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

by David Gemmell

  Diagoras and the brothers were walking towards him, past the bodies of twelve Nadir warriors. There was blood flowing from a cut on Diagoras’s brow. Jared was wounded in the arm. Nian was untouched.

  Skilgannon ran back to where Druss was kneeling by the boy. The axeman’s face was grey, his eyes sunken. He looked in pain and his breathing was ragged. ‘Couldn’t… get… to them,’ he said. Skilgannon knelt by Garianne. She had a lump on her temple, but her pulse was strong. Rabalyn had been stabbed in the chest. Sheathing his sword Skilgannon pulled open the boy’s tunic. The wound was deep, and blood was bubbling from it. Diagoras came alongside.

  ‘Pierced his lung,’ he said. ‘Let’s get him out of the sun.’

  Jared and Diagoras lifted the boy, while Nian knelt down beside Garianne. Stroking her face the simpleton called her name. ‘Is she sleeping?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Carry her back into the cave. We’ll wake her then.’ But Nian saw his brother move away carrying Rabalyn. He cried out.

  ‘Wait for me, Jared!’ His voice was panicky. Dropping his sword he ran to Jared and took hold of the sash at his brother’s belt. Skilgannon looked at Druss, who was now sitting on the roadside.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Pain… in the chest. Like there’s a bull sitting on it. I’ll be all right. Just need to rest a while.’

  ‘Is there pain in your left arm?’

  ‘It’s been cramping lately. I’m feeling better already. Just give me a moment.’

  Skilgannon lifted Garianne and carried her back to the shallow cave, laying her down in the shade. Despite the blood still flowing from the cut to his head Diagoras was working on the wound to the boy’s chest. He and Jared had hauled Rabalyn into a sitting position. The lad was still unconscious, his face ashen grey. Jared was holding him upright.

  Skilgannon walked back into the sunlight, retrieving the Sword of Day from the chest of the dead Nadir. Several of the ponies were still standing on the roadside. Two of them carried saddlebags. Skilgannon walked to the ponies, speaking softly. They were still skittish. Searching the saddlebags he found that one contained an engraved silver flask.

  Uncorking it, he sniffed the contents. Then he sipped it. It was fiery and hot. A spirit of some kind. He walked back to where Druss still sat. ‘This might help,’ he said, offering the flask. Druss drank deeply.

  ‘Long time since I’ve tasted this,’ he said. ‘It’s called lyrrd.’ He drank again. ‘I couldn’t get to the boy in time,’ he said. ‘I saw him jump down to help Garianne. He killed the first Nadir. Caught him by surprise. The second stabbed him. I got there too late. Will he live?’

  ‘I don’t know. The wound is a bad one.’

  Druss winced and groaned. ‘Pain in the chest is getting worse.’

  ‘It is a heart seizure,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I have seen them before.’

  ‘I know what it is!’ snapped Druss. ‘It’s been coming on for weeks. I just didn’t want to accept it.’

  ‘Let me help you into the cave.’

  Druss shrugged off Skilgannon’s hand and pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘I’ll rest awhile,’ he said. He took two steps, then staggered. Skilgannon came alongside him. Reluctantly Druss accepted his help into the cave.

  Diagoras approached Skilgannon. ‘I have sealed the boy’s wound, but he’s still bleeding inside. I don’t have the skill to heal him.’

  ‘Let’s see to you,’ said Skilgannon. Together they moved out into the light. Blood had drenched Diagoras’s tunic on the right side, and was still flowing from the deep cut on his head.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ Diagoras told him. ‘A little blood goes a long way. Most shallow wounds look worse than they are.’

  Skilgannon smiled at him. Diagoras looked suddenly sheepish. ‘But then I suppose you already knew that, general.’ He opened his pouch and removed his crescent needle and a length of twine, handing them to Skilgannon. Then he sat down, allowing Skilgannon to examine the cut.

  ‘It extends into the hairline. That’s where most of the blood is coming from. I’ll need to shave the area around it.’

  Diagoras eased his hunting knife from its sheath. Skilgannon took it.

  First he sliced away the long dark hair, leaving a stubbled area three inches long and two inches wide. The skin had split here, and there was some swelling. Skilgannon worked on the wound, needing to draw the skin tightly into place. It was not easy.

  ‘Pull much harder and my ear will end up on top of my head,’

  complained Diagoras.

  Jared walked out to join them. ‘Garianne is awake,’ he said. ‘I think she is all right.’ Then he gathered up his brother’s sword and returned to the cave.

  ‘What’s wrong with Druss?’ asked Diagoras, as Skilgannon completed the last stitch.

  ‘A seizure. His heart all but gave out. He’s been suffering for some weeks, he said.’

  Diagoras rose to his feet and walked out among the dead. Skilgannon followed him. ‘With a sick heart he killed five Nadir. Damn, but he is a phenomenon.’

  ‘Six,’ corrected Skilgannon. ‘He made it back to kill the man who stabbed Rabalyn.’

  ‘That is one tough old man.’

  ‘He will be a dead old man if we do not find the temple. I have seen these seizures before. His heart is barely holding out. That massive body needs a healthy heart to feed it. In the condition he’s in he’ll have another attack before long. He won’t survive it.’

  ‘How far to this temple?’

  ‘Khalid Khan says two days. But that was a man travelling across rough country on foot. With a wagon? I don’t know. Three perhaps.’

  ‘The boy won’t last three days,’ said Diagoras.

  They heard the rumble of a wagon coming down the road. Skilgannon glanced up to see Khalid Khan driving it. Several of his men and two women were following behind. Skilgannon walked to meet him.

  ‘These women know wounds. Does the Silver Slayer live?’ said Khalid Khan.

  ‘He does.’

  ‘That is good to hear,’ said the old man. ‘I had a bad feeling when he sent me away. Is he sick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Khalid Khan nodded. ‘I will guide you to where I saw the temple. We must pray to the Source of All Things that it is there this time.’

  Elanin had long given up hope of rescue. Even if Uncle Druss did find this fortress in the middle of the wilds the men here were of appalling savagery, Nadir warriors in clothes of stinking goatskin, and hard-eyed soldiers who stared at her with cold indifference, their voices harsh, their eyes cruel. Uncle Druss would not be able to take her away from them. A man who could bend horseshoes would be no match for these terrible warriors.

  And then there was Ironmask.

  He had not struck her again, for she was careful around him. He had beaten Mother, though. He had blackened her eyes and split her lip. There were bruises on her body. And he yelled at her, calling her a ‘useless sow’

  and a ‘stupid whore’.

  Elanin sat in her room, high in the citadel. She had not seen Mother now for five days, nor been allowed out of the room. A cold-hearted Nadir woman brought her two meals a day, and took away the chamber pots, emptying them and replacing them. Elanin no longer dreamed of being free. In the last two weeks she had developed a trembling in her hands and arms, and would spend much of the time finding places in which to hide.

  There were cupboards, and spaces behind tall chests. Once she even found her way into a wine cellar, and hid behind the barrels. Each time they found her, and now she was locked into a small room at the top of the citadel. The room was not large enough for a good hiding place. But she discovered that if she crawled into the closet and pulled shut the door, the darkness was welcoming and gave her a sense of protection. She would cower in this small place for hours. Then she began to pretend that this was all a terrible dream, and that if she tried hard enough she would wake up in her sunny room in Purdol. And Father w
ould be sitting by the bed.

  The days drifted by, and her fantasies increased. She ate mechanically, then returned to her sanctuary.

  Today Ironmask had come to her room, wrenching open the closet door and dragging her out into the light. Twisting his hands in her now greasy blond hair he pulled back her head and stared into her face. ‘Not so proud now, are we?’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me you hate me?’

  Elanin began to tremble, her head twitching. Ironmask laughed at her.

  ‘I want my mother,’ she managed to say, tears spilling to her face.

  ‘Of course you do, little one,’ he said, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘That is only natural. And I am feeling generous today. So I have left a little gift by your bed. Something for you to play with. Something of your mother’s.’

  He left her then, pulling the door to behind him. She heard the bolt clang shut.

  Still trembling, Elanin went to her bedside. There was a pouch there.

  She lifted it, and opened the drawstrings, tipping the contents onto her bed. Then she screamed and fled back to the closet.

  On the bed, blood from her mother’s severed fingers began to seep through the dirty sheets.

  The forest was dark and gloomy, but up ahead Skilgannon could see an angled shaft of moonlight. Slowly he made his way towards it, heart beating fast, fear swelling. Movement from his left caused him to spin, and he caught a glimpse of white fur. His hands snaked for his swords, but he stopped. The yearning to grip the ivory blades was almost overpowering. He walked on.

  And there, illuminated by the shaft of moonlight, sat an enormous wolf, its fur glistening white as virgin snow. The beast stared at him. Its eyes were huge and gold. Then it rose and padded towards him. The fear roared back at him, swirling into panic. The swords were in his hands now, and he raised them. A savage exultation fired his blood. He screamed a war cry — and the swords swept down…

  A hand was pulling at his shoulder, and he surged upright, pushing Diagoras away. ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled.

  ‘Calm yourself, man. You were shouting in your sleep.’

  ‘I almost had it,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I could have ended it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Skilgannon blinked and rubbed his hand across his face. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was just a dream. I am sorry for disturbing you.’ He glanced around. Druss was still sleeping alongside the wounded Rabalyn. Garianne was awake, and staring at him, her face emotionless. On the far side of the camp the twins were sitting close together, and talking in low voices.

  Khalid Khan walked across to Skilgannon, handing him a cup of cool water.

  ‘Are they dreams or visions, warrior?’ he asked.

  ‘Just dreams,’ said Skilgannon. He drained the water and took a deep, calming breath. Then he rose and walked across the rocks to a flat area, where he began to stretch. Then, with Diagoras and Khalid Khan watching him, he eased his way through a series of slow movements, like a dance.

  He felt his lungs expand, and his body loosen.

  Khalid Khan returned to his blanket, but Diagoras walked over and sat close by. ‘What is it that you do?’ he asked.

  ‘It is an ancient discipline. It brings the body back into harmony.’

  Skilgannon continued for a while, but being observed prevented him from achieving complete oneness. Even so he was more relaxed as he joined Diagoras. ‘The boy is holding up well,’ he said.

  ‘I am more optimistic tonight,’ said Diagoras. ‘He is young, and it seems the bleeding is slowing down.’

  The day had been a long one. Diagoras had driven the wagon, while Druss sat in the back, talking to the stricken Rabalyn, encouraging him, and telling him stories. Skilgannon had ridden alongside for a while, listening to the old warrior talking. His stories were not about warfare, but about different lands and cultures. He spoke of his wife, Rowena, and her talent for healing. She could lay her hands on the sick, and within days they would be up and working in the fields. Skilgannon looked at the axeman, noting the grey face and the dark, sunken eyes, and wished his wife could be here now. Soon after that Druss lay down and slept, as the wagon slowly trundled on, ever deeper into the mountains.

  According to Khalid Khan they had one more day of travel. They would arrive at the temple site around dusk tomorrow.

  Skilgannon walked away from the campsite, climbing a ramp of rocks and staring back over the rocky trails they had covered that day. ‘You think we will be followed?’ asked Diagoras, coming up beside him.

  Skilgannon glanced round.

  ‘I do not know. There were fewer Nadir in the attack than I expected.’

  ‘It is a shame about the boy, but your plan worked well.’

  ‘Yes. Though it shouldn’t have,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Any plan that depends on the stupidity of the enemy is flawed. They could have attacked us in two groups. They could have dismounted, and moved in on foot. They could have sent a scout ahead. Even better, they could have held back until we were forced to leave the mountain road and enter open country.’

  Diagoras shrugged. ‘But they did none of these things, and we survived.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘What were you trying to catch in your dream? You said you almost had it.’

  ‘A wolf. It is not important.’

  Diagoras reached up to the shaved part of his skull, gingerly touching his fingers to the ragged stitches. ‘Damn thing itches,’ he said. ‘I hope the hair grows back. I knew a warrior once who had a long scar on his skull.

  Hair turned white around it. Damn, but he was ugly.’

  ‘The scar made him ugly?’

  ‘Not entirely. He was mildly unattractive before. The scar tipped him into downright ugliness.’ Diagoras laughed. ‘He was a most unfortunate fellow. Always complaining about how fate hated him. He could cite a litany of bad luck that had dogged him since childhood. One night, when he was severely depressed, I got him to walk with me. I explained how important it was to have a positive outlook on life. Rather than dwell all the time on the bad things, a man should look at the blessings. For example, we were returning from fighting the Sathuli. Now they are a fighting race. We’d lost twenty men. However, as I pointed out, he was not among them. He had survived. And that was lucky. I tell you I worked hard during that walk, and by the time we got back to the camp he was much cheered. He thanked me profusely, and said that from that moment on he would look at life differently.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No. We got back to our tent to sleep and he was bitten by a snake that had crawled into his blankets while we were walking.’

  ‘A poisonous snake?’

  ‘No. I think he wished it was. It bit him in the balls. He was in agony for weeks.’

  ‘Some men are just unlucky,’ said Skilgannon.

  ‘True,’ agreed Diagoras. They sat in silence for a while. Then Diagoras spoke again. ‘How did you earn the enmity of the Witch Queen?’

  ‘I ceased to serve her. It is that simple, Diagoras. I walked away. Men don’t walk away from Jianna. Everything but that. They flock around her, vying to catch her eye. If she smiles at them it is as if they have imbibed some narcotic.’

  ‘She casts spells on them?’

  Skilgannon laughed. ‘Of course. The greatest spell of all. She is beautiful, Diagoras. I do not mean pretty, or attractive, or sensual. She is stunning. I mean that in the fullest sense. A man who gazes upon that beauty has his senses stunned. He cannot drink it all in. When I first knew her she was being hunted. She disguised herself as a whore, dyed her hair yellow and streaked it with crimson. She wore a cheap dress, and no paint upon her face. Even then she would turn heads.’ He took a long breath.

  ‘She turned mine. I have never been the same since. When you are with her you have eyes for nothing else. When you are away from her you can think of little else. In my years as a priest I thought of her almost hourly. I tried in my mind to dissect her attraction. Was it the eyes, or the mouth?


  Was it the beauty of her breasts, or the curve of her hips? Was it her legs, so long and luscious? In the end I realized it was something far more simple. You cannot have her. No man can. Oh, you can sleep with her. You can touch and kiss those breasts. You can hold her close, skin on skin. But you cannot possess her. She is the unattainable.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ said Diagoras.

  ‘You knew a woman like that?’

  ‘No. It was a horse. I went to an auction in Drenan, to buy a stallion.

  There were some wonderful beasts there. I was hard pressed to choose one to bid for. I had almost eighty raq to spend, and that would have bought just about any horse in Drenan. Then they led out a Ventrian pure bred. It was magnificent. The crowd went silent. It was a grey, with an arching neck, and powerful shoulders. It was perfect in every line. Flawless. The bidding started at fifty raq, but it was like a joke. Within minutes it had reached two hundred raq, and was still climbing. I kept bidding, even though I could never raise the money. I managed to pull out at three hundred raq. It went for four hundred and thirty. I’ve never forgotten that stallion. Never will. The moment I saw it I knew I could never own it.’

  Skilgannon looked at the Drenai officer. ‘You Drenai are an interesting people. I talk of a fabulous woman, and you speak of a horse. Now I know why all your fables and stories are about wars, and not about great love.’

  ‘We are a more pragmatic race,’ agreed Diagoras. ‘But then no stallion ever sent assassins to kill someone who walked away from it. No stallion ever metamorphosed from an angelic lover to a harridan. And with a good horse you get a fine ride every time you mount. The horse won’t tell you it has a headache, or is angry with you because you were late home.’

  Skilgannon laughed. ‘You have no soul, Drenai.’

  ‘Having been raised largely in a whorehouse I am not easily captivated by mere beauty. Though I will admit I find Garianne more than a little becoming, and I have been known to feel the tiniest pang of jealousy when she seeks you out.’

  ‘It is hardly a compliment when a woman needs to be drunk to seek your attention,’ observed Skilgannon, rising from the rock. Diagoras joined him as they walked back to the campsite. Everyone was asleep now.