White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Map

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by David Gemmell

  Copyright

  White Wolf is dedicated with love to Linda, Karl, Kate, Jade, and Andrew, for the joy of the barbecue, and the gift of family.

  And also to two men I have never met, Ken and Malcolm, the Gemmell brothers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Steve Saffel, whose advice inspired the creation of Skilgannon the Damned, to Selina Walker, my editor at Transworld, and to my test readers Jan Dunlop, Tony Evans, and Stella Graham.

  Grateful thanks also to author Alan Fisher, for sharing his knowledge of the craft, to Dale Riipke for his dedicated work on the map of the Drenai world, to Dave Barrett, and to my copy editor, Heather Padgen.

  PROLOGUE

  Caphas the Merchant was frightened as the stranger approached his campfire in the woods to the north of the capital. Caphas had picked the spot with care, in a hollow away from the road, so that his fire would not be seen. Although the civil war was now ended, so great had been the losses on both sides that there were few troops now to patrol the wildlands, where renegades and deserters looted and stole. The merchant had thought long and hard about this journey, but with so many of his colleagues too terrified to enter the lands of Naashan he had seen an opportunity for huge profits from his goods, silks from Chiatze, and spices from Sherak and Gothir. Now, as the full moon shone over the hollow, those profits seemed a long way away.

  The rider emerged from the tree line above the camp and angled his horse down the slope. The man’s hairstyle—the lower part of the head shaved clean, the upper hair swept into a fierce crest—showed him to be a Naashanite swordmaster. Caphas began to relax. It was unlikely such a man would prove to be a robber. There were far better ways for skilled fighters to make money in this war-torn country than by waylaying traveling merchants. The man’s clothes further reinforced this judgment. Though functional in appearance—a dark leather jerkin, the shoulders edged with chain mail, leather leggings and high riding boots also adorned with mail—they were richly made. His black horse was Ventrian purebred. Such beasts were rarely seen on the open market, but would sell privately for between two hundred and four hundred gold Raq. The rider was quite clearly no thief. Thoughts of robbery drifted away, only to be replaced by a fear of another kind.

  The man dismounted and walked to the fire. He moved with the grace common to all swordsmen, thought Caphas, who rose to greet him. Up close the rider was younger than Caphas had first thought. In his twenties. His eyes were a piercing sapphire blue, his face handsome. Caphas bowed. “Welcome to my fire, sir,” he said. “It is good to find company in such bleak surroundings. I am Caphas.”

  “Skilgannon,” said the man, offering his hand.

  A deep, sickening fear struck Caphas. His mouth was suddenly dry. Aware that Skilgannon was staring at him he managed to say: “I . . . was about to prepare a small meal. You would be most welcome to share it.”

  “Thank you.” Skilgannon’s blue eyes scanned the campsite. Then he raised his head and sniffed the air. “Since you are not the person wearing the perfume, I suggest you invite the women to join us. There are wild beasts in the woods. Not as many wolves as once there were, but still some bears and the occasional panther.” He swung away from Caphas and walked to the fire. It was then that the merchant saw the strange ornament he carried swung across his back. It was around five feet in length, slightly curved, the center polished black. At each end were set beautifully sculpted ivory sections. Ornate and exquisite, it would—had he not heard the man’s name—have seemed to Caphas to serve no purpose.

  Swinging the ornament from his back the stranger set it on the ground beside him as he sat by the fire.

  Caphas turned toward the dark woods. His heart was heavy. Skilgannon knew the girls were there, and if he intended rape or murder they would not escape him. “Come in, Lucresis. Bring Phalia. It is all right,” he called, praying it was true.

  A slender, dark-haired young woman moved out of the trees, holding the hand of a girl of around seven. The child broke clear of her sister’s grip and ran to her father. Caphas put a protective arm around her, and drew her toward the fire. “My daughters, Phalia and Lucresis,” he said. Skilgannon glanced up and smiled.

  “Always wise to be wary,” he said. “The girls are very beautiful. They must take after their mother.”

  Caphas forced a smile. “Ah yes, she was the beauty. No doubt of it.” He was dismayed to see Lucresis staring boldly at the handsome young man. She tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. She knew she was beautiful. So many young men had told her so.

  “Lucresis! Come and help me fetch the pots and pans from the wagon,” ordered Caphas, his voice showing his stress. Confused by his fear the young woman followed him. As he reached the wagon he hissed at her. “Stop making eyes at him.”

  “He is very handsome, Father.”

  “That is Skilgannon the Damned. You want nothing to do with him. We will be lucky to escape this with our lives,” he added, keeping his voice to a whisper. He handed her several pots.

  Lucresis glanced back at the man by the fire. He was chatting to little Phalia, who was giggling at his words. “He won’t hurt us, Father.”

  “Do not judge a man by his looks. If only ugly men committed crimes it would take no effort at all to find criminals. I have heard tales of his excesses. Not just on the battlefield. It is said he once had a large house, and all the servants were trained whores. He is not the sort of man I would want near my daughter—had I a choice in the matter. Which I don’t,” he concluded, miserably.

  “I wish I had a choice,” said Lucresis.

  Returning to the fire, Caphas prepared a broth. The smell of it hung in the air, rich and tempting. Occasionally he would stir the contents of the large pan, then take a sip before adding a little pepper and spices. Finally, he sprinkled rock salt into the pot. “I believe it to be ready,” he said.

  After the meal Skilgannon put his plate to one side. “You are a truly talented cook, Master Caphas.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is a hobby of mine.”

  “Why do you have a spider on your arm?” asked little Phalia, pointing to the black tattoo on Skilgannon’s left forearm.

  “Do you not like it?”

  “It is very ugly.”

  “Phalia, that was rude!” snapped Caphas. “It is the mark of an officer, dearheart,” said Caphas, swiftly, realizing he had shocked the child. “The fighting men of Naashan adorn themselves in this way. An officer who has . . . defeated . . . eight enemies in single combat is awarded the Spider. Generals have panther tattoos upon their chests, or eagles if their victories are great.” He knelt beside the child. “But you should not make such comments.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but it is ugly.”

  “Children say what they think,” said Skilgannon, softly. “It is no bad thing. Be calm, merchant. I mean you no harm. I shall spend the night in your camp and be on my way in the morning. Your life is safe—as is the honor of yo
ur family. And, by the way, the house you told your daughter of was not mine. It was owned by a courtesan who was, shall we say, a friend.”

  “I did not mean to offend, sir.”

  “My ears are very keen, merchant. And I am not offended.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  They heard the sound of horses in the distance. Skilgannon rose and waited.

  Within moments a column of cavalry rode into the clearing. Caphas, who had journeyed in Naashan throughout the years of civil war, recognized them as the Queen’s Horse, black-clad warriors in heavy helms. Each carried a lance, a saber, and a small round shield, decorated with a spotted snake. At the head of the column was a civilian he recognized: Damalon, the queen’s favorite. His hair was long and blond, his face lean. The fifty riders sat their mounts silently, while Damalon leapt lightly to the ground.

  “It has been a long ride, General,” he said to Skilgannon.

  “And why did you make it?” answered the warrior.

  “The queen wants the Swords of Night and Day returned.”

  “They were a gift,” said Skilgannon. He shrugged. “However, be that as it may.”

  Lifting the curious ornament he held it for a moment—then tossed it to Damalon. In that moment Caphas saw a spasm of pain flicker on Skilgannon’s face.

  The handsome courtier glanced back to the soldiers. “No need for you to stay, Captain,” he told a tall man sitting a chestnut gelding. “Our task here is concluded.”

  The rider edged his horse forward. “Good to see you again, General,” he said to Skilgannon. “May the gods be with you.”

  “And with you, Askelus,” answered Skilgannon.

  The cavalry swung their mounts and rode from the clearing. All that remained were four riders, dark-garbed men carrying no swords. Long knives hung at their belts. They dismounted and walked to stand alongside Damalon.

  “Why did you leave?” Damalon asked Skilgannon. “The queen admired you above all her generals.”

  “For reasons of my own.”

  “Most odd. You had it all. Riches, power, a palace to die for. You could have found another wife, Skilgannon.” Damalon curled his hand around one of the ivory handles, then pulled upon it. Nothing happened.

  “Press the ruby stud on the hilt,” said Skilgannon. “It will release the blade.” The moment Damalon pressed the stud a sword slid clear. Moonlight shone upon the silver steel and the runes engraved there. Caphas stared at the sword with undisguised avarice. The Swords of Night and Day were legendary. He idly wondered what they would fetch if offered to a king. Three thousand Raq? Five thousand?

  “Most beautiful,” said Damalon. “It stirs the blood.”

  “My advice to you—and your followers—would be to remount and leave,” said Skilgannon. “As you say, your mission is concluded.”

  “Ah, not quite,” said Damalon. “The queen was very angry when you left.”

  “She will be angrier still if you do not return,” said Skilgannon. “And I am tiring of your company. Understand me, Damalon, I do not wish to kill you and your creatures. I merely wish to ride away and leave this land.”

  “Your arrogance is overwhelming,” snarled Damalon. “I have your swords, and four men skilled with the blade, and you threaten me? Have you lost your wits?” He glanced at Caphas. “Such a shame you were here, merchant. Fate, I suppose. No man can avoid it.” Damalon pressed an emerald stud on the second hilt. The black scabbard fell to the ground as a second blade slid clear. It shone like gold, bright and precious. For a moment the blond courtier stood very still, drinking in the beauty of the blades. Then he shook his head, as if coming out of a trance. “Kill the old man and the child,” he said. “The girl will prove an amusing distraction before we return to the capital.”

  In that moment Caphas saw Skilgannon move toward Damalon. His hand flicked forward. Something bright and glittering flashed through the air. It struck Damalon lightly in the throat.

  Blood sprayed from the severed jugular. What followed Caphas would never forget, not in the tiniest detail.

  Skilgannon moved in on Damalon. As the dying courtier dropped the swords Skilgannon swept them up. The four black-garbed killers ran in. Skilgannon leapt to meet them, the sword blades shimmering in the firelight. There was no fight, no clash of steel upon steel. Within a matter of heartbeats five men were dead upon the ground—one virtually beheaded, another cut through from shoulder to belly. Caphas watched as Skilgannon cleaned the gold and silver blades before sliding them back into the single black scabbard, which he swung to his back.

  “Best you find new markets, Caphas,” he said. “I fear Naashan will now be dangerous for you.”

  The man was not even out of breath and there was no trace of sweat upon his brow. Turning from Caphas, he walked back and searched the ground around the dead Damalon. Stooping, he picked up a small, circular piece of blood-smeared metal no more than two inches in diameter. Skilgannon wiped it clean on Damalon’s shirt. Caphas saw then that the metal had a serrated edge. He shivered. Skilgannon tucked the weapon into a sheath hidden behind his belt. Then he moved to his horse and saddled it.

  Caphas approached him. “They were going to kill us too,” he said. “I thank you for saving my daughters and myself.”

  “The child is frightened, Caphas. Best you go to her,” said Skilgannon, stepping smoothly into the saddle.

  Lucresis ran to his horse. “I too am grateful,” she said, staring up at him wide-eyed. He smiled at her, then leaned down, took her hand and kissed it.

  “Be lucky, Lucresis,” he said. “It would have been most pleasant to spend a little more time in your company.” Releasing her hand he looked back at Caphas, who was holding his youngest daughter close. “Do not stay here tonight. Prepare your wagon and head north at speed.”

  With that he rode away.

  Caphas watched him until he was lost among the trees. Lucresis sighed and turned to her father. “I wish he had stayed.”

  The merchant shook his head in disbelief. “You just saw him kill five men. He is ruthless and deadly, Lucresis.”

  “Perhaps, but he has beautiful eyes,” she replied.

  1

  * * *

  Smoke from the burning buildings still hung in the air, but the rioting mobs of yesterday had dispersed now, as the two priests walked slowly down the hill toward the town. Heavy clouds were gathering over the eastern mountains, promising rain for the afternoon, and a cool wind was blowing. The walk from the old monastery buildings to the little town was one that Brother Braygan usually enjoyed, especially with the sunshine glinting from the white buildings, and glittering on the rushing river. The chubby young priest loved to see the colorful meadow plants, so small and ephemeral against the backdrop of the eternal, snowcapped mountains. Not so today. Everything seemed different. The beauty was still there, but now an underlying sense of menace and real peril hung in the air.

  “Is it a sin to be frightened, Brother Lantern?” he asked his companion, a tall young man, with eyes of cold and brilliant blue, upon whom the pale robes of the acolyte seemed out of place.

  “Have you ever killed a man, Braygan?” Lantern’s reply was cold and disinterested.

  “Of course not.”

  “Or robbed, or raped, or stolen?”

  Braygan was shocked and stared up at his companion, his fears momentarily forgotten.

  “No.”

  “Then why do you spend so much time worrying about sin?”

  Braygan fell silent. He never enjoyed working alongside Brother Lantern. The man said very little, but there was something about him that was wholly disturbing. His deep-set sapphire eyes were fierce, his lean face hard, his expressions unyielding. And he had sword scars upon his arms and legs. Braygan had seen them when they worked in the fields in the summer. He had asked him about them, but Lantern had ignored him. As he ignored questions concerning the harsh and warlike tattoos upon his back, chest, and arms: an eagle with outstretched wings and open t
alons between his shoulder blades, a large spider on his left forearm, and the snarling head of a leopard upon his chest. When asked of them Lantern would merely turn his cold eyes on the speaker and say nothing. Yet in all else he was an exemplary acolyte, working hard and never shirking his duties. He never complained, nor argued, and attended all prayer and study meetings. When asked he could quote verbatim from all sections of holy script, and knew also much of the history of the nations surrounding the land.

  Braygan turned his attention back toward the town, and his fear returned. The soldiers of the Watch had done nothing to stop the rioters. Two days ago the mob had attacked Brother Labberan, and broken his arms when he went to teach at the church school. They had kicked and punched him, then struck him with rods of iron. Labberan was not a young man, and could easily have died.

  The two priests came to the small bridge over the river. Braygan trod on the hem of his pale blue robes and stumbled. He would have fallen, but Brother Lantern’s hand grabbed his arm, hauling him upright.

  “Thank you,” said Braygan. His arm hurt from the iron grip, and he rubbed it.

  There were some people moving through the rubble. Braygan tried not to stare at them—nor at the two bodies hanging from the branches of a tall tree. “I am frightened, Brother,” he whispered. “Why do people do such hateful things?”

  “Because they can,” answered the tall priest.

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Of what?”

  The question seemed ridiculous to Braygan. Brother Labberan was beaten close to death, and there was hatred everywhere. Threats had been made against the church and its priests, and the terror continued. Crossing the bridge they moved past the smoldering buildings and on to the main street. Braygan was sweating now. There were more people here, and he saw several dark-garbed soldiers standing in a group by a tavern door. Some of the townsfolk stopped to stare at the priests as they made their way to the apothecary. One man shouted an insult.

  Sweat dripped into Braygan’s eyes and he blinked it away. Brother Lantern had reached the apothecary door. It was locked. The tall priest tapped at the wooden frame. There was no answer. A crowd began to gather. Braygan tried not to look at the faces of the men. “We should go, Brother Lantern,” he said.