White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Nadir?” asked the axman.

  “No. The beasts have returned.”

  Skilgannon drew his swords. Garianne notched two bolts to her bow.

  Some twenty paces to the south a huge gray form rose from behind a jumble of boulders. It stood, massive head swaying from side to side. Garianne lifted her crossbow.

  “No, girl,” said Druss. “It is Orastes.” Laying down his ax he took a deep breath, then walked slowly toward the creature. Skilgannon fell in behind the axman, but Druss waved him back. “Not this time, laddie. It doesn’t know you.”

  “What if it comes for you?”

  Ignoring him Druss continued to walk toward the creature. It gave out a ferocious roar, but remained where it was. Druss began talking to it, his voice low and soothing. “Long time since I’ve seen you, Orastes. You remember the day by the lake, when Elanin made me that crown of flowers? Eh? Have I ever looked more foolish in my life? I thought you would laugh fit to bust. Elanin is close to here. You know that, don’t you? We will fetch her, you and I. We will find Elanin.”

  The beast reared up and howled, the sound echoing eerily in the mountains.

  “I know you are frightened, Orastes. Everything seems strange and twisted. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what you are. But you know Elanin, don’t you? You know you must find her. And you know me, Orastes. You know me. I am Druss. I am your friend. I will help you. Do you trust me, Orastes?”

  The watching travelers stood stock still as the axman reached the beast. They saw him raise his hand slowly, and lay it on the creature’s shoulder, patting it. The beast slowly sagged over the face of a boulder, its great head resting on the rock. Druss scratched at the fur, still speaking.

  “You need to have the faith to come with me, Orastes,” said Druss. “There is a magic temple, they say. Maybe they can . . . bring you back. Then we’ll find Elanin. Come with me. Trust me.”

  Druss stepped away from the beast and began to walk back toward Skilgannon. The Joining reared up, letting out a high-pitched scream. Druss did not look back, but he raised his hand. “Come on, Orastes. Come back to the world of men.”

  The beast stood for a moment, then shuffled out from behind the rocks and padded after the axman, keeping close to him, and snarling as they neared the others. Up close he was even larger than he had appeared. Garianne approached him, and he reared up on his hind legs and roared. He towered over Druss, who put out his hand and patted him. “Stay calm, Orastes,” he said. “These are friends.” Then he glanced at Garianne and the others. “Best stay back from him.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Diagoras.

  As the moon cleared the western crags, the spell faded away.

  Skilgannon gazed in amazement at the massive building, with its windows and columns and turrets.

  The gates opened, and five golden-clad priests began to run toward them over the rocky ground.

  A half an hour earlier the priestess Ustarte had stood at the high tower window, gazing down over the gloomy, dusk-shrouded valley. Her heart was heavy as she saw the people there, gathered around the wagon.

  “They do not see us yet,” said her aide, the slender, white-robed, Weldi. She glanced at him, noting the lines on his careworn face.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet. Not until the moon is higher.”

  “You are tired, Ustarte. Rest a little.”

  She laughed then, and the years vanished from her face. “I am not tired, Weldi. I am old.”

  “We are all getting old, Priestess.”

  Ustarte nodded and, gathering her red and gold silk robes in her gloved hands to raise the hem from the floor, slowly shuffled to the curiously carved chair at her reading desk. There was no flat seat, merely two angled platforms, one against which she could kneel, while the other supported her lower back. Her ancient bones would no longer bend well, and her legs were stiff and arthritic. Not all the vast range of medicines she knew, or had perfected, could fully keep the ravages of time from her body. They might have done, had her flesh not been corrupted and altered, genetically twisted and melded in those dreadful long ago days. She sighed. Not all her bitterness had been put behind her. Some traces had escaped the vaults of memory.

  “Do you remember the Gray Man, Weldi?” she asked, as the servant brought her a goblet of water.

  “No, Ustarte. He was in the time of Three Swords. I came later.”

  “Of course. My memory is not what it was.”

  “You have been waiting for these travelers for some time now, Priestess. Why do you make them wait for the moonlight?”

  “They are not yet complete, Weldi. Another is coming. A Joining. You know, I miss Three Swords. He made me laugh.”

  “I only knew him when he was old. He was crotchety then, and he did not make me laugh. To be honest he frightened me.”

  “Yes, he could be frightening. We went through much together, he and I. For a while we thought we could change the world. Such is the arrogance of youth, I suspect.”

  “You have changed the world, Priestess. It is a better place with you in it.” Clumsily he took her gloved hand and kissed it.

  “We have done a little good. No more than that. Yet it is enough.”

  She gazed around the room, at the scrolls and books on the shelves, and the small ornaments and keepsakes she had gathered during her three hundred and seventy years. This tower room was her favorite. She had never really known why. Perhaps it was because it was the highest room in the temple. Closer to the sky and the stars. “You will remember at least two of the travelers,” she told Weldi. “The conjoined twins?”

  “Aye yes. Sweet children. That was a wonderful day, when they walked in the garden, separate but hand in hand. I shall never forget that.”

  “Hard to imagine those babes with swords in their hands.”

  “I find it hard to imagine anyone who would choose to have a sword in their hands,” said Weldi.

  “Garianne is with them too. You said she would come back one day.”

  “You never did answer my question about her affliction.”

  “What question was that? I forget.”

  “No you don’t. You are teasing me. Are the voices real, or imagined?”

  “They are real to her. They could not be more real.”

  “Yes, yes! But are they real? Are they the spirits of the dead?”

  “The truth is,” said the elderly priestess, “that I do not know. Garianne survived a dreadful massacre. She lay hidden and listened to the screams of the dying. All that she loved, all that loved her. When she emerged from the hole in which she had been concealed she felt a terrible guilt for having survived. Did that guilt unhinge her mind? Or did it open a window in her soul, allowing the spirits of the dead to flow in?”

  “Why did you let her steal the Gray Man’s crossbow? You went through many dangers to bring that here.”

  “You are full of questions today. I have one for you. Why is the priestess still hungry, when her servant promised her a meal some time ago?”

  Weldi grinned and bowed low. “It is coming, Ustarte. I shall run all the way to the kitchen.”

  Ustarte’s smile faded as soon as he had left the room. She felt terribly tired. The magic needed to maintain the cloak of confusion over the temple took a heavy toll on the aging priestess. It had been such a simple spell two hundred years ago, using merely a fraction of her power. It was merely a matter of reshaping and blurring refracted light so that the red stone of the temple appeared to merge with the towering mountain of rock from which it had been carved. Only in the brightest moonlight did the spell fade sufficiently for men to be able to observe the vast building. Even then the gates were strengthened by spells which—when activated—caused immense forces to build up in metal. Swords would stick to shields, battering rams could not be swung. Men in armor would feel as if they were wading through the thickest mud. Ustarte knew that no castle on earth was completely impregnable. The Temple of Kuan did, howev
er, come close. No one could enter uninvited.

  Her legs rested, she eased herself to her feet and returned to the window.

  Ustarte sighed. Closing her eyes she concentrated her power, reaching out until she could feel the life forces of the travelers flickering around her, gossamer moths drawn to the light. Gently she examined each of them, coming at last to the youth. His heart had failed. Poison had entered his bloodstream, carried there by the filthy sword blade and small sections of cloth from his tunic, which had been driven into his body. Staying calm and focused Ustarte sent a bolt of energy into the still heart. It flickered, then failed again. Twice more she pulsed energy into the stricken muscle. It began to beat—but irregularly. Ustarte’s spirit flowed through Rabalyn’s lymphatic system, boosting it with her own life force. The adrenal glands, overworked and undernourished, had also failed. These too she worked upon. The eerie howling of a wolf cut through her concentration momentarily. Ignoring it she continued to replenish Rabalyn’s energy. The dead youth was alive once more and would survive until she could work on him inside the temple.

  The moon was beginning to rise.

  Ustarte drew back from Rabalyn and pulsed a message to Weldi. He was climbing the lower stairs, carrying a tray of food for her. Leaving the tray upon a step he ran back to the Inner Hall, summoning four priests, clad in yellow robes, who were dining there.

  Together they made their way swiftly through the corridors and halls of the temple, pushing open the gates, and running across the open ground toward the travelers.

  The travelers—all except Druss and Khalid Khan—were taken to an antechamber on the first floor of the temple. There were chairs and leather-cushioned benches here, and a wondrously fashioned table of twisted metal, upon which had been set fruit and goblets of sweet juices. Nian sat on the floor, running his hands over the undulating metal of the table. Jared knelt by him. Garianne lay down on a couch. Diagoras moved to a high window and leaned out, gazing down upon the valley below.

  “Druss and Khalid are still there,” he told Skilgannon. “It looks like Orastes is asleep at the axman’s feet.”

  Skilgannon joined him. Priests had gathered round the giant beast and were struggling to lift it. The door behind them whispered open. Skilgannon turned. An elderly man, with small, button eyes, bowed to the company. He shuffled forward, his long white gown rustling on the terra-cotta flooring.

  “The lady Ustarte will be with you presently,” he said. “She is engaged at present with your companion, Rabalyn.”

  “He is dead,” said Diagoras. “She can bring him back to life?”

  “He was dead, yes, but had not yet passed the portals of no return. Ustarte’s magic is very strong.” Garianne rolled to her feet, a wide smile on her face.

  “Ho, Weldi! It is good to see you.”

  “And you, Sweet One. I told the priestess you would come back to us.”

  The elderly priest moved to the table where Jared and Nian waited. “You will not remember me,” he said. “We played in the inner gardens when you were young.” Jared looked uncomfortable and merely shrugged. Nian looked up at the old man.

  “There is no beginning,” he said, running his fingers along a length of metal in the center of the table.

  “It is one piece, interwoven again and again. Very clever.”

  “Yes,” said Nian. “Very clever.”

  Weldi turned to Skilgannon. “Please rest here for a little while. You will each be assigned rooms later, after Ustarte has spoken with you individually.”

  “And the axman?” asked Diagoras.

  Weldi gave a crooked smile. “The beast would not leave him. So we have sedated it. It will remain asleep while you are guests here. Druss will be with you presently. Khalid Khan refused our invitation. He has returned to his people. Is there anything you require in the meantime?” Skilgannon shook his head. “Very well then, I shall leave you. The door at the far end of the chamber leads to an ablutions chamber. Its workings are not complicated. The main door leads out into the main temple. The passages and tunnels are very much like a maze to those who do not know the paths. I would therefore request you remain here until Ustarte calls for you. That may be an hour—perhaps a little longer.”

  “We wish to go to the gardens,” said Garianne. “It is very peaceful there.”

  “I am sorry, Sweet One. You must remain here. I do not have happy memories of the last time you wandered free.” Garianne looked crestfallen. “I still love you dearly, Garianne. We all do,” he said.

  After he had left Garianne returned to the couch and lay down once more. “Found it!” said Nian happily. He had squirmed under the table and had his hand on a section of folded iron. “Look, Jared! I found the join.”

  Druss joined them. He seemed in better spirits as he strode to a deep chair and stretched himself out in it. “Rabalyn is alive!” he said.

  “We heard,” Diagoras told him. “This is truly an enchanted place.”

  “Everything here is good,” said Garianne. “No evil—save that which comes in from the outside,” she added, staring at Skilgannon. “Ustarte can read the future here. Many futures. Many pasts. She will take you to the Vanishing Wall. There you will see. We saw. So many things.”

  “What did you see?” asked Nian.

  Garianne’s gray eyes clouded over, and her face hardened. Closing her eyes again she lay down.

  “I don’t care much for magic,” said Druss. “But if it saves the boy I’ll put aside my doubts.”

  “You are looking better, Old Horse,” said Diagoras. “You have color in your cheeks again.”

  “I feel more like myself,” admitted Druss. “The pain in my chest is less now, and I have a little strength flowing back into my limbs. They gave me a drink of something when first I entered. Cool and thick, like winter cream. Tasted fine, I can tell you. I could do with another.”

  Diagoras moved back to the window. The moon was high and bright over the mountains. Skilgannon joined him. “There was something odd about that Weldi,” said Diagoras.

  Skilgannon said nothing, but he nodded. “You saw it too?” persisted Diagoras.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t quite put my finger on what was wrong about him.”

  “I saw nothing threatening,” said Skilgannon. “He moves oddly. But then he is old and may have crystals in his joints.”

  “For me it was the eyes, I think,” said Diagoras. “You don’t often see that red gold color. In fact I have never seen it—save in a dog or a wolf. Sometimes a horse.”

  “He is an odd-looking man,” agreed Skilgannon.

  “Good news about Rabalyn, eh?”

  “Let us hope there is more good news to follow,” said Skilgannon, idly stroking the locket around his neck.

  18

  * * *

  Just over two hours later Skilgannon was led to a room on a higher level. As he followed the slow-moving Weldi he saw several other priests moving along the corridors. They passed a dining room. Through the open door Skilgannon saw a large group of people sitting and eating. “How many of you are there?” he asked Weldi.

  “More than a hundred now.”

  “What is it you do here?”

  “We study. We live.”

  Climbing another set of stairs they came to a leaf-shaped door. The wood was dark, and there were gilded inscriptions upon it that Skilgannon could not read. The door opened as they approached. Weldi stepped aside. “I shall return for you when your visit is concluded,” he said.

  Skilgannon stepped inside. The room was large, the ceiling domed. The plastered walls had been adorned with paintings, mostly of plants, trees, and flowers, against a background of blue sky. There were also real plants here, in earthenware containers. In the lantern light it was difficult to see where the real greenery ended and the paintings began. The sound of tinkling water came to him. Stepping further into the room, he saw a tiny waterfall bubbling over white rocks to a shallow pool. There were many scents in the air, jasm
ine and cedar and sandalwood. And others more heady. He felt himself relax.

  Moving past the waterfall the room narrowed, then widened again, leading out onto a balcony above the valley. Here, in the moonlight, he found Ustarte. The shaven-headed priestess was leaning on an ebony staff, tipped with ivory. He stood for a moment, transfixed by her beauty. Her features were Chiatze, fine-boned and delicate. Her large, slanted eyes, however, were not the deep golden brown of that race. In the moonlight they shone like silver, though Skilgannon guessed them to be blue. He bowed low. “Welcome to the Temple of Kuan,” she said. The music of her voice was extraordinary. He found himself suddenly speechless in her company. The silence grew. Angry with himself Skilgannon took a deep breath.

  “Thank you, lady,” he said, at last. “How is Rabalyn?”

  “The boy will survive, but you will need to leave him here with us for a while. I have placed him in a protective sleep. There was a great deal of sepsis, and gangrene had begun. He will need a week or more before he can rise from his bed.”

  “I am grateful. He is a courageous lad. And you brought him back from the dead.”

  Ustarte looked at him and sighed. “Yes, I did. But I cannot accomplish what you would ask of me, Olek Skilgannon. This is not the Temple of the Resurrectionists.”

  He stood silent for a moment, struggling with his disappointment. “I did not really believe that you could. The one who sent me to you is evil. She would not wish me to succeed.”

  “I fear that is true, warrior,” said Ustarte, softly. She gestured to a table. “Pour yourself a goblet of water. You will find it most refreshing. The water here has enhancing properties.” Skilgannon lifted a crystal jug and filled a matching goblet.

  “Shall I pour for you, lady?”

  “No. Drink, Olek.”

  Raising the goblet to his lips, he paused. Her laughter rang out. “There is no poison. Would you like me to taste it first?”

  Embarrassed, he shook his head, then drained the goblet. The water was wondrously cool. In that moment he felt like a man who had crawled across a burning desert and had discovered an oasis. “I never tasted water like it,” he said. “It is as if I can feel it flowing through every muscle.”