White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  The axman shrugged. “Maybe. I doubt the swordsman is dead. He seemed a canny man to me.” Glancing up at the darkening sky he rose. “Let’s find a place to camp. We’ll light a fire and you can rest awhile.”

  “The beasts . . .”

  “They’ll either come or they won’t. Nothing I can do about that. Come on.” Reaching out he pulled Rabalyn to his feet, took up his ax and walked back through the trees. Rabalyn followed him. A little while later the axman reached a natural clearing. Two old trees had fallen, creating a partial wall to the west. With his boot the axman scraped away twigs and tinder, clearing a spot for a fire. He told Rabalyn to gather dry wood, and, when the boy had done so, took out a small tinderbox and struck a flame.

  The darkness deepened. Rabalyn sat down beside the fire. He still felt a little sick, but his headache was passing.

  “Brother Lantern said you were with the Immortals.”

  “Brother Lantern?”

  “The swordsman who helped you.”

  “Ah. Yes, I was for a while.”

  “Why did you attack those soldiers?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I thought at first you were protecting your family, or some friends. But you are traveling alone. So why did you fight?”

  “Good question. What is your name?”

  “Rabalyn.”

  “And why are you heading for Mellicane, Rabalyn?”

  The youngster told him about the attack on his house, and the death of Aunt Athlya. At the last he also admitted the killing of Todhe, and the shame he felt.

  “He brought it on himself,” said the axman. “No point losing sleep over it. All actions have consequences. I used to argue all the time with a friend of mine. He’d talk endlessly of what he called the potential of man. He’d say even the most evil were capable of good. He’d witter on about redemption, and such like. Maybe he was right. I don’t bother myself with such thoughts.”

  “Have you killed lots of people?” asked Rabalyn.

  “Lots,” agreed the axman.

  “Were they all evil?”

  “No. Most were soldiers, fighting for their own cause. As I was fighting for mine. It is a harsh world, Rabalyn. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better come morning.”

  “You didn’t say why you attacked those soldiers,” the youngster pointed out.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Rabalyn stretched out and looked up at the forbidding figure seated beside the fire. He noticed then that the axman was not facing the flames, but was looking out into the gathering darkness.

  “You think they will come?” asked the boy.

  “If they do they’ll regret it. Go to sleep.”

  For a little while Rabalyn forced himself to stay awake. The axman did not speak, and the boy lay very still, staring up at the seated figure. The glare from the flickering fire made the axman appear even older. The lines on his face were deep. Rabalyn saw him pick up his ax. The muscles on his forearm rippled as his huge hand curled around the haft. “Have you ever been frightened?” asked Rabalyn.

  “Aye, once or twice. My wife had a weak heart. Several times she collapsed. I knew fear then.”

  “Not now, though?”

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of, laddie. We live. We die. A wise man once told me that one day even the sun will fade, and all will be darkness. Everything dies. Death isn’t important. What counts is how you live.”

  “What happened to your wife?”

  “She’s gone, boy. Five years now.” The axman threw a chunk of wood to the fire and the flames rippled over it. Then he rose to his feet and stood statue still. “Time to climb your tree, I think,” he said, softly. Rabalyn scrambled to his feet. “That one there,” said the axman, pointing to a tall oak close by. “Do it now!”

  Rabalyn ran to the tree and leapt for the lowest branch, hauling himself up. He climbed to a fork and sat down, staring back at the campfire. The axman was still standing quietly, his ax in his hands. Rabalyn scanned the area. He could see nothing, save moonlit undergrowth and trees. Then a shadowy figure flitted across his line of vision. He tried to focus on it, but there was nothing to be seen. Another shape moved to the right. Rabalyn found himself trembling. What if they could climb?

  He felt ashamed of himself. One old man was about to face these creatures, while he hid in a tree. Rabalyn found himself wishing he had a weapon, so he could aid the axman.

  Down below he saw the man lift the ax above his head and slowly stretch from side to side, loosening his muscles.

  For a while nothing moved. Rabalyn became aware of his heart thumping like a drum. He felt a little dizzy and clung on tight to the branch. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and darkness fell over much of the clearing. Rabalyn could just make out the axman, by the glint of reflected flames on his ax and helm. He heard the snapping of branches, then a feral growl. A black shadow fell across the axman, and Rabalyn could see nothing for a moment. A strangled cry sounded. Something tumbled across the fire, scattering sparks. Now it was even darker. Rabalyn could hear something moving through the undergrowth, its breathing harsh.

  The moon emerged, bright silver light bathing the clearing. The axman still stood. Across the fire lay the body of a huge beast. Smoke wreathed it, and Rabalyn caught the smell of charred fur and flesh. Another beast leapt over a fallen tree, hurling itself at the axman. He spun on his heel, the ax thudding into the creature’s massive neck. As the beast half fell the axman wrenched his weapon clear and struck again. The ax blades crunched through its shoulder, biting deep. Two more beasts ran in. Tearing his ax clear he turned to face them. They backed away, circling him. One rushed forward, then sprang away as the ax rose. The second darted in, but also swerved aside at the last moment. Rabalyn saw one of them look up at the sky. The boy followed its gaze. More clouds were looming, and he realized the creatures were waiting for darkness.

  The axman leapt at the first beast. It sprang away. Rabalyn wished there was something he could do to help the man. Then it came to him. He could distract them. Taking a deep breath, he shouted at the top of his voice. Startled, one of the creatures half turned. The axman charged in, his weapon cleaving through the beast’s rib cage. It screamed and fell back, tearing the weapon from the man’s hand. The second creature sprang through the air. The axman spun and hammered a right cross into its jaws. The weight of the beast bore the axman back, and they fell together, rolling across the clearing. Rabalyn scrambled down the tree and jumped from the lowest branch. He ran to the body in which the ax was embedded and grabbed the haft with both hands, trying to pull it free.

  The beast was not dead. Its golden eyes flared open and it roared. Rabalyn threw his full weight back. The ax wrenched clear. The beast gave an ear-splitting scream. It half rose, then slumped back, blood pumping from the great wound in its chest. The ax was heavier than Rabalyn had imagined. Struggling with it, he hefted it to his shoulder and stumbled to where the axman was wrestling with the last creature. The old man’s helm had been knocked from his head, and blood was flowing from a gash in the scalp. His left hand was locked to the creature’s throat, straining to hold the snapping fangs from his face. His right was gripping the left wrist of the monster.

  Holding the ax in both hands, Rabalyn raised it high. It tipped backward, almost making him lose balance. Righting himself he hacked the ax downward. It thudded into the beast’s back between the shoulder blades. A hideous screech came from the creature. It arched up, dragging the axman with it. Releasing the beast’s wrist, the axman thundered a punch to its head. Behind the creature Rabalyn grabbed for the ax haft, trying to tear it clear. The beast spun. Its taloned arm lashed out, striking Rabalyn in the chest and sending him hurtling through the air. He landed heavily. Half-stunned he struggled to his knees. The old warrior had his ax once more in his hand. The beast backed away, then turned and fled into the trees.

  The warrior watched it go, then walked over to Rabalyn. “My, but you are a game lad,” he s
aid. Reaching out he hauled Rabalyn to his feet.

  “You killed three of them,” said Rabalyn. “It was incredible.”

  “I’m getting old,” replied the axman, with a grin. “Was a time when I wouldn’t have needed my ax to deal with such puppies.”

  “Truly?” asked Rabalyn, amazed.

  “No, laddie, I was making a joke. Never was much good at jokes.” Wandering back to where he had fought the beast, he lifted his helm, wiped his hand around the rim, then settled it back on his head. A low snarl sounded from one of the bodies. The axman walked over to the creature. Its legs were twitching. The ax swept up, then down into its neck. All movement ceased. Returning to Rabalyn, the axman thrust out his hand. I am Druss. I thank you for your help. I was beginning to struggle a mite with that last one.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir,” answered Rabalyn, feeling proud as he shook the old man’s hand.

  “Now I want you to climb that tree again.”

  “Are there more of them?”

  “I don’t know. But I need to leave you here for a short while. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

  Rabalyn climbed to the original fork and settled down. His fears returned once Druss had left the clearing. What if the man left him here? He banished the thought instantly. He did not know the axman well, but he instinctively knew he would not lie about coming back. Time passed, and the sky cleared. Wedged against the fork in the branches Rabalyn dozed a little. He awoke to the smell of roasting meat.

  Down in the campsite the axman had hauled the dead beasts from the clearing and had rekindled the fire. He was sitting before it, a thick strip of meat held on a stick before the flames. Rabalyn climbed down to join him. The aroma of the meat made his senses swim. He squatted down beside the axman. Then a thought struck him. “This is not from those creatures, is it?” he asked.

  “No. Though were I hungry enough I’d try to cook them. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From the dead horse.”

  “My horse?” asked Rabalyn, horrified.

  “There’s only one dead horse, boy.”

  “I can’t eat my horse.”

  The axman turned to look at the boy. “It’s just meat.” He sighed, then chuckled. “I know what Sieben would say. He’d tell you that your horse is now running in another place. He’d say the sky is blue there, and the horse is galloping across a field of green. All that’s left behind is the cloak it wore.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “That horse carried you from danger—even after it was mortally wounded. In some cultures they believe that to eat the flesh of a great beast, is to absorb some of its qualities into yourself.”

  “And do you believe that?”

  The axman shrugged. “I believe I am hungry, and that what I don’t eat the foxes will devour, and the maggots will thrive on. It’s up to you, Rabalyn. Eat. Don’t eat. I’m not going to force you.”

  “Maybe your friend was right. Maybe he is running in another world.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think I’ll eat,” said Rabalyn.

  “Hold on to this for a moment,” said Druss, handing Rabalyn the toasting stick. Then he rose and took his ax to a nearby tree. With two swift chops he cut away sections of bark, which he carried back. “They’ll make do for plates,” he said.

  Later, after they had eaten, Rabalyn stretched out on the ground. He felt almost light-headed, as if in a dream. His stomach was full. He had helped defeat monsters, and he was sitting by a fire in the moonlight with a mighty warrior. “How can you be so good when you are so old?” he asked.

  The axman laughed aloud. “I come from good stock. Truth is, though, I am not as good as I was. No man can resist time. I used to be able to walk thirty miles in a day. Now I’m tired at half that, and I have an ache in my knee and my shoulder when the winter comes and the rain falls.”

  “Have you been fighting in the war?”

  “No,” answered Druss. “Not my war. I came here looking for an old friend.”

  “Is he a warrior like you?”

  Druss laughed. “No. He is a fat, friendly fellow with a fear of violence. A good man, though.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Not yet. I don’t even know why he came here. He’s a long way from home. He may have returned to Mellicane. I’ll find out in a day or two.” A tiny trickle of blood was still seeping from the gash in the old man’s temple. Rabalyn watched as he wiped it away.

  “That should be stitched or bandaged,” he said.

  “Not deep enough for that. It will seal itself. And now I think I’ll get some sleep.”

  “Shall I keep watch?”

  “Aye, laddie. You do that.”

  “You think the beast might come back?”

  “I doubt it. That was a deep cut you gave it. He’s probably hurting too much to think of feeding. But if he does then two great heroes like us should be able to deal with him. Don’t worry overmuch, Rabalyn. I am a light sleeper.”

  With that the axman stretched himself out and closed his eyes.

  With Braygan clinging on behind him, Skilgannon urged the tired horse down the slope toward the refugees. The steeldust was almost at the end of its strength and stumbled twice.

  As he rode Skilgannon scanned the land. He could see no sign of the beasts. Transferring his gaze to the refugees he saw two swordsmen walking at the head of the column. Both were tall, with close-cropped black hair, and both were heavily bearded. They paused as he rode up. Leaping from the saddle Skilgannon approached them. “Are you in charge here?” he asked the first warrior. The man cocked his head and looked confused, then swung to the other swordsman.

  “Are we in charge, Jared?”

  “No, Nian. Don’t worry about it. What is it you want?” he asked Skilgannon. People were milling around now, anxious to hear whatever news the newcomers had brought.

  “There is great danger here,” Skilgannon told Jared. “It will be upon us at any moment.” Turning away from him Skilgannon pulled Braygan from the saddle, and slapped the rump of the horse. Surprised, it began to run toward the reeds. It had traveled no more than a hundred yards before it swerved to the right. A Joining reared up from the long grass and leapt at it. The horse bolted. Screams of shock came from some of the refugees.

  “Be silent!” roared Skilgannon, his voice booming out. The power in his voice cowed the crowd. They stood silently awaiting instructions. “Gather together. Get into as tight a circle as you can. Now! Your lives depend upon it!” As the crowd began to move Skilgannon shouted again. “Every man here with a weapon come to me.” Men began to shuffle forward. Some had swords, others knives. Several had wooden clubs or scythes. Turning to the swordsman, Jared, he said: “Move to the other side of the circle. Stay on the outside of it. Do it now!” Skilgannon turned his attention to the gathering men. “There are beasts abroad—Joinings who have escaped from the Arena in Mellicane. Already they have killed many refugees. Spread yourselves around the circle, facing outward. When the beasts come make as much noise as you can. Scream, shout, clash your weapons. Do not be drawn away from the circle.”

  There were less than twenty armed men. Not enough to form a protective ring around the refugees. Skilgannon called out to the women. “We need more for the fighting circle,” he said. “Do any women here carry weapons?” Around a dozen women moved forward. Most had long knives, but one had a small hatchet. “Move alongside the men,” Skilgannon told them. “Everyone else sit down. When the attack comes, take hold of the person closest to you. Keep low to the ground. Do not let any children panic or run. And do not break the circle.”

  Braygan stood where he was, staring anxiously toward the reeds, no more than four hundred yards distant. Skilgannon grabbed him by the arm. “Go and sit with the women and children,” he said. “You can do nothing here.”

  The little priest did as he was bid, easing his way into the huddled
refugees and sitting down. He gazed around the circle. It was some thirty feet in diameter. All around it stood the warriors, both men and women, Skilgannon had gathered. Braygan was still in shock. He had seen Brother Lantern fight, but this was a man he had never seen. He watched as Skilgannon moved around the outer edge of the circle, issuing orders. People were hanging on his every word. He radiated power and authority.

  The light was beginning to fail. A weird howling arose from all around them. Children screamed in panic and some people began to rise, ready to run.

  “Be still!” bellowed Skilgannon. Braygan saw him draw his swords.

  A huge Joining reared up and ran at the circle. Skilgannon leapt to meet it. The beast sprang at him. The golden sword in Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out, slicing across the Joining’s belly. Ducking under a sweep of its taloned arm, Skilgannon spun. The silver blade in his left hand clove deep into the beast’s neck. It fell to all fours, blood gouting from its wounds. The swordsman, Nian, charged in, bringing his long, two-handed broadsword down onto the Joining’s skull. The creature slumped dead to the ground.

  “Do not break the circle!” shouted Skilgannon. “Hold your line.”

  All around them now the beasts were gathering.

  “Stand firm!” he heard Skilgannon shout. His voice was all but drowned out by a dreadful howling that chilled the blood.

  Braygan squeezed shut his eyes and began to pray.

  8

  * * *

  Sitting by the fire, the soft scent of woodsmoke hanging in the night air, Rabalyn felt suddenly free of fear. In its place came a sweet melancholy. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and softer, safer days when she would mix stale bread with milk, dried fruit, and honey and bake a pudding. They would sit in the evenings by the fire and cut deep slices, savoring each mouthful. In those days Rabalyn dreamed of being a great hero, of striding across the world carrying a magical sword. Of freeing maidens in distress and earning their undying love.