Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  “Fine,” said Shannow, ringing the handbell. The lift lurched upward, and once more the journey seemed interminable, but finally he came into the light where the six men labored at the winch and stepped out.

  “Where’s Meneer Ridder?” asked the burly man with the huge arms.

  “He’ll be along,” said Shannow, producing his pistol. “Lower the lift.”

  “What the hell is this?”

  “This is death, my friend, unless you do exactly as you are told. Lower the lift.”

  “You think you can take us all?”

  Shannow’s gun exploded, and a man was smashed back into the far wall, a bullet through his heart.

  “You think I can’t?” he hissed.

  The burly man turned the winch as if his life depended on it …

  Which it did.

  Within an hour most of the slaves had been lifted to the next level, but as Batik pointed out, several of the Wolvers had refused to leave, sitting silently staring at the tool chest. Batik was not even sure they had understood his urgings.

  Shannow went below and saw them, crouched in a half circle around the chest. It was not locked, and he opened it; inside were a dozen pick handles and a stack of blades. He handed them to the waiting Wolvers, who stood and moved into a line facing the black tunnel that led to the mine. Shannow went to the hunched figure at the front of the line and gently took him by the shoulders, turning him to face the lift. When the Wolver moved obediently toward the shaft, the others followed.

  Shannow rang the handbell and waited below as the box moved out of sight. Then he checked the six dungeons. In one he found seven bodies, small and emaciated; in another two corpses had begun to rot, and the stench was almost overwhelming. He forced himself to check the other rooms, and in the last he found Ridder crouching against the wall.

  “It’s not my fault,” said Ridder, staring down at the body of a child of around eleven.

  “How long is it since you visited these cells?”

  “Not for a year. It’s not my fault. The mine had to work. You see that, don’t you? Hundreds of people rely on it.”

  “Get up, pastor. It’s time to go.”

  “No, you can’t take them away. People will see them, and they’ll blame me. They won’t understand.”

  “Stay here, then,” said Shannow. He left the man squatting in a corner and moved back into the tunnel. Batik had sent down the lift, and he stepped inside and rang the bell.

  On the upper level Batik had disarmed the guards and had laid Archer’s unconscious body across the table the men had used for their dice game. Shannow examined the black man’s swollen features; he had been beaten badly.

  “Who did this?” he asked Batik.

  “The man Riggs and a half dozen others. I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t help himself; he just stood there and took it. It seemed to make them more angry, and when he fell, they started kicking him.”

  “Why did they do it?”

  “He simply told them that he wouldn’t work for them, that he would sooner just starve to death.”

  Shannow moved to the guards. “You,” he said, pointing to the burly man, “lead us out of here. The rest of you can help carry my friend.”

  “Are you going to let them live?” asked a man, pushing himself through the milling Wolvers. Shannow turned to see a wasted scarecrow of a figure with a matted blond beard streaked with filth. He was naked but for a stained leather loincloth, and his upper body was a mass of sores.

  “We need them, my friend,” said Shannow softly. “Hold your anger.”

  “My son is down there—and my wife. They died in that black hole.”

  “But we’re not free yet,” said Shannow. “Trust me.”

  He took the man by the arm and led him to Batik, collecting a double-barreled flintlock pistol the Hellborn had taken from one of the guards and pressing it into the man’s hand.

  “We may have to fight our way out. Take your revenge then.”

  Shannow looked around the room and saw that there were close to ninety people packing the chamber. He signaled the guards to lift Archer and then led the way into the tunnel beyond. Batik was at the rear. Shannow cocked his pistol and walked behind the guard he had chosen to lead them. Slowly the column of slaves moved through the bowels of the castle, the air freshening as they climbed toward the light. Finally they came into a high-walled corridor where far above them the dawn light shone in majestic shafts through arched windows. A chittering noise broke from the Wolvers, who raised their skinny arms, hands stretching toward the golden glow.

  Ahead was a double door of studded oak, and the guard began to move more swiftly.

  “Stop!” said Shannow, but the man merely dived for the floor, and the doors began to open.

  “Down!” bellowed Shannow, dropping to his knees, his pistol coming up as the muzzles of several rifles appeared in the open doorway. Shannow fired, and the first rifleman pitched from sight. The corridor was filled with deafening explosions. Shells whistled past Shannow, and his own gun boomed twice more; then there was silence. He flicked open the cylinder guard and reloaded his pistol, then ran forward, hugging the wall. A rifleman stepped into sight, and Shannow put two shots in his chest.

  Behind Shannow the guard who had been leading them reached into his boot and produced a long-bladed knife. He rose silently and launched himself at the Jerusalem Man, but a shot rang out and he staggered. Shannow twisted and fired, and the man slumped to the floor.

  Batik sprinted along the other side of the corridor.

  “Nice pistol,” he said. “Pulls a little to the left.”

  Shannow nodded and pointed to the right of the doorway, and Batik sighed and cocked his pistol. Moving forward at a run, he dived through the doorway and rolled on his shoulder. Behind the door a crouching rifleman swung his weapon, but Batik shot him in the head before he could bring the barrel to bear. Shells ricocheted off the marble floor, shrieking past Batik’s head. He glanced up and saw that he was in a huge hall edged by a wide inner balcony where other marksmen were kneeling, covering the door. He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself back into the corridor.

  “Any other ideas?” he asked Shannow.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “That’s just as well!”

  Behind them four of the Wolvers were down and dying; the others were crouching around them, keening softly.

  “Can you climb?” asked Shannow.

  Batik glanced up at the high windows. “I’ll break my neck.”

  “All right, we’ll just sit here and wait for a miracle.”

  “I thought your God was good at those.”

  “He helps those who help themselves,” said Shannow dryly.

  Batik exchanged pistols with Shannow and pushed the fully loaded Hellborn gun into his belt. The wall below the window was constructed of solid marble blocks about two feet square; between the blocks were cracks that allowed a tentative grip. Batik placed his foot on the first block and began to climb. He was a powerful man, but before he had climbed more than fifteen feet, his fingers were aching with the effort; at thirty feet he began to curse Shannow. At forty feet he slipped. His feet scrabbled for purchase, and all his weight hung on the three fingers of his right hand. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he fought down panic, moving his foot slowly into position to take his weight. His arms began to tremble, but he took a deep breath and pushed on, hooking his arm over the ledge of the arched window. Light blinded him, and he blinked rapidly; he was overlooking the main courtyard and could see men running from the walls to the steps below, heading into the hall.

  Swiftly he straddled the ledge and leaned out. As he had feared, there was no easy way to the windows above the hall balcony, and now the drop was even worse. With a whispered curse he lowered himself to the first foothold and started to traverse the outer wall. He had moved some ten feet when a musket ball hit the stone beside his head and screamed off above him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a man on the g
ate turret hastily reloading his weapon.

  Batik moved on. How long would it take to reload? Thirty seconds? A minute? His heart was pounding furiously as he reached the window and clamped his hand on the secure ledge. He risked another glance and saw the man aiming the rifle. Batik swung out, hanging by his right arm as the shot hit the ledge, chipping stone fragments that stung his hand. He hauled himself over the ledge and tumbled onto the balcony. Two men were kneeling there watching the doorway below, and they both turned as Batik fell. The Hellborn threw himself at them, knocking aside a musket barrel. The weapon fired. Batik cracked his fist against the man’s chin and kicked out at the second rifleman, catching him in the chest and knocking him flat. The first man drew a knife and leapt forward; Batik blocked the man’s knife arm with a chopping blow, grabbed his hair, and with a tremendous surge of power hurled him over the balcony wall. The man’s scream was cut off as he hit the marble floor.

  Batik pulled his pistol clear and swung on the second man, who was sitting motionless with his hands above his head. He was a youngster, maybe sixteen, with wide blue eyes and an open face too pretty to be called handsome.

  Batik shot him between the eyes.

  Across the hallway other riflemen had seen the action and opened fire. Batik dived to the floor and scrambled toward a stone pillar at one corner of the hall. From that position he had two fields of fire and could also see the stairwell that led to the balcony. He glanced at the riflemen opposite; there were three of them, each armed with a musket.

  “Shannow!” he called. “There’s only three. You want me to kill them?”

  At the other end of the hall Shannow grinned. “Give them a chance to surrender,” he shouted.

  Batik waited for several seconds. “They haven’t surrendered,” he said.

  “Wait!” came a cry from the balcony. “We don’t want any more killing.”

  “Throw the muskets over the edge,” Batik called, and three weapons clattered to the stone. “And any pistols.” More weapons crashed to the floor. “Now stand up where we can see you.”

  The men did so. Batik would have killed them, but he had only five shots left and knew there were more enemies in the courtyard below. “Bring them out, Shannow,” he yelled, and then ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time and emerging into the shadowed doorway of the main entrance. Outside, several men were crouching behind hastily built barricades constructed of water barrels and grain sacks.

  “What now, General?” Batik asked as Shannow moved alongside him in the shadows.

  “Now we talk,” said Shannow, and moved forward. “Hold your fire,” he called, descending the steps and moving slowly toward the crouching riflemen.

  “That is far enough,” called a voice.

  Shannow stopped. “Inside there are seven dead men; some of them were probably friends of yours. Eight others surrendered, and tonight they will be with their families enjoying supper. You decide what you want to do. Batik! Bring them out.”

  The Jerusalem Man stood calmly before the riflemen as the first of the Wolvers stumbled into the daylight. One by one the guards put down their rifles and stood. Batik led the former slaves through the gates and out into the main street of the town, where the Wolvers huddled together behind the black-garbed Hellborn.

  Back in the courtyard a terrible scream tore through the air as the skeletal, bearded widower ran into the open, clutching the flintlock pistol. He looked at Shannow and the guards and then ran out into the street behind the Wolvers, stopping only when he saw the crowds lining the buildings. He screamed again and fell to his knees, staring down at his filthy body and the pus-filled sores on his skin.

  His wild eyes raked the crowd. “You took it all!” he shouted, lifting the pistol under his chin and pulling the trigger. Blood gushed from his throat, and he toppled forward.

  Shannow rode from the castle, leading two horses. He paused by the body and then looked at the silent crowd. There were no words to convey his contempt, and he rode on. The guards had carried Archer to the porch by the store; the black man was coming around, but he could not stand.

  “Take him inside somewhere,” ordered Shannow. “Find him a bed.”

  “Bring him to my place,” said Flora. “I’ll see to him.”

  Shannow nodded to the woman. The Wolvers were sitting in the center of the street, some of them still holding their pickaxes. Shannow dismounted and moved to Batik. “Get some food from the store for them. Clothes, supplies … Jesus! I don’t know. Get them anything they need.”

  The storekeeper, Baker, walked out onto the street.

  “Who is going to run the mine?” he asked.

  Shannow hit him, and the man fell to the dust.

  “There was no need for that,” whimpered Baker.

  Shannow took a deep breath. “You are correct, Meneer Baker, and I cannot begin to explain it.” He left the man and walked to the Wolvers, moving in to kneel among them.

  “Can any of you understand me?” he asked.

  They looked at him but did not speak; their faces were cowed, their eyes dull. Flora approached, bringing with her the young boy who had stabled Shannow’s horse.

  “They do understand you,” she said. “Robin here has lived with them.”

  “We are going to get you some food,” Shannow told them. “Then you are free to return to the plains or the mountains or wherever you call home.”

  “Ree?” said a small dark figure to the right, his head tilting, his eyes fixed on Shannow’s. The voice was piping and high, almost musical.

  “Yes. Free.”

  “Ree!” The creature blinked and touched one of its comrades on the shoulder. Shannow saw it was a female. It placed its arms around her shoulders, and their faces touched. “Ree,” the Wolver whispered.

  “Archer wants to see you,” said Flora.

  Shannow stood and followed her through the eating house and up a flight of rickety wooden steps to a bedroom above the kitchen.

  Archer was dozing when Shannow entered, but he awoke when the Jerusalem Man sat on the bed beside him.

  “Nicely done, Shannow,” he whispered.

  “I was lucky,” said Shannow. “How are you feeling?”

  “Strange. Light-headed, but there’s no pain. I’m so glad to see you, Shannow. When you went over that ledge, I had a sinking feeling in my heart.” The black man leaned back and closed his swollen eyes; his face was badly cut and gashed, and his words were badly slurred.

  “Rest now,” advised Shannow, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll come back later.”

  “No,” said Archer, opening his eyes, “I feel fine. I thought for a while that Riggs and his friends were going to kill me, and I knew Amaziga would be so angry. She’s a fine woman and a wonderful wife, but nag? She’s always telling me to take a weapon with me. But then, how many enemies does a man meet in a dead city? You’ll like her, Shannow; she made me wait eight years before agreeing to marry me—said that I was too soft, that she wasn’t going to risk falling in love with a man who would be killed during his first hostile encounter. She was nearly right. But my charm won her in the end. Tough lady, Shannow … Shannow?”

  “What is it?”

  “Why has it gone dark? Is it so late already?”

  The sun was shining brightly through the open window.

  “Light a lamp, Shannow. I can’t see you.”

  “There is no oil,” Shannow said desperately.

  “Oh, well, never mind. I like the dark. Do you mind sitting here with me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I wish I had my stone. Then these bruises would be gone in seconds.”

  “There’ll be another at the Ark.”

  Archer chuckled. “How could you attack a fortress?”

  “I don’t know; it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Batik told me you are unable to comprehend impossible odds, and I can quite believe him. Did you know that Ridder was a priest?”

  “Yes.”

&
nbsp; “Strange religion you have, Shannow.”

  “No, Archer. Just that some very strange people are attracted to it.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me.”

  “Why are you sounding so sad? It’s a fine day. I never thought to get out of there alive—they just kept kicking me. Batik tried to stop them, but they beat him down with staves. Staves … I’m very tired, Shannow. I think …”

  “Archer … Archer!”

  Flora moved forward and lifted the man’s wrist. “He’s dead,” she whispered.

  “He can’t be,” protested Shannow.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where is Riggs?”

  “He was in the meeting hall.”

  Shannow strode from the room and down the stairs, emerging into the sunlight, where Batik was passing out food among the Wolvers. Batik saw the expression on his face and moved to join him.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Archer is dead.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Riggs,” Shannow said tersely, pushing past him.

  “Wait!” Batik called, grabbing Shannow’s arm. “He’s mine!”

  Shannow turned. “What gives you the right?”

  “Poetry, Shannow. I’m going to beat him to death!”

  Together the two men entered the meeting hall. There were two dozen tables and a long bar running the length of the room. At the back sat three men, all of them armed. As Shannow and Batik moved forward slowly, two of the men eased themselves to their feet and edged away from the third.

  The man hurled the table away and stood. Riggs was over six feet tall and powerfully muscled, his face flat and brutal, his eyes small and cold.

  “Well?” he said. “What’s it to be?”

  Batik handed the pistol to Shannow and moved forward unarmed.

  “You must be insane,” said Riggs.

  Batik hit him with a crashing right-hand blow, and he staggered and spit blood from his mouth. The fight began. Riggs was heavier, but Batik moved with greater speed and landed more blows; the punishment each man took was appalling to Shannow’s eyes.

  Grabbing Batik in a bear hug, Riggs lifted him from his feet, but Batik hammered his open palms into Riggs’ ears and broke free. Riggs kicked Batik’s legs from under him and then leapt feetfirst at his head. The Hellborn rolled and rose to his feet; then, as Riggs rushed at him, he ducked under a left hook and hammered a combination of punches to Riggs’ belly. The big man grunted and backed away, and Batik followed, thundering blows to Riggs’ chin. Both men were bloodied now, and Batik’s shirt was in tatters. Riggs tried to grapple, but Batik swung him around and tripped him. The bigger man landed on his face, and Batik leapt on his back, grabbing his hair and chin.