer waved the soldiers away and they were glad to depart. Hardened as they were to death and destruction, the Vagrian troops wanted no part of the Dark Brotherhood.
The officer sat down on a canvas-backed chair. 'You look as if you have seen a ghost, Pulis, my friend.'
'No jests, please,' said Pulis. 'The man almost killed me.'
'Well, you've killed enough of his friends these past months.'
'That is true. But nevertheless it is unsettling.'
'I know. What is the world coming to when Source priests stoop to defending themselves?'
The warrior glared at the young officer, but said nothing.
Pulis was no coward - he had proved that a score of times - but the silver priest had frightened him. Like most warriors of the Brotherhood he was not a true mystic, relying on the power of the Leaf to free him from his body. But even so, with his powers enhanced, he had experienced visions . . . flashes . . . of a premonitory nature. It had been so with the priest.
Pulis had felt a terrible danger emanating from the silver warrior - not just personal danger, but a timeless threat which would attack his cause from now until the end of time. Yet it was so nebulous, more an emotional reaction than a vision. Although he had seen something . . . what was it? He searched his memory.
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That was it! A runic number hanging in the sky bathed in flames.
A number. Meaning what? Days? Months? Centuries?
'Thirty,' he said aloud.
'What?' replied the officer. The Thirty?'
A cold chill hit Pulis, like a demon crossing his grave.
Dawn found Waylander alone as he opened his eyes and yawned. Strange, he thought, for he could not remember falling asleep. But he did remember his promise to Orien and he shook his head, puzzled. He glanced round, but the old man had gone.
He rubbed his chin, scratching at the skin below his beard.
The Armour of Orien.
Such a grand nonsense.
'This quest will kill you,' he whispered.
Taking a knife from his belt he honed it for several minutes, then shaved with care. His skin was raw under the blade, but the morning breeze felt good on his face.
Dardalion emerged from the hollow and sat beside him. Waylander nodded, but did not speak. The priest looked tired, his eyes set deep in his face; he was thinner now, thought Waylander and subtly changed.
'The old man is dead,' said Dardalion. 'You should have spoken to him.'
'I did,' said Waylander.
'No, I mean really speak. Those few words at the fire were nothing. Do you know who he was?'
'Orien,' said Waylander. The look of surprise on Dardalion's face was comical.
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'You recognised him?'
'No. He came to me last night.'
'He had great power,' said Dardalion softly. 'For he died without leaving the fire. He told us many tales of his life, then he lay back and slept. I was beside him and he died in his sleep.'
'You were mistaken,' said Waylander.
'I think not. What did you speak about?'
'He asked me to fetch something for him. I said that I would.'
'What was it?'
'No business of yours, priest.'
'It is too late to turn me away, warrior. When you saved my life, you opened your soul to me. When your blood was in my throat, I knew your lifee and every instant of your being flooded me. I look in a mirror now and I see you.'
'You are looking in the wrong mirrors.'
'Tell me of Dakeyras,' said Dardalion.
'Dakeyras is dead,' snapped Waylander. 'But you have made your point, Dardalion. I saved your life. Twice! You owe me the right to my solitude.'
To allow you to return to the man you were? I do not think so. Look at yourself. Half your life has been wasted. You suffered great tragedy - and it broke you. You wanted to die, but instead you killed only part of yourself. Poor Dakeyras, lost for two decades while Waylander strode the world, slaying for gold he would never spend. All those souls sent to the Void. And for what? To lessen a pain you could not touch.'
'How dare you preach to me!' said Waylander. 'You talk of mirrors? Tell me what you have become since killing two men.'
'Six men. And there will be more,' said Dardalion.
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'Yes, that is why I understand you. I may be wrong in all that I do, but I will stand before my God and I will say that I did what I felt was; right - that I defended the weak against the evil strong. You taught me that. Not Waylander the man who kills for money, but Dakeyras, the man who saved the priest.'
'I do not want to talk any more,' said Waylander, staring away.
'Did Orien know that you killed his son?'
The assassin swung back. 'Yes, he knew. It was my foulest deed. But I will pay for it, priest. Orien saw to that. You know, I used to think that hatred was the most powerful force on earth. And yet last night I learned something bitter. He forgave me ... and that is worse than hot irons on my flesh. You understand?'
'I think I do.'
'So now I will die for him, and that will settle my debts.'
'Your death will settle nothing. What did he ask you to do?'
'To fetch his Armour.'
'From Raboas, the Sacred Giant.'
'He told you?'
'Yes. He also told me that a man named Kaem would be hunting the same treasure.'
'Kaem hunts me. But he would be wise not to find me.'
Kaem's dreams were troubled. The Vagrian general had commandeered a fine house overlooking the Purdol harbour, and guards patrolled the gardens, while his two most trusted soldiers stood outside his
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I
door. The window was barred and the heat within the small room oppressive.
He came awake with a jerk and sat up scrabbling for his sword, the door opened and Dalnor ran inside, blade in hand.
'What is it, my lord?'
'It is nothing. A dream. Did I call out?'
'Yes, my lord. Shall I stay with you?'
'No.' Kaem took a linen towel from the chair beside the bed and wiped the sweat from his face and head. 'Damn you, Waylander,' he whispered.
'My lord?'
'Nothing. Leave me.' Kaem swung his legs from the bed and walked to the window. He was a thin man and totally hairless, his wrinkled skin giving him the appearance of a beached turtle robbed of his shell. Many thought him a comical figure on first sight, but most came to see him as he was: the finest strategist of the age, the man dubbed the Prince of War. His soldiers respected him, though not with the adoration reserved for some other and more charismatic generals. But that suited him, for he was uncomfortable with emotions and found such displays among the men childlike and foolish. What he wanted was obedience from his officers and courage from his men. He expected both. He demanded both.
Now h
is own courage was being tested. Waylander had killed his son and he had sworn to see him dead. But Waylander was a skilled hunter, and Kaem felt sure that one dark night he would once more wake to feel a knife at his throat.