White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend dt-10

by David Gemmell

  Sperian and his wife, Molaire, had served Decado for five years then.

  Molaire was a large, middle-aged woman, with sparkling eyes and deep auburn hair, touched now with silver. Constantly good-natured she would, at times like this, chatter on about the flowers and the brightly coloured birds that nested in the surrounding trees. Sperian, who maintained the gardens, would sit quietly staring out over the blooms and the pathways, making judgements about which areas to prune, and where to plant his new seedlings. Skilgannon enjoyed these evenings of quiet companionship.

  On this night Sperian commented on the medal Skilgannon wore. ‘Was it a good race?’ he asked.

  ‘Boranius had an injured foot. He would have beaten me otherwise.’

  ‘It is a lovely ribbon,’ said Molaire. ‘A very pretty blue.’

  ‘I fear he does not care about the colour of the ribbon, my dear,’ said Greavas. ‘His mind is on the victory, and the defeat of his opponents. His name will now be inscribed on a shield hung in the school halls. Olek Skilgannon, Victor.’

  Skilgannon had blushed furiously. ‘No harm in a little pride,’ said Sperian softly. ‘As long as you don’t get carried away by it.’

  ‘I won a prize once,’ said Greavas. ‘Ten years ago. I was playing the maiden, Abturenia, in The Leopard and the Harp. A wonderful piece.

  Comic writing at its very best.’

  ‘We saw that,’ said Molaire. ‘Last year in Perapolis. Very amusing. I don’t remember who played Abturenia, though.’

  ‘Castenpol played it,’ said Greavas. ‘He wasn’t bad. The delivery was a little halting. I would have been better.’

  Sperian chuckled. ‘Abturenia is supposed to be fourteen years old.’

  ‘And?’ snapped Greavas.

  ‘You’re forty — at the least.’

  ‘Cruel man! I am thirty-one.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ replied Sperian, with a grin.

  ‘Did you ever see me perform?’ Greavas asked, switching his attention to Molaire.

  ‘Oh, yes. It was the second time we stepped out, wasn’t it, Sperian? We went to see a play at the Taminus. Something about a kidnapped princess and the errant king’s son who rescues her.’

  ‘ The Golden Helm,’ said Greavas. ‘Difficult part to play. All that screaming and wailing. I remember it. I had a beautiful wig made just for me. We played forty successive nights to full houses. The old King himself complimented me. He said I was the best female lead he had ever seen.’

  ‘No mean feat for a two-year-old,’ said Sperian, with a wink at Skilgannon. ‘That being twenty-nine years ago this spring.’

  ‘Leave the poor man alone,’ said Molaire. ‘He doesn’t need your teasing.’

  Sperian glanced at Greavas. ‘I tease him because I like him, Mo,’ he said, and the moment passed. Greavas smiled and fetched his lyre.

  Skilgannon often remembered that evening. The night was warm, the air scented with jasmine. He had the victor’s medal round his neck, and he was with people who loved him. A new year was about to begin, and the future seemed bright and full of hope. His father’s successes against the forces of Matapesh and Panthia had brought peace to the heartlands of Naashan, and all was well with the world.

  Looking back now, with the jaded eyes of manhood, he shivered.

  Where joy exists despair will always beckon.

  Skilgannon was moving through a dark forest. His legs felt heavy and weary. Danger was close. He could sense it. He paused. He heard the stealthy sound of something moving through the undergrowth. He knew then it was the White Wolf.

  Fear surged through him, and his heart fluttered in panic. The trees were silent now. Not a breath of wind stirred in the forest. He wanted to draw his swords. He could almost feel them calling to him. Clenching his fists he tried to quell the terror. ‘I will meet you without swords!’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself!’

  In that moment he felt its hot breath upon his back. With a cry he spun round. For a moment only he caught sight of white fur. Then it was gone — and he realized the Swords of Night and Day were once more in his hands. He could not recall drawing them. A voice came to him then -

  as if from a great distance. He recognized it as the boy, Rabalyn.

  Skilgannon opened his eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Rabalyn.

  Skilgannon sat up and took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Was it a nightmare?’

  ‘Of a kind.’ The sky was pale with the pre-dawn, and Skilgannon shivered. Dew had seeped through his clothes. He rose and stretched.

  ‘I had good dreams,’ said Rabalyn brightly. ‘I dreamed I was riding a golden horse through the clouds.’

  Skilgannon moved across the open ground to where Braygan was preparing a fire. ‘Best move that beneath a tree,’ said the warrior. ‘The branches will disperse the smoke. Make sure the wood is dry.’

  ‘There is very little food left,’ said Braygan. ‘Perhaps we should seek a village today.’ The little priest looked tired and drawn, and his blue robes were now filthy. The beginnings of a beard were showing on his chin, though his cheeks were still soft and clear.

  ‘I doubt we will find anyone living in a village so close to the war.

  Tighten your belt, Braygan.’

  Skilgannon took up his harness and carried it out to where the horses were hobbled. Wiping down the back of his steeldust gelding, he bridled and saddled it. As he mounted the horse gave several cursory bucks and leaps, jarring Skilgannon’s bones. Rabalyn laughed.

  ‘They won’t all do that, will they?’ asked Braygan nervously.

  ‘Do not eat too much,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I’ll scout ahead and be back within the hour.’

  Heeling the gelding forward he rode away from the pair. In truth he was relieved to be alone, and looked forward to the time he could part company for good. A mile from the camp he dismounted just beneath the crest of a tall hill. Leaving the gelding with trailing reins he crept forward to the top and scanned the countryside below. There was a wooded valley, but he could see a ribbon of road, with many refugees upon it. Some were pulling carts, but most were walking, bearing what little they could carry in sacks or packs. There were few men, the majority being women with children. They were still days from Mellicane.

  The sky darkened. Skilgannon looked up. Heavy black clouds were looming over the mountains. Lightning forked across the sky. A rumble of thunder followed almost instantly. His gelding snorted and half reared.

  Skilgannon patted its sleek neck, then stepped up into the saddle. ‘Steady now,’ he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. The rain began, light at first. Skilgannon unstrapped his hooded cloak from the back of the saddle and settled it into place, careful to stop the cloth billowing and spooking the horse. Then he swung back towards the south.

  Within minutes he had to pick out a different trail. The rain was slashing down now, drenching the ground, and making the simple slopes he had ridden treacherous and slippery. It took more than an hour to reach the campsite. He found Braygan and Rabalyn huddling against the cliff face, beneath a jutting overhang of rock. There was nothing to be done now but wait out the storm. Skilgannon could not risk two inexperienced riders tackling the hill slopes with thunder booming and lightning blazing. He dismounted and tethered the gelding, then pulled his hood over his head and squatted down with the others. Conversation was impossible and Skilgannon leaned against the rock face and closed his eyes. He slept for a while. Within the hour the storm passed, drifting towards the east. The sun broke through the clouds, bright and glorious.

  Skilgannon rose and glanced down at Braygan. The little priest looked utterly miserable.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘I am wet through, and now I have to mount that fearsome beast.’

  Skilgannon felt a flicker of irritation, but he quelled it. ‘We should reach the outskirts of Mellicane within two days,’ he said. ‘Then you can put your time as a rider behind you.’

  This though
t seemed to cheer Braygan and he pushed himself to his feet. Rabalyn was already hefting his saddle towards his horse.

  Two hours later they were riding along a ridge within half a mile of deep woods which masked the trail through the mountains. Below, a straggling line of refugees were trudging slowly on.

  Skilgannon was about to heel his horse down the slope when he saw a group of cavalrymen coming from the east. ‘Are they our soldiers?’ asked Braygan.

  The warrior did not answer. The advancing riders spurred their mounts. There were five of them, three with lances and two carrying sabres. The refugees saw them and began to run. One elderly woman stumbled. As she struggled to rise a lance clove between her shoulder blades. ‘Oh, sweet Heaven!’ cried Braygan. ‘How can they do this?’

  The refugees were fleeing in terror now, streaming towards the woods.

  A few small children, their parents panicked and gone, stood where they had been left.

  Skilgannon reached for his swords.

  As he did so a black-garbed figure emerged from the trees below. He was powerfully built, wearing a sable leather jerkin, with shining silver steel upon the shoulders. On his head was a black helm, also decorated with silver. In his hands was a glittering double-bladed axe. He ran onto the open ground. The horsemen saw him and wheeled to charge. The first of the lancers bore down on the warrior. He did not run away. Instead he ran directly at the galloping horse. Throwing up his hands he shouted at the top of his voice. Unnerved, the horse swerved. The warrior moved in, and the great axe smashed into the chest of the rider, hurling him from the saddle. A second horseman rode in. The axeman leapt to the rider’s left, away from the deadly lance. Then the axe hammered into the neck of the horse. Instinctively it reared — then fell. The rider tried to scramble free of the saddle, but the blood-smeared axe clove into his temple, shattering both helm and skull.

  ‘By Heaven, now that is a fighting man,’ said Skilgannon.

  Heeling his horse forward, he rode down the slope. Two more of the riders had closed in on the axeman. Both carried sabres. The remaining lancer held back, waiting for his moment. That moment would never arrive. Hearing the thundering hooves of Skilgannon’s gelding he swung his mount. The lance came up. Skilgannon rode past on the rider’s left, the golden Sword of Day slicing through his throat. Even as his victim fell from the saddle Skilgannon was bearing down on the riders circling the axeman. His aid was not needed.

  The axeman charged in. One horse went down. Hurdling the rolling beast the warrior suddenly hurled his axe at the second rider, the upper points of the twin blades piercing his chest and shattering his breastbone.

  The rider of the fallen horse lay on the ground, his leg pinned beneath the saddle.

  Ignoring him, the axeman dragged his weapon clear of the corpse and stared up at Skilgannon. The warrior was not young, his black beard heavily streaked with silver. His eyes were the colour of a winter sky, grey and cold. The warrior glanced back to the lancer Skilgannon had killed, but said nothing.

  Behind him the last rider had freed himself, and was now on his feet, a sword in his hand.

  ‘You have one enemy left,’ said Skilgannon. The axeman turned. The swordsman blanched and took a backward step.

  ‘Run away, laddie,’ said the axeman, his voice deep and cold. ‘And remember me the next time you think of killing women and children.’

  The soldier blinked in disbelief, but the axeman had already turned away. He glanced back towards the east, then swung towards where the four children still stood, horrified and un-moving. The warrior, his axe resting on his shoulders, strolled over to them.

  ‘Time to be moving on,’ he told them, his voice suddenly gentle.

  Scooping up a small girl he sat her on his hip and walked off towards the dense woods. The three other children waited for a moment. ‘Come on,’ he called.

  And they followed him.

  Skilgannon sat his horse watching the man. The remaining rider sheathed his blade and walked to a riderless horse. Stepping up into the saddle he cantered away.

  Braygan and Rabalyn came down the slope. ‘That was incredible,’ said Rabalyn. ‘Four of them. He killed four of them.’

  A group of women came running from the trees, knives in their hands.

  ‘They are attacking us!’ screamed Braygan. The sudden noise startled his horse and it reared. Braygan clung to the saddle pommel. Skilgannon helped him steady the mount.

  ‘They are starving, you idiot!’ Skilgannon told him. ‘They’re coming for meat.’

  ‘Meat?’

  ‘The dead horses. Now let’s get into the woods. The enemy could return at any time.’

  They camped a half-mile inside the woods. All around them refugees began to prepare fires. The women looked gaunt and hungry, the children listless and silent. Skilgannon found a spot a little away from the nearest refugees. Braygan slumped to the ground and began to ferret inside the food sack, drawing out some salt biscuits.

  ‘Put them back and give me the sack,’ said Skilgannon.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said the priest.

  ‘Hungrier than them?’ asked Skilgannon, gesturing towards where several women were sitting with their children.

  ‘We don’t have much left.’

  Skilgannon looked at him, then sighed. ‘We are only days from the church, little man. Have you lost your faith so swiftly? Give me the sack.’

  Braygan looked crestfallen. ‘I am sorry, Brother Lantern,’ he said. ‘You are right. A little hardship has made me forget who I am. I will take the food to them. And gladly.’ Braygan pushed himself to his feet, dropped the salt biscuits back into the sack, and walked across to the nearest refugees.

  ‘Shall I unsaddle the horses?’ asked Rabalyn.

  ‘Yes. Then give them a rub down. After that resaddle them. We may need to leave here swiftly.’

  ‘Braygan is a good man,’ said the youth.

  ‘I know. I am not angry at him, Rabalyn.’

  ‘Then why are you angry?’

  ‘That is a good question.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘I failed in the one career I desired, and was too successful in the one I hated. A woman who loved me with all her heart is dead. A woman I love with all my heart wants me dead. I own two palaces, and lands you could not ride across in a week. Yet I am hungry and weary and soon to sleep on a wet forest floor. Why am I angry?’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘The answer eludes me, Rabalyn.’

  The light was beginning to fade. Skilgannon patted the youth on the shoulder and started to walk away. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Rabalyn.

  ‘Look after the horses. I’m going to scout a while.’

  He wandered away through the trees, heading back the way they had come. After a while he left the refugees behind, though if he glanced back he could still see the twinkling light of their campfires.

  The crescent moon was bright in a cloudless sky as he climbed the last hill before the valley. In the bright moonlight he could see the stripped carcasses of the dead horses. There was no sign of any pursuit. He sat down at the edge of the trees and stared out towards the east.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll come tonight, laddie,’ said a deep voice.

  ‘You move silently for a big man,’ said Skilgannon, as the axeman emerged from the shadows of the trees.

  The man chuckled. ‘Used to make my wife jump. She swore I always crept up on her.’ He sat down beside Skilgannon, laying his great double-bladed axe on the ground. Removing his helm he ran his fingers through his thick black and silver hair. Skilgannon glanced down at the helm. It had seen much use. The folded iron sections showed many dents and scratches, and the silver motifs, two skulls alongside a silver axe blade, were worn down. A small edge of one of the silver skulls had been hacked away.

  ‘If the enemy had come did you plan to take them all on by yourself?’

  asked Skilgannon.

  ‘No, laddie. I guessed you’d be along.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little old to be tackling cav
alrymen?’

  The axeman glanced at Skilgannon and grinned. But he did not reply, and they sat for a while in companionable silence. ‘Your accent is not Tantrian,’ said Skilgannon at last.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you a mercenary?’

  ‘I have been. Not now. You?’

  ‘Just a traveller. How long do you plan to wait?’

  The axeman thought about the question. ‘Another hour or two.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t think they’d come.’

  ‘I’ve been wrong before.’

  ‘They’ll either send no-one, or a minimum of thirty men.’

  ‘Why thirty?’ asked the axeman.

  ‘The survivor is unlikely to admit his party was defeated by one old man with a big axe. No offence intended.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘He’ll say there were a group of soldiers.’

  ‘If that is true why would they choose to send no-one — which was the first of your predictions?’

  ‘They are driving refugees towards Mellicane. That is their main purpose. To swell the numbers in the city, and create food shortages. They don’t need to hunt down enemy soldiers here.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ admitted the axeman. ‘You sound like an officer. I see you have a Naashanite tattoo. I’ll bet there’s a panther or some such on your chest.’

  Skilgannon smiled. ‘You know our customs well.’

  ‘We old folk are an observant bunch.’

  The young warrior laughed aloud. ‘I think you lied when you said no offence was taken.’

  ‘I never lie, laddie. Not even in jest. I am old. Damn little point in getting upset when someone mentions it. I turn fifty in a couple of months. Now I get aches in the knees and aches in the back. Sleeping on hard ground leaves me stiff.’

  ‘Then what are you doing sitting here waiting for thirty cavalrymen?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ countered the axeman.

  ‘Maybe I came to find you.’

  ‘Maybe so. I think, though, that you came because you don’t like seeing women and children hunted by cowards on horses. I think you came here to show them the error of their ways.’