Hero in the Shadows: A Waylander the Slayer Novel Read online

  Praise for David Gemmell

  and Hero in the Shadows

  “On the surface, David Gemmell’s Hero in the Shadows has everything a fan of heroic fantasy could desire: dramatic heroes, an exotic sorceress, deep evil, mood-drenched settings, an array of likeable characters, and a well-designed plot. But the book also has something more, a quality which raises Gemmell’s achievement to a much higher level: an empathetic and convincing grasp on the complexities and conflicts of real human beings. As a result, Hero in the Shadows has true power and poignancy.”

  —STEPHEN R. DONALDSON

  Author of

  The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever

  “I am truly amazed at David Gemmell’s ability to focus his writer’s eye. His images are crisp and complete, a history lesson woven within the detailed tapestry of the highest adventure. Gemmell’s characters are no less complete, real men and women with qualities good and bad, placed in trying times and rising to heroism or falling victim to their own weaknesses.”

  —R. A. SALVATORE

  Author of Mortalis

  “Gemmell is very talented; his characters are vivid and very convincingly realistic.”

  —CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF

  Author of the Wizard in Rhyme novels

  “Gemmell’s great reading; the action never lets up; he’s several rungs above the good—right into the fabulous!”

  —ANNE MCCAFFREY

  By David Gemmell

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  LION OF MACEDON

  DARK PRINCE

  ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG

  KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN

  MORNINGSTAR

  DARK MOON

  IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER

  THE HAWK ETERNAL

  THE DRENAI SAGA

  LEGEND

  THE KING BEYOND THE GATE

  QUEST FOR LOST HEROES

  WAYLANDER

  IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF

  THE FIRST CHRONICLES

  OF DRUSS THE LEGEND

  THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER

  HERO IN THE SHADOWS

  WHITE WOLF

  THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY

  THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE

  GHOST KING

  LAST SWORD OF POWER

  WOLF IN SHADOW

  THE LAST GUARDIAN

  BLOODSTONE

  THE RIGANTE

  SWORD IN THE STORM

  MIDNIGHT FALCON

  RAVENHEART

  STORMRIDER

  TROY

  LORD OF THE SILVER BOW

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2000 by David A. Gemmell

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79757-5

  v3.1

  Hero in the Shadows is dedicated with much love

  to Broo Doherty, with thanks for the years of support,

  encouragement, and flawless good humor. Be happy, Broo!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to my test readers, Jan Dunlop, Tony Evans, Alan Fisher, Stella Graham, and Steve Hutt, whose observations and advice were invaluable, and to my editors, Ursula Mackenzie, Liza Reeves, and Steve Saffel. I am also more than grateful to Tim Walker and the crew at Active Computers, Bexhill, who stepped in when my computer turned rogue and died during the final run up to deadline. Their swift assistance—and the loan of a new computer—insured that Waylander’s last adventure made it to the publishers on time.

  Special thanks to Dale Rippke and to Eric Harris who have made planning the next Drenai novel an even greater pleasure.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  THE MERCENARY CAPTAIN Camran Osir reined in his mount at the crest of the hill and swung in the saddle to stare back down the forest trail. The twelve men under his command rode from the trees in single file and paused while he scanned the horizon. Removing his iron helm, Camran ran his fingers through his long blond hair, momentarily enjoying the warm breeze evaporating the sweat on his scalp. He glanced at the captive girl on the horse beside him. Her hands were tied, her dark eyes defiant. He smiled at her and saw her blanch. She knew that he was going to kill her and that her passing would be painful. He felt the warmth of blood pulsing in his loins. Then the feeling passed. His blue eyes narrowed as he gazed over the valley, seeking sign of pursuit.

  Satisfied that no one was following, Camran tried to relax. He was still angry, of course, but calmed himself with the thought that his riders were ill-educated brutes with little understanding of civilized behavior.

  The raid had gone well. There had been only five men in the little farming settlement, and they had been killed quickly, with no wounds or losses among his own men. Some of the women and children had managed to escape into the woods, but three young women had been taken—enough, at least, to satisfy the carnal urges of his riders. Camran himself had captured the fourth, the dark-haired girl on the swaybacked horse beside him. She had tried to run, but he had ridden her down, leaping from his horse and bearing her to the ground. She had fought silently, without panic, but one blow to the chin had rendered her unconscious, and then he had thrown her over his saddle. There was blood now on her pale cheek, and a purple bruise was showing on the side of her neck. Her faded yellow dress was torn at the shoulder and had flapped down, almost exposing her breast. Camran jerked his thoughts from her soft skin, turning his mind to more urgent concerns.

  Yes, the raid had gone well until that idiot Polian had incited the others to set fire to the old farmhouse. Wanton destruction of property was anathema to a man of breeding such as Camran. It was criminally wasteful. Peasants could always be replaced, but good buildings should be treated with respect. And the farmhouse had been a good building, soundly constructed by a man who cared about quality work. Camran had been furious not only with them but with himself. Instead of merely killing the captured women, he had allowed his needs to override his common sense. He had taken his time, enjoying the screams of the first and luxuriating in the desperate pleading of the second and the subsequent cries of agony of the third. With each of them dead, he had turned his attentions to the dark-haired girl. She had not pleaded or made a sound after returning to consciousness to find her hands and ankles bound. She was to be the richest harvest; her cries, when they came, would be the purest and sweetest.

  The smoke had billowed over him just as he was unwrapping his ivory-handled skinning knives. Swinging around, he saw the fires. Leaving the bound girl where she lay, he ran back to the scene. Polian was grinning as Camran came alongside him. He was still grinning as he died, Camran’s dagger plunging between his ribs, skewering his heart.

  That sudden a
ct of savagery cowed the men. “Did I not tell you?” he thundered. “Never property! Not unless directly ordered. Now, gather supplies and let’s be gone.”

  Camran had returned to the young woman. He thought of killing her, but there would be no pleasure in it now, no slow, pounding joy as he watched the light of life fade from her eyes. Gazing down at the six small skinning knives in their silk-lined canvas pouch, he felt the dead weight of disappointment dragging at him. Carefully he rolled the pouch, tying it with black ribbon. Then he hauled the girl to her feet, cut the ropes around her ankles, and lifted her to the dead Polian’s mount. Still she said nothing.

  As Camran rode away, he gazed back at the burning building, and a deep sense of shame touched him. The farmhouse had not been built speedily but with great patience, the timbers lovingly fashioned, the joints fitting to perfection. Even the window frames had been carved and embellished. Destroying such a place was an act of sacrilege. His father would have been ashamed of him.

  Camran’s sergeant, the hulking Okrian, rode alongside him. “Wasn’t in time to stop them, sir,” he said.

  Camran saw the fear in the man’s eyes. “It is what happens when one is forced to deal with scum,” he said. “Let’s hope there are better men available when we reach Qumtar. We’ll earn little commission from Panagyn with only eleven men.”

  “We’ll get more, sir. Qumtar is crawling with fighters seeking employment with one or another of the houses.”

  “ ‘Crawling’ is probably an apt description. Not like the old days, is it?”

  “Nothing ever is,” said Okrian, and the two men rode in silence, each lost in thoughts of the past. Camran remembered the invasion of Drenai lands eighteen years earlier, when he had been a junior officer in the army of Vagria, serving under Kaem. It had been, Kaem had promised, the dawn of a new empire. And for a time it was true. They crushed all the armies sent against them, forcing the greatest of the Drenai generals, Egel, into the vastness of Skultik Forest and besieging the last fortress, Dros Purdol. But that had been the high point of the campaign. Under the command of the giant Karnak, Purdol had held, and Egel had broken from Skultik, descending on the Vagrian army like a storm. Kaem had been slain by the assassin, Waylander, and within two years Drenai forces had invaded Vagria. And it did not end there. Arrest warrants were issued against many of the best Vagrian officers, charging them with crimes against the populace. It was laughable. What crime was there in killing your enemies, whether they were soldiers or farmers? But many officers were taken and hanged.

  Camran had escaped north into the lands of the Gothir, but even there agents of the Drenai had continued to hunt him. So he had drifted east, across the sea into Ventria and beyond, serving in numerous armies and mercenary bands.

  At thirty-seven he was now in charge of recruitment for House Bakard, one of the four ruling houses of Kydor. There was no outright war for them to fight. Not yet. But each of the houses was gathering soldiers, and there were many skirmishes in the wild lands.

  News from home rarely reached Kydor, but Camran had been delighted to hear of the death of Karnak some years previously. Assassinated as he led a parade. Wonderful! Killed, apparently, by a woman wielding the bow of the legendary Waylander.

  Jerking his mind once more to the present, Camran gazed back at his recruits. They were still frightened now and anxious to please, hoping that when they made camp, Camran would let them have the girl. He would soon dash those hopes. His plan was to use her, skin her, and leave the men to bury the body. He glanced once more at her and smiled. She looked at him coolly and said nothing.

  Just before dusk Camran swung from the trail and selected a campsite. As the men unsaddled their mounts, he took the girl deeper into the forest. She offered no resistance as he pushed her to the ground, and she did not cry out as he took her. As he was reaching his climax, he opened his eyes and found her staring at his face, expressionless. That not only removed any pleasure from the rape, it also ruined his erection. Anger roared through him. Drawing his knife, he laid the edge on her throat.

  “The Gray Man will kill you,” she said slowly, no trace of fear in her voice. The words carried certainty, and he paused.

  “The Gray Man? Some demon of the night, perhaps? A protector of peasants?”

  “He is coming,” she said.

  He felt the prickle of fear on the nape hairs of his neck. “I suppose he is a giant or some such.”

  She did not reply. A movement came from the bushes to his left. Camran surged to his feet, heart pounding, but it was Okrian.

  “The men were wondering if you’d finished with her,” said the sergeant, his small eyes focusing on the peasant girl.

  “No, I have not,” said Camran. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  The sergeant shrugged and walked back to the campfire.

  “One more day of life,” Camran told the girl. “Are you going to thank me?”

  “I am going to watch you die,” she said.

  Camran smiled, then punched her in the face, hurling her back to the ground. “Stupid peasant,” he said.

  But her words kept coming back to him, and the following morning’s ride found him constantly scanning the back trail. His neck was beginning to ache. Camran was about to heel his horse forward when he took one last look back. For a heartbeat only he saw a shadow moving into the trees half a mile down the trail. He blinked. Was it a horseman or merely a wandering deer? He could not be sure. Camran swore softly, then summoned two of his riders. “Go back down the trail. There may be a man following. If there is, kill him.”

  The men swung their mounts and rode away. Camran glanced at the girl. She was smiling.

  “What’s happening, sir?” asked Okrian, nudging his horse alongside Camran’s mount.

  “Thought I saw a rider. Let’s move on.”

  They rode through the afternoon, stopping for an hour to walk the horses, then made camp in a sheltered hollow close to a stream. There was no sign of the two men Camran had sent out. He summoned Okrian to him. The big mercenary eased himself down alongside his captain, and Camran told him about the girl’s warning.

  “Gray Man?” he said. “Never heard of him. But then, I don’t know this area of Kydor well. If he is following, the boys will get him. Tough lads.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “Probably dawdling somewhere. Or, if they caught him, they’re probably having a little fun with him. Perrin is said to be somewhat of an artist when it comes to the blood eagle. The men say he can open a man’s ribs, pin the guts back with twigs, and still leave the poor bastard alive for hours. Now, what about the girl, sir? The men could use a little diversion.”

  “Aye, take her,” said Camran.

  Okrian hauled her up by the hair and dragged her back to the campfire. A cheer went up from the nine men gathered there. Okrian hurled her toward them. The first man rose and grabbed her as she half fell. “Let’s see a little flesh,” he shouted, tearing at her dress.

  Suddenly the girl spun on her heel, slamming her elbow into the man’s face, crushing his nose. Blood spurted over his mustache and beard, and he staggered back. The sergeant came up behind the girl, curling his arms around her and dragging her back into a tight embrace. Her head snapped back into his face, striking him on the cheekbone. He grabbed her hair and savagely twisted her head.

  The first man drew a dagger and advanced toward her. “You puking bitch,” he snarled. “I’m going to cut you bad. Not enough so we can’t enjoy you, you little whore, but enough to make you scream like a gutted pig.”

  The girl, unable to move, stared with undisguised malevolence at the knifeman. She did not beg or cry out.

  Suddenly there was a crunching thud. The knifeman stopped, his expression bemused. Slowly he reached up with his left hand. As he did so, he fell to his knees. His questing finger touched the black-feathered bolt jutting from the base of his skull. He tried to speak, but no words flowed. Then he pitched to his face.

  For a few heartbeats
no one moved. The sergeant hurled the girl to the ground and drew his sword. Another man, closer to the trees, grunted in shock and pain as a bolt speared his chest. He fell back, tried to rise, then gave out a gurgling scream as he died.

  Camran, sword in hand, ran back to the fire, then charged into the undergrowth, his men fanning out around him.

  All was silent, and there was no sign of an enemy.

  “Make for open ground!” shouted Camran. The men ran back to their horses, saddling them swiftly. Camran grabbed the girl, forcing her to mount, then clambered up behind her and rode from the hollow.

  Clouds drifted across the moon as the men raced through the forest. In the darkness they were forced to slow their flight. Camran saw a break in the trees and angled his mount toward it, emerging on a hillside. Okrian came close behind. As the other men broke clear, Camran counted them. Including himself and his sergeant, eight men were now clear of the trees. Flicking his gaze around the milling group, he counted again. The killer had taken another victim during the flight.

  Okrian removed his black leather helm and rubbed his hand across his balding pate. “Shem’s balls,” he said, “we’ve lost five men and we’ve seen no one!”

  Camran glanced around. They were in a circle of clear ground, but to progress in any direction, they would have to reenter the forest. “We’ll wait for the dawn,” he said, dismounting. Dragging the girl from the saddle, he swung her around. “Who is this Gray Man?” he asked.

  She did not reply, and he slapped her hard. “Talk to me, you bitch,” he hissed, “or I’ll cut open your belly and strangle you with your entrails!”

  “He owns all the valley,” she said. “My brother and the other men you killed farmed for him.”

  “Describe him.”

  “He is tall. His hair is long, mostly gray.”

  “An old man?”