White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “What does that mean?” asked Braygan.

  “The horse will spring from one diagonally opposite pair of legs to the other. Near-fore and off-hind together, then off-fore and near-hind. This will create a bouncing effect and your backsides will be pummeled until you learn to move with the rhythm. Stay tall in the saddle. Do not slouch.”

  They spent an hour on the open fields behind the farmhouse. Rabalyn learned swiftly, and even cantered his mount briefly at one point. For Braygan the entire exercise was a nightmare.

  “If I strapped a dead man to the saddle he’d show more rhythm than you,” said the warrior. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I am frightened. I don’t want to fall off.”

  “Kick your feet from the stirrups.” Braygan did so. “Now let go of the reins.” Once more Braygan obeyed him. Brother Lantern suddenly clapped his hands and yelled. Braygan’s horse reared then broke into a run. The movement was so sudden that the priest fell backward, turning a somersault before striking the soft earth. Shakily he climbed to his feet. “There,” said the warrior. “Now you have fallen off. As ever the fear of it was not matched by the actuality.”

  “You could have broken my neck.”

  “True. The one certainty about riding, Braygan, is that—at some time—you will fall off. It is a fact. Another fact you might like to consider, in your life of perpetual terror, is that you will die. We are all going to die, some of us young, some of us old, some of us in our sleep, some of us screaming in agony. We cannot stop it, we can only delay it. And now it is time to move on. I’d like to reach those far hills by dusk. We can find a campsite in the trees.”

  6

  * * *

  Rabalyn enjoyed the day’s ride more than he could express. He knew that he would always remember it with enormous affection. If he was lucky enough to live until he grew old he would look back to this day as one of the great, defining days of his life. It was an effort not to let the horse have its head and ride off at ferocious speed toward the distant hills. As he sat in the saddle he could feel the power of the beast beneath him. It was awesome. As Brother Lantern had instructed him he chatted to the gelding, keeping his voice low and soothing. The gelding’s ears would flick back as he spoke, as if listening and understanding. Rabalyn patted its sleek neck. At one point he drew rein and let the others ride on for a while, then gently heeled the gelding into a run. Exhilaration swept through him as he settled into the saddle, adjusting his rhythm so that there was no painful bouncing. He and the horse were one—and they were fast and strong. No one could catch them.

  As he approached the others he tried to rein in. But the gelding was at full gallop now and swept on by them, ignoring his commands. Even then, with the horse bolting, Rabalyn felt no fear. A wild excitement roared through him. Dragging on the reins he began to shout: “Whoa boy. Whoa!” The horse seemed to run even faster.

  Brother Lantern’s steeldust came galloping alongside. “Don’t drag on the reins, boy,” he shouted. “It will only numb his mouth. Gently turn him to the right. As he turns keep applying gentle tugs to the reins.” Rabalyn followed the orders. Slowly the gelding began to angle to the right. He slowed to a canter and then a trot. Finally, with the gentlest of tugs the gelding halted, alert and waiting for the next instruction.

  “Well done,” said the warrior, drawing rein a little way from Rabalyn. “You will be a fine rider.”

  “Why did he bolt? Was he frightened of something?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know of what. You have to understand, Rabalyn, that a horse in the wild uses its speed to avoid danger. When you pushed him to the gallop ancestral memories took over. He was running fast, therefore he was in danger. Panic can set in very fast in a horse. That is why the rider must always be in control. When he broke into that run you relaxed and gave him his head. Thus, left to his own devices, he panicked.”

  “It was a wonderful feeling. He is so fast. I bet he could have been a racer.”

  “He is a young warhorse,” said the man, with a smile, “skittish and a little nervous. A Ventrian pureblood would leave him for dead in a flat race. On a battlefield the Ventrian would be a liability. It is not as mobile and its fleetness can be a hazard. But, yes, he is a fine mount for a young man in open country.”

  “Should I give him a name, Brother Lantern?”

  “Call me Skilgannon. And, yes, you can call him what you will. If you have him long enough he will come to recognize it.”

  Braygan approached them at an awkward trot, the young priest bouncing in the saddle, his arms flapping. “Some men are not made to ride,” said Skilgannon softly. “I am beginning to feel sorry for that horse.”

  With that he swung his mount and continued toward the hills.

  By late afternoon they were climbing ever higher into wooded hills. Through breaks in the trees, Rabalyn could see a vast plain below them to the northwest. He saw also columns of people walking, and occasionally mounted troops. They were too far away to identify as friend or foe. Rabalyn didn’t care which they were. His gelding was faster than the winter wind.

  That night they camped at the base of a cliff. Skilgannon allowed no fire, but the night was warm and pleasant. A search of the saddlebags produced two wooden-handled brushes and Skilgannon showed Braygan and Rabalyn how to unsaddle the mounts and then groom them. Lastly he led the horses out a little way to where the grass was thick and green. Then, with short ropes also from the saddlebags, he hobbled them and left them to feed.

  Braygan was complaining about his sore legs and bruised backside, but Skilgannon paid no attention, and soon the young priest wrapped himself in a blanket and settled down to sleep. The night sky was clear, the stars brilliantly bright. Skilgannon walked a little way from the camp and was sitting alone. Normally Rabalyn would not disturb him, but the man had—for the first time—spoken in a friendly way after Rabalyn’s horse bolted. So, with just a hint of trepidation, Rabalyn walked across to where the warrior was sitting. As he came up Skilgannon glanced back. His gaze was once more cold and distant.

  “You want something?”

  “No,” said Rabalyn, instantly turning away.

  “Come and join me, boy,” said Skilgannon, his voice softening. “I am not the ogre I appear.”

  “You seem very angry all the time.”

  “That would be a fair judgment,” agreed Skilgannon. “Sit down. I’ll try not to snap at you.” Rabalyn sat on the ground, but could think of nothing to say. The silence grew, and yet Rabalyn found it comfortable. He looked up at the warrior. He no longer seemed so daunting.

  “Is it hard being a monk?” he asked, after a while.

  “Is it hard being a boy?” countered Skilgannon.

  “Very.”

  “I fear that answer could be given by any man, in any position. Life itself is hard. But, yes, I found it especially difficult. The studies were easy enough, and quite enjoyable. The philosophy, on the other hand, was exquisitely impenetrable. We were ordered to love the unlovable.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man.”

  “That is blood on your neck,” said Rabalyn.

  “A scratch from an idiot. It is nothing.”

  “What will you do when you get to Mellicane?”

  Skilgannon looked at him, then smiled. “I shall leave as soon as possible.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They don’t care about me. Never did, really. I only said I was looking for them so you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

  “Ah,” said Skilgannon. “Very wise—for I would have.”

  “What will you do now you are not a monk?”

  “You are full of questions, Rabalyn. Are you not tired after a day in the saddle?”

  “A little, but it is very peaceful sitting here. So what will you do?”

  “Head north toward Sherak. There is a temple there—or it might be there. I don’t know. But I will s
eek it.”

  “And become a monk again?”

  “No. Something even more foolish.”

  “What?”

  “It is a secret,” said Skilgannon, softly. “All men should have at least one secret. Maybe I will tell you one day. For now, though, go and sleep. I need to think.”

  Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet and walked back to where Braygan lay. The young priest was snoring softly. Rabalyn lay down, his head resting on his arm.

  And dreamed of riding through clouds on the back of a golden horse.

  Skilgannon watched the lad walk away, and, for the first time in many weeks, felt a sense of peace settle on his troubled soul. He had not been so different from Rabalyn. As a youngster his mind was also full of questions, and his father had rarely been home to answer them. Why did men fight wars? Why were some people rich and some poor? If there was a great god watching over the world why were there diseases? Why did people die so unnecessarily? His mother had died in childbirth, bearing a sickly daughter. Skilgannon was seven years old. The baby had followed her two days later. They were buried in the same grave. Then—as now—Skilgannon had no answers to his questions.

  He was tired, and yet he knew sleep would not come. Lying down on the soft earth he stretched out on his back, his arms behind his head, his hands pillowing his neck. The stars were brilliantly bright, and a crescent moon shone. It reminded him of the earring Greavas wore. He smiled at the memory of that sad, strange man, and recalled the winter evenings when Greavas had sat by the fireside and played his lyre, singing songs and ballads of glorious days gone by. He had a sweet, high voice, which had served him well in his days as an actor, playing the part of the heroine.

  “Why don’t they just have women playing women?” the boy Skilgannon had wanted to know.

  “It is unseemly for women to perform in public, my dear. And if they did what would have become of my career?”

  “What did become of it?” asked the eleven-year-old.

  “They said I was too old to play the lead, Olek. Look at me. How old do I look?”

  “It is hard to tell,” the boy had said.

  “I could still pass for twenty-five, don’t you think?”

  “Except for the eyes,” said the boy. “Your eyes look older.”

  “Never ask a child for flattery,” snapped Greavas. “Anyway, I gave up the playhouses.”

  Decado had hired Greavas to teach Skilgannon to dance. The boy had been horrified.

  “Why, Father? I want to be a warrior like you.”

  “Then learn to dance,” Decado had told him, on a rare visit home.

  Skilgannon had become angry. “All my friends are laughing at me. And at you. They say you’ve brought a man-woman to live with you. People see him walking with me in the street and they shout out insults.”

  “Whoa there, boy. Let’s deal with this one at a time,” said Decado, his expression darkening. “First the dancing. If you want to be a swordsman you’ll need balance and coordination. There is no better way of honing that than to learn to dance. Greavas is a brilliant dancer and a fine teacher. He is the best. I always hire the best. As to what your friends say, why should either of us care about that?”

  “But I do care.”

  “That is because you are young, and there is a great deal of foolish pride in the young. Greavas is a good man, kind and strong. He is a friend to this family, and we will brook no insults to our friends.”

  “Why do you have such strange friends? It embarrasses me.”

  “When you speak like this it embarrasses me. You listen to me, Olek. There will always be men who select their friends for reasons of advancement, either socially, militarily, or politically. They will tell you to avoid a certain man’s company because he is out of favor, or his family is poor. Or, indeed, because his life is lived in a manner some people find unbecoming. As a soldier I judge my men by what they can do. By how much guts they have. When it comes to friends all that matters is whether I like them. I like Greavas. I think you will come to like him too. If you don’t that is too bad. You will still learn to dance. And I will expect you to stand up for him with your friends.”

  “I won’t have any friends left if he stays,” snapped the eleven-year-old.

  “Then you won’t have lost anything worthwhile. True friends stand with you, regardless of the ridicule of others. You’ll see.”

  The following weeks had been hard for Skilgannon. At eleven years old the respect of his peers was everything to him. He responded to the jeers and the jibes with his fists, and soon only Askelus remained his friend. The boy he most admired, the thirteen-year-old Boranius, tried to reason with him.

  “A man is judged by the company he keeps, Olek,” he said, one afternoon, in the physical-training area. “Now people think you are a catamite, and that your father is a pervert. The reality is immaterial. You must decide what means most to you—the admiration of your friends, or the loyalty of a servant.”

  At that tender age Skilgannon longed to be able to side with his peers. Yet the most important person in his young life was his father, whom he loved. “Will I lose your friendship also, Boranius?”

  “Friendship carries responsibilities, Olek. Both ways. A true friend would not wish to put me in a position to be scorned. If you ask me to stand alongside you, then of course I will.”

  Skilgannon had not asked him, and had kept away from the young athlete’s company.

  Askelus remained. Dark-eyed and brooding, he said nothing about the situation. He called at Skilgannon’s home, and together they walked to school.

  “Are you not ashamed to be seen with me?” asked Skilgannon one day.

  “Why would I be?”

  “Everyone else is.”

  “Never liked the others much anyway.” It was then that Skilgannon discovered that—apart from the loss of Boranius—he felt the same. Added to this his father proved to be right; he had begun to appreciate and like Greavas. And this despite the man’s mocking tone during dance lessons. He had taken to calling Skilgannon “Hippo.”

  “You have all the inherent grace of a hippopotamus, Olek. I swear you have two left feet.”

  “I am doing my best.”

  “Sadly I believe that is true. I had hoped to complete your studies by the summer. I now see I have taken on a lifetime commitment.”

  Yet week by week Skilgannon had improved, and the exercises Greavas set him strengthened his legs and upper body. Soon he could leap and twirl and land in perfect balance. The dancing also improved his speed, and he won two races at school. The last was his greatest joy, for his father was there to see him, and he beat Boranius in the half mile sprint. Decado had been delighted. Skilgannon’s joy was tempered by the fact that the older Boranius had run with his ankle heavily strapped, following an injury sustained the previous week.

  That evening Decado had once more set off to the Matapesh borders, and Skilgannon had sat with Greavas in the west-facing gardens. Two other servants had sat with them. Sperian and his wife, Molaire, had served Decado for five years now. 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 colored birds that nested in the flowering trees. Sperian, who maintained the gardens, would sit quietly staring out over the blooms and the pathways, making judgments 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 color 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, Vict
or.”

  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 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 around 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.