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

by David Gemmell

Carefully he skirted the beast. ‘Would it not be better to wait until full nightfall?’ he asked Skilgannon. ‘At least some of them will be sleeping then.’

  ‘Dusk will be better,’ said Druss.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Less traditional,’ said the axeman.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Skilgannon stepped in. ‘Night attacks are standard. They know we are coming. Because we are so few they will expect either that we stay close to the Citadel and ambush them, or that we attack at night and seek to surprise them. Therefore night is when they will be ready for us.’

  ‘I don’t wish to sound critical at this late juncture,’ said Diagoras, ‘but how many of us do you expect to survive this plan?’

  ‘I would be amazed if any of us did,’ said Skilgannon.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I intend to survive,’ said Druss. ‘That little girl needs to be taken home.

  I think it a good plan.’

  ‘If we are still discussing its merits tomorrow I will agree with you,’ said Diagoras.

  ‘Cheer up, laddie. Nobody lives for ever.’

  ‘Oh, I expect you will, Druss, old horse. It’s the mortals around you who always seem to kiss the granite.’

  ‘Once Boranius is dead his men will be less likely to want to go on fighting,’ said Druss. ‘Simple fact of life among mercenaries. No-one to pay them, then they don’t fight. We just need to get to him fast. Anyhow, there won’t be seventy men inside. They’ve got men in the hills scouting for us. I’d say there were around forty inside. Maybe less.’

  ‘I am hugely comforted,’ muttered Diagoras sarcastically.

  Druss grinned at him. ‘You can always wait here, laddie.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me!’ He glanced at the setting sun. Just under an hour to wait. Diagoras guessed the time would race by.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IPPELIUS WAS NINETEEN YEARS OF AGE. HIS FATHER HAD BEEN

  A CAPTAIN in the King’s army, killed in the last battle, when Bokram fell.

  The months following the Witch Queen’s victory had been harsh for the families whose men had served the King. Ippelius’s mother had been driven from the family home, her goods and wealth seized by the crown. A crowd had gathered outside, hurling dirt and dung at the family as they were marched away. Ippelius had been thirteen years old, and hugely frightened. Many of the widows had left the capital, seeking sanctuary with relatives in outlying towns and villages. Others had journeyed to Naashanite communities in other lands. His mother had gone to Mellicane.

  Ippelius had finished his education there. It was a fine city, and the horrors of the past, though powerful in his nightmares, seemed insubstantial in the city sunlight. When Ironmask had come to power he promised a chance for revenge. One day the outcasts would return to Naashan. The Witch Queen would be overthrown. It seemed to Ippelius a golden opportunity to avenge his father’s death, and his mother’s shame.

  Now, as he sat in the miserable tavern, with some twenty or so soldiers, he realized the dream was dead. As dead as poor Codis on the walls. He had been stunned when Morcha stabbed his friend.

  The action was sudden and murderous. Codis had been dead before he knew it.

  Ippelius sipped his ale. It was sour and he did not like the taste. Yet all men drank it, and Ippelius did not wish to seem less than the men around him. Also if he forced himself to drink enough of it his fears did, at least, lessen. Codis had been like a brother to the young soldier, helping him in the early days, when he made a fool of himself during training. Ippelius was constantly tripping over his sword, and falling flat on his face. His horsemanship was not of the highest quality, and he would bounce around in the saddle like a sack of vegetables. Through it all Codis had offered advice and support. As had Morcha, who had always appeared to be good-natured and understanding. Ippelius felt his stomach churn. Codis had liked Morcha and respected him. How terrible it must have been to be killed by a man you liked.

  Then there was Boranius. How impressed Ippelius had been when first he had been introduced to the general. A man of power and courage, who radiated purpose. When this man said they would overthrow the Witch Queen it sounded a certainty.

  Ippelius shuddered. A little while ago he and Codis had been ordered to remove a body from the Citadel. It was wrapped in canvas, which had been hastily stitched. Blood was seeping through the cloth. Halfway down the stairs the canvas had split. What fell from it was the hideously mutilated body of a woman. Ippelius had vomited at the sight. He was no help to Codis, who forced the remains back into the canvas.

  Later, after they had buried her, Ippelius had sunk to the ground in tears. ‘How could any man do that to a woman?’ he asked Codis.

  ‘Boranius is not any man.’

  ‘That is no answer.’

  ‘Gods, man, what do you expect me to say? I have no answers. He always was a torturer. Best to put it from your mind.’

  Ippelius had gazed down on the grave. ‘There’s not even a marker,’ he said. ‘I thought they were lovers.’

  ‘They were lovers. Then he killed her. End of story. Now get a grip on your emotions, lad. We are not going to talk about this to anyone. You understand that? Boranius tortures men too. I don’t want to have my fingers cut off or my eyes put out.’

  ‘You think he killed the little girl too?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Neither should you. We are going to bide our time and then get out of here.’

  ‘Why can’t we leave now?’

  ‘What, with patrols everywhere looking for Druss? How far would we get? No. When Druss is dead, and things calm down. Then we’ll slip away east. Head for the coastal cities.’

  Ippelius drank more of his ale. The bitterness of the taste was passing now. He looked around him at the other soldiers. There was little laughter in the tavern this evening. The murder of Codis had affected them, as had the news that Skilgannon was coming. Some of them had fought against the man in the past. They all had stories to tell.

  A burly soldier named Rankar came into the tavern. He strolled through the dining area and came to where Ippelius sat. Easing himself down he waved his hand at the barman, calling out for a jug of ale.

  ‘How goes it?’ he asked Ippelius.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Fine. Barracks is empty. They’ve moved a lot of the men into the Citadel. I’m heading there after I’ve eaten.’

  Ippelius looked at the man. His heavy face was pockmarked and a jagged white scar cut down from his brow to his cheekbone. His left eyelid drooped over a bright green eye. Ippelius found himself staring at the scar.

  ‘You were really lucky,’ he said.

  Rankar rubbed at the drooping lid. ‘Didn’t feel lucky at the time. But I guess you are right. You eaten?’

  ‘No. I am not hungry.’

  Rankar nodded. ‘Codis was a good man. We fought our way across Naashan together — and then fought our way out. They don’t come better.’

  ‘I can’t believe that Morcha killed him.’

  ‘Me neither. Goes to show you can’t trust anyone.’

  At that moment the door at the far end of the tavern opened, and a powerful figure entered. Ippelius stared at him. He was wearing a round, silver-ringed helm, decorated with silver axes flanking a skull. His once black beard was heavily speckled with silver.

  Upon his enormous torso he wore a black jerkin, the shoulders reinforced by silver steel. And in his right hand he carried a shining, double-bladed axe. The man walked into the middle of the room and paused by a table at which sat four soldiers. Spinning the axe he thudded it into the table top. ‘Let’s have a little quiet, lads!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll not take much of your time.’

  Silence fell, as the twenty or so men stared at the newcomer. ‘I am Druss,’ he said, laying his gauntleted hand on the black hilt of the axe, ‘…

  and this is Death.’ His gaze swept the room. Ippelius shuddered as the winter grey eyes fastened on his own
. ‘Now I have come here to kill Boranius. I shall be doing that presently. I don’t much care if I have to kill every man in this room first. But I have always had a soft spot for soldiers.

  Good men, in the main. So I’m giving you an opportunity to live a while longer. I suggest you finish your meals, then gather whatever wealth there is in this fleapit of a fortress, and ride away. Any questions?’

  The silence continued, as men stared at one another.

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to your food,’ said the man, wrenching the axe clear.

  As he turned to leave two soldiers drew knives from their belts and leapt at him. The silver axe clove through the chest of the first, and a left hook thundered into the face of the second. He flew across a table, hit the floor and did not move.

  ‘Anyone else?’ said the axeman. No-one stirred, though Ippelius could see a number of the men surreptitiously reaching for their weapons.

  The axeman moved towards the door. At that moment it burst open and a creature from Hell loomed in the doorway. It was an arena beast, one of the largest Ippelius had ever seen. Its jaws opened and it gave out a long, bloodcurdling howl. Soldiers leapt from their seats, scattering tables as they drew back from the abomination in the doorway.

  The axeman walked up to it, and patted it on the shoulder. The beast dropped to all fours and stared malevolently at the soldiers. Then Druss left the tavern, the creature following.

  Ippelius sat very still. Rankar swore softly.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Ippelius.

  ‘You heard the man. Finish our food and then leave.’

  Diagoras and the twins passed through the gate. The Drenai officer glanced up at the body of the dead sentry on the parapet steps. Garianne was kneeling over him, tugging at the black bolt in his chest. Swiftly Diagoras crossed the open ground to where Skilgannon was waiting at the Citadel entrance. Druss came loping towards them, the Joining alongside.

  ‘Now it begins,’ said Skilgannon.

  Suddenly the Joining gave out a howl. Running past Druss it leapt through the wide doors of the Citadel entrance and on up the first flight of stairs. Druss called out to it, but the beast was gone.

  ‘It has scented the child,’ said Skilgannon.

  Hefting his axe Druss ran through the doorway. Skilgannon swung to Diagoras. ‘Hold the doors for as long as you can.’

  ‘Rely on it,’ said the Drenai, drawing his sabre, and a razor-edged hunting knife. Then Skilgannon followed Druss into the building. There were two sets of stairs. Druss was climbing those on the right. Skilgannon took the left.

  Diagoras moved back into the doorway, scanning the buildings and alleyways that led out past the warehouses towards the tavern. Jared and Nian stepped alongside him, longswords in their hands. Garianne remained on the rampart steps, some thirty feet away, her double crossbow in her hands. The howling of the Joining came from above, followed by screams.

  No soldiers had emerged from the tavern. This astonished Diagoras.

  When Druss had said he was going in to talk to them he had been incredulous. ‘Are you mad? They’ll come down on you like rabid wolves.’

  ‘Probably not,’ was all Druss had said.

  Diagoras had waited with Skilgannon. ‘You agree with this insanity?’ he asked the Naashanite.

  ‘It has a good chance of working. Picture it yourself. You are having a meal and in walks the enemy. He has absolutely no fear of you. We expect fear from our enemies in certain situations. Where he is outnumbered, for example. Or trapped. By contrast there are places where our own fear is much less. Like inside our own fortress. Now, you have a single warrior, striding in, hugely outnumbered and yet fearless. It will give them pause for thought. Bear in mind also that their morale is low.’

  ‘So, you think he will just tell them to leave and they’ll do it?’ asked Diagoras.

  Skilgannon thought about the question. ‘I’d say he might have to kill a few. The rest will not interfere.’

  Diagoras shook his head. ‘You are a different breed, you two,’ he said.

  Now, as he stood in the shadows of the entrance, he began to feel more relaxed. Druss and Skilgannon were inside the Citadel, and his own role seemed far less perilous. No soldiers were attacking him. No flashing blades, no piercing of his flesh. Jared obviously had the same thought. He grinned at Diagoras. ‘So far, so good,’ he said.

  Diagoras was about to reply when Garianne suddenly waved at them, and pointed out beyond the gates.

  That was when Diagoras heard the pounding of hooves. The first of the twenty riders galloped through the gates. He pitched from his saddle, a crossbow bolt through his neck. His horse reared. A second bolt thudded into a man’s chest. Then Garianne was running along the ramparts above them.

  A group of riders saw Diagoras and the twins, and spurred their mounts forward. The Drenai officer swore, and hefted his sabre.

  Other Naashanites jumped down from their mounts and ran up the rampart steps towards Garianne, who was reloading her crossbow.

  Diagoras backed up the steps to the Citadel doors. A horseman galloped at him. Diagoras ducked under the mount’s neck, plunging his sabre into the rider’s unprotected left side. The man fell back. The horse reared, dumping him from the saddle.

  Jared and Nian charged into the milling horsemen.

  On the ramparts Garianne shot the first man running at her, then turned and sprinted towards the roof of the gate. Several of the riders at the rear of the group lifted bows from their saddles. An arrow slashed past Diagoras. Other riders had dismounted and were running towards the Citadel. Diagoras leapt to meet them. Garianne scrambled up to the gate roof, then turned and shot a man through the head. Two others were climbing towards her. Running forward she kicked the first in the head, hurling him back to the ramparts. The second lashed out with his sword.

  The blade twisted in the man’s hand, the flat of the steel thudding against Garianne’s ankle. She fell heavily. The man grabbed at her. Savagely she struck him in the face with her bow. Losing his grip he slipped back to the ramparts.

  Diagoras had three men attacking him, and was backing away, parrying furiously. Nian raced to his aid, his longsword cleaving through the back of a Naashanite’s neck. Seeing his chance to attack Diagoras leapt in. His sabre glanced from a breastplate, but his hunting knife plunged home between collarbone and neck. A sword slashed across his shoulder. With a grunt of pain Diagoras let go of the hunting knife and spun to meet this fresh attack. Blocking a second wild cut he twisted his wrist, sending his own blade in a deadly riposte that opened his attacker’s throat.

  Horses were screaming and rearing, and the cries of wounded men filled the air. Diagoras was under attack again. A blade tore into his side.

  Diagoras stumbled. Before the death blow could be struck the Naashanite grunted and staggered back, twisting as he fell. Diagoras saw a crossbow bolt in his back.

  Now the Naashanite archers turned on Garianne. Shafts struck the rampart wall close to where she was crouched. Rising she coolly shot a rider from the saddle then ran along the wall.

  Diagoras forced himself to his feet. He felt light-headed. He saw Jared go down, a lance through his back. Then Nian hacked the lancer from his saddle and, dropping his sword, ran to his brother. Diagoras charged across towards them, slashing his sword across the face of one man, and plunging the blade through the chest of another. Nian hauled Jared to his feet. Tick up your sword!’ he heard Jared yell. Nian ran back towards the weapon. A black arrow materialized in his back. He stumbled and fell. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword and he half rose. Another arrow slammed into him. With a roar of pain Nian gained his feet. Turning he ran at the archer on the horse. The man tried to loose another shaft, but his mount reared. Then Nian was upon him. The longsword clove through the man’s side. As he fell from the saddle Nian brought the sword down on his skull. Jared was facing two men. He no longer had the strength to hold them back. One ran in. Jared weakly lashed his blade at the man. The
blow was blocked. The second dived in, plunging a long dagger into Jared’s belly. Nian, seeing his brother’s plight, screamed at the top of his voice.

  He charged the men, who fell back. Instead of chasing them Nian dropped his sword once more, and knelt beside his fallen brother. He kept shouting his name, over and over.

  Diagoras could see Jared was dead. The two men Nian had attacked rushed in. One stabbed Nian in the neck, the other slashed his sword down onto Nian’s skull. Diagoras charged them. One tried to defend himself, and died with Diagoras’s sabre through his neck. The other backed away, and was joined by four others. They advanced on Diagoras.

  ‘Come on then!’ yelled the Drenai. ‘Which of you whoresons wants to die first?’

  They stood for a moment, swords ready. Then, as one, they backed away a few steps, before turning and running back towards the tavern. Diagoras blinked sweat from his eyes, trying to make sense of their flight.

  Then he heard sounds behind him. Slowly he turned.

  A large group of heavily armoured horsemen were sitting their mounts.

  Their armour was black, their helms full-faced, with high horsehair plumes. Each man carried a lance, and a sword, and a small round shield, bearing the sign of the Spotted Snake.

  The line of horsemen parted and a woman rode in. Diagoras found his pain forgotten as he gazed on her. Her hair was raven dark, and held back in a single braid, through which silver wire had been entwined. She wore a white, flowing cloak, and silver chain mail. Her legs were bare above knee-length riding boots of black leather, embossed with silver. Lightly she leapt to the ground and approached Diagoras.

  Stupidly he tried to bow, but his legs gave way. Stepping in, she caught him.

  ‘If this is a dream,’ he said, ‘I never want to wake.’

  ‘Where is Skilgannon?’ she asked.

  Skilgannon stepped across the bodies of the two soldiers and moved forward warily. There were a number of doors on the landing, all of them open. Coming to the first room he stood outside, listening. Hearing nothing he took a deep breath and stepped quickly through the doorway.