White Wolf (20 page)

“Dead. I would have been too, if I hadn’t stopped to piss.”

“Dead?” echoed Cadis. “All three of them?”

“Rode into a trap. They came from all sides. Tore down the horses, then butchered the men. Almost had me. I grabbed the pommel of me saddle and let the pinto drag me clear of them.”

“How could beasts have sprung a trap?” snapped Cadis. “It is preposterous.”

“I agree with you, General. I wouldn’t have believed it myself unless I’d seen it.”

“I am not a general, as you well know, and I will not tolerate insubordinate behavior.”

“Tolerate what you like,” replied the man. “I’m quitting anyway. There’s no amount of money that would take me back to those creatures.”

“How do you know it was a trap?” asked Sergeant Shialis.

“Trust me, Shialis. Four of them were crouched down in the long grass. Didn’t emerge until the others had ridden by. It’s the gray one. I tell you, he’s smart that one. When the others attacked he just stood back and watched. Gives me the shivers just to remember it.”

“How many were there?” asked the sergeant.

“If you don’t mind I will conduct this interrogation,” said Cadis, glaring at the soldier. A silence grew. He stared hard at the scout. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“How many were there?”

“Fifteen—counting the gray one.”

“And where was this?”

“Twenty miles northeast, just where the land rises toward the mountains.”

“There were more than twenty reported missing,” said Cadis.

“Aye. We found three of them dead back in the woods to the south. Looked like they’d been struck by an ax—or a damn big sword. Don’t think there’s no live ones around here now.”

“Twenty miles northeast, you say. That is out of our jurisdiction,” said Cadis. “I’ll report this back to the colonel. You will make yourself available for his interrogation.”

At that moment the first of the refugees began to emerge onto the hillcrest. Cadis stared at them. Many of the women and children were glancing nervously at him and his men. A child began to cry. The sound was shrill and spooked Cadis’s mount. “Shut that brat up!” he snarled, jerking on the reins. The horse reared. Cadis fell back, his feet slipping from the stirrups. He landed on the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Furious, he lurched to his feet, the sound of hastily curbed laughter from his soldiers adding fuel to the flames of his rage. “You stupid cow!” he yelled at the frightened woman, who was trying to comfort the child.

A tall man stepped between them. “Control yourself,” he said, softly. “These people are frightened enough.”

Cadis blinked. The man was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, obviously well made and expensive, and good quality leggings and boots. The officer looked into the man’s eyes. They were startlingly blue and piercing. Cadis stepped back a pace. The silence grew. Cadis became aware that his men were waiting for him to say something. He felt foolish now—and this brought back his anger.

“Who do you think you are?” he stormed. “You don’t tell me to control myself. I am an officer in the victorious army of Dospilis.”

“You are a man who fell off your horse,” said the newcomer, his voice even. “These people have been attacked by beasts, and also by men who behaved like beasts. They are weary, frightened, and hungry. They seek only the shelter of the city.” Without another word the man walked past Cadis and approached Sergeant Shialis. “I remember you,” he said. “You led a counterattack on a bridge in Pashturan five . . . six years ago. Took an arrow in the thigh.”

“Indeed I did,” said Shialis. “Though I don’t remember you being there.”

“It was a brave move. Had you not held that bridge your flanks would have been turned and what was merely a defeat would have become a rout. What is it that you do here?”

“We’re hunting beasts.”

“We fought them last night. They moved off toward the north.”

Behind the two men Cadis Patralis had almost reached breaking point. He had fallen from his horse, been laughed at, and now he was being ignored. Gripping the hilt of his cavalry saber, he made to move forward. A huge hand descended on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“Been a soldier long, laddie?” Cadis turned and looked into eyes the color of a winter sky. The face that framed them was old, deep lines carved on the features. The man had a black and silver beard, and wore a black helm, emblazoned with an ax, flanked by grinning silver skulls. “I’ve been a soldier most of my life,” continued the man. “I’ve carried this ax across . . . well I don’t rightly know how many lands.” The warrior raised the weapon and Cadis found himself looking at his own reflection in the shining blades. “Never learned as much as I should. One truth, though, that I have found, is that it’s always best to leave anger at home. Angry men are stupid men, you see, laddie. And in wars it’s usually the stupid who die first. Not always, mind. Sometimes the stupid ensure that others die first. But the principle remains. So, how long have you been a soldier?”

Cadis felt a trembling begin in his stomach. There was something about the man that was leeching away his courage. He made one last attempt to regain control of the situation. “Unhand me,” he said. “Do it now.”

“Ah, laddie, if I do that,” said the man, amicably, his voice low, “then within a few heartbeats you’ll be dead. And we don’t want that, do we? You’ll insult that fine young fellow talking to your sergeant, and he’ll kill you. Then matters will turn ugly and I’ll be obliged to use old Snaga on your troops. They seem like good boys, and it would be a shame to see so much unnecessary bloodshed.”

“There are forty of us,” said Cadis. “It would be insane.”

“There won’t be forty at the close, laddie. However, I am now done talking. What happens now is up to you.” The huge hand lifted from Cadis’s shoulder and the massive figure stepped away.

The young man stood for a moment, then took a deep breath. A cool breeze touched his skin and he shivered. Cadis looked across at the woman and the child. He saw the fear in her eyes and felt the first heavy touch of shame. Cadis walked over to them, offering a bow. “My apologies, lady,” he said. “My behavior was boorish. I am sorry if I frightened your child.” Then he walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Angling his mount he rode alongside his sergeant. “Time to leave,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Cadis led the troop back down the hill and off toward the northwest and the waiting city.

“What did he say, sir?” asked Shialis, riding alongside.

“Who?”

“Druss the Legend.”

Cadis felt suddenly light-headed. “
That
was Druss?
The
Druss? Are you sure?”

“I knew him, sir. Years ago. No mistaking him. What did he say? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind, Sergeant. He gave me some advice about soldiering. Said to leave anger at home.”

“Good advice. You mind if I say something else, sir?”

“Why not?”

“That was a noble gesture, when you apologized to the mother. A lesser man wouldn’t have done that.” Shialis suddenly smiled. “Advice from Druss the Legend, eh? Something to tell the kids one day.”

There would be no children to tell.

Four months later Cadis Patralis would die fighting, back to back, with Shialis against the invading army of the Witch Queen.

Rabalyn missed the company of the twins. They had said good-bye at the city gates, and had left with Garianne, heading for the southern quarter. He had enjoyed talking with them. Jared treated him like an adult, never speaking down to him. And Nian, though simple, was always warm and friendly.

His feeling of loss soon evaporated, replaced by a sense of wonder. Having never before seen a city, Rabalyn could scarce believe his eyes. The buildings were monstrously large, towering and immense. There were temples, topped by massive statues, and houses boasting scores of windows and balconies. Rabalyn had always believed that the three-story home of Councillor Raseev had been the height of magnificence. Here it would look like a tiny hovel. Rabalyn stared at one palace as they passed, and counted the windows: sixty-six. It was hard to believe that any family could have grown so large as to
need
a home like this.

Beyond these magnificent buildings they came to narrower streets, the homes close packed and tall, the roads of cobbled stone. Rabalyn stayed close to Skilgannon, Druss, and Braygan, and wondered how so many people could live in such a place without becoming lost. Roads met and intersected, flowing around the buildings like rivers. There were people everywhere, and many soldiers with bandaged wounds. Most of the shops were empty of produce, and people gathered in crowds to barter or beg for what food there was to be had.

The axman led them out along a broad avenue, and down through a long stretch of parkland. It must have been beautiful before the war, thought Rabalyn, for there were statues and pathways, and even a fountain at the center of a lake. Now, however, tents had been pitched on the grassy areas and hundreds of downcast and weary people were milling around them.

“They are so sad,” said Rabalyn. Brother Lantern glanced at him.

“They’d have been sadder still if they’d had better leaders,” he said.

“How can that be true?” asked the youth.

“Think on it a while,” replied the former priest.

They walked on for more than a mile, coming at last to a gated area, before which stood two tall guards, dressed in red cloaks and silver helms. One of them saw Druss and smiled. He was tall and slim, and sporting a black trident chin beard. “Surprised to see no one’s killed you yet, Axman,” he said.

“Heaven knows they’ve tried,” answered Druss, with a grin. “They just don’t breed them tough anymore. Milkmaids in armor now. Just like you, Diagoras.”

“Aye, you ancients always say things were better in the old days,” replied the man. “I don’t think it’s true, though. I reckon young warriors look at you and are reminded of their grandfathers. Then they can’t possibly fight you.”

“Maybe so,” agreed the axman. “At my age I’ll take any advantage I can get. Any word on Orastes?”

The guard’s expression changed, the smile fading. “Not exactly. His servant has been found. He’s alive, but barely. He was in the Arena dungeons. The Datians discovered him there when they opened the prisons.”

“In the dungeons? That makes no sense. Where is he now?”

“Being cared for at the White Palace,” Diagoras told him. “I’ll arrange a pass for you tomorrow. Where are you heading?”

“The Crimson Stag on West Quay. Do they still have food?”

“Aye, but not the menu they had. Things will ease now that the Datians have lifted the blockade. Six ships have already unloaded. Old Shivas will have been prowling the dock to restock his larders. I’ll come by after my watch and help you down a flagon or ten.”

“Ah, laddie,” chuckled Druss, “in your dreams. One sniff of a wine cork and youngsters like you slide under the table. However, you buy the wine, and I’ll teach you how it should be drunk.”

“Let’s say that the last person standing can forget the bill,” offered Diagoras.

“That’s what I did say.”

Rabalyn watched the exchange. As the two men spoke he saw the Drenai soldier’s eyes constantly flick toward Brother Lantern, who was standing some distance away, chatting to Braygan.

“Will your companions be traveling with you to the Crimson Stag?” asked Diagoras.

“Not all of us. The little priest is heading for the Street of Vines, and his church elders. Is there a problem?”

“The warrior with him. I have seen him before, Druss. I was stationed in Perapolis for two years. We left just before the end. The Naashanites granted the embassy and its staff safe passage through their lines. I saw the Damned as we rode through. Not a man I’d soon forget.” Druss glanced back at Brother Lantern.

“Maybe you are wrong.”

“I don’t believe so. I’ll let him through if you vouch for him.”

“Aye, I’ll do that. Best you report his presence to your superiors, though.”

Diagoras nodded and pushed open the gates. “I’ll see you after dark.”

“Bring enough coin to pay the bill.”

“I’ll bring a pillow too, so that your old head can rest on it as you sleep under the table.”

Druss clapped the man on the shoulder and strolled through the gates. Brother Lantern and Braygan followed him, Rabalyn bringing up the rear.

The light was fading as they reached a second set of gates, blocking the way across an arched bridge over a river. Here there were more guards, powerful men with blond beards and pale blue eyes. They were wearing long mail-ring tunics and horned helms.

Druss spoke to them, and once more the gates were opened. “The Street of Vines is across the bridge and the first turning on the left,” Druss told Braygan. “Your church building is a little way along.” The little priest thanked him, then swung to Brother Lantern, offering his hand. The warrior shook it.

“Thank you for all you have done for me, Brother,” said Braygan. “May the Source be with you on your travels.”

“I don’t think He likes my company,” answered Skilgannon, with a sigh. “Will you take your vows?”

“I think that I will. Then I will return to Skepthia, and try to be of service.” Braygan offered his hand to Rabalyn. “You are welcome to come with me,” he said. “The elders may know of the whereabouts of your parents. If not they can give you shelter while you try to find them.”

Rabalyn shook his head. “I don’t want to find them.”

“If you change your mind I shall be here for some days.” With that the little priest walked through the gates. He paused once on the bridge to look back and wave. And then he was gone.

10

The Crimson Stag Tavern was an old building, L-shaped and double storied, constructed close to the West Quay, overlooking the harbor and the sea beyond. It had long been the haunt of Drenai officials and soldiers stationed in the Embassy Quarter of the city. Such was its reputation for food, wine, and ale that even Vagrian officers used it. Normally the antipathy between soldiers of Vagria and Drenan would have precluded any such common ground. Though none now living could recall the Vagrian-Drenai wars, the ancient enmity between the peoples continued. Occasionally there were even border skirmishes.

There were, however, no fights at the Crimson Stag. Not one man from either camp would risk being barred by Shivas, the sour-faced owner. His cooking was as sublime as his temper was dark. Added to which his memory was known to be long indeed, and a man refused custom once would never be forgiven.

Druss and Skilgannon sat at a table overlooking the moonlit harbor. Despite the coming of night, ships were still being unloaded at the quayside, and wagons were drawn up to ferry food back out into the hungry city.

Skilgannon sat quietly watching the dockers. His heart was heavy. He had not expected to miss the little priest. Yet he did. Braygan was the last link to a gentle life Skilgannon had tried so hard to embrace.

“We are what we are, my son. And wolves is what we are.”

The tavern was filling up. By the far wall a group of Vagrian soldiers were drinking and laughing. Skilgannon glanced across at them. Many still wore their tunic-length mailshirts, and one still had on his horned helm of reinforced brass. Elsewhere soldiers and officials of other races were sitting quietly, some already eating, others enjoying a goblet of wine or a tankard of ale. “How many nations are stationed in the Embassy Quarter?” he asked the axman. Druss shrugged.

“Never counted them.” He glanced around the tavern. “Mostly I only know those from Lentria and Drenan. There must be more than twenty embassies. Even one from Chiatze.”

Druss lifted his wine goblet and drained it. Skilgannon looked at him. Without his helm and silver steel-reinforced jerkin the axman looked what he was—a powerful fifty-year-old man. He could have been a farmer or a stonemason. Save for the eyes. There was something deadly in that iron gaze. This was a man—as the Naashanites would say—who had looked into the eyes of the dragon. “Are you the Damned, laddie?” asked Druss, suddenly.

Skilgannon took a deep breath, and met Druss’s gaze. “I am,” he replied.

“Do they lie when they talk of Perapolis?”

“No. There is not a lie that could make it any worse.”

Druss signaled a serving maid. The menu was not extensive and the axman ordered eggs and salt beef. He glanced at Skilgannon. “What are you eating?”

“The same will be fine.”

When the serving maid had departed, Druss refilled his goblet from a flagon and sat quietly, staring out of the window. “What are you thinking?” asked Skilgannon.

“I was thinking of old friends,” said Druss. “One in particular. Bodasen. Great swordsman. We fought side by side all across this land. No give in the man. A fine soldier and a true friend. I think of him often.”

“What happened to him?”

“I killed him at Skeln. Can’t change it. Can’t help regretting it. The boy tells me you were a priest for a while. Brother Lantern, I think he said.”

“A man should always try new things,” said Skilgannon.

“Don’t make light of it, laddie. Were you touched by faith, or haunted by guilt?”

“Probably more guilt than faith,” admitted Skilgannon. “Are you intending some subtle lecture at this point?”

Druss laughed, the sound unforced and full of genuine humor. “In all my long life no one has ever accused me of that, boy. A man who uses an ax doesn’t generally build a reputation for subtlety. You want me to lecture you?”

“No. There is nothing anyone could say to me that I haven’t already told myself.”

“Are you still with the Naashanite army?”

Skilgannon shook his head. “The queen wishes me dead. I am outlawed in Naashan. I’m told there is a large price on my head.”

“Then you are not here as a spy?”

“No.”

“Good enough.” Druss topped up his goblet. Skilgannon smiled.

“Rabalyn tells me you are to be involved in a drinking contest later. Shouldn’t you hold off on that wine?”

“A few sips to prepare the belly. This is Lentrian Red. I’ve not tasted a drop for two months. Are you not a drinker?”

Skilgannon shook his head. “It tends to make me argumentative.”

Druss nodded. “And a man with your skills can’t afford meaningless arguments. I understand that. I have heard tales of you and the Witch Queen. It is said you were her champion.”

“I was. We were friends once—in the days when she was hunted.”

“It is said you loved her.”

Skilgannon shook his head. “That doesn’t come close. Thoughts of her fill my waking hours and haunt my dreams. She is an extraordinary woman, Druss: courageous, clever, witty.” He fell silent for a moment. “Compliments like this fall so far short of the actuality that they seem like insults. I say she was courageous, but it does not paint the reality. I never met anyone more brave. At the Battle of Carsis, with the left in rout and the center crumbling, her generals advised her to flee the field. Instead she donned her armor and rode to the center where all could see her. She won the day, Druss. Against all the odds.”

“Sounds like you should have married her. Or did she not feel the same way toward you?”

Skilgannon shrugged. “She said she did. Who can know? But it was politics, Druss. Back in those dangerous days she needed allies. The only treasure she possessed then was her bloodline. Had we been wed she could never have gathered enough troops to win back her father’s throne. The princes and earls who fought under her banner all hoped to win her heart. She played them all.”

The meal arrived and the two men ate in silence. Finally, Druss pushed away his plate.

“You did not mention your own actions at Carsis. The story I heard was that you rallied the broken left flank and led a countercharge. It was
that
which turned the battle.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that story,” said Skilgannon. “It came about because
men
write the histories. They find it hard to praise a woman in a man’s world. I am a soldier, Druss. It is in my blood. Had Jianna not ridden to the front and given the men fresh courage, no action of mine would have made a jot of difference. Bokram’s forces had broken the left. Men were fleeing through the forest. When the queen arrived Bokram saw her, and pulled back half the cavalry giving chase on the left flank. He turned them back toward the center. It wasn’t a foolish move. Had he succeeded in killing Jianna, he could have hunted down the deserting warriors at his leisure. As it was I had a little time to regroup some of the fleeing men. And, yes, it was the counterattack that sundered Bokram’s army. Had the usurper had more courage, he would still have won the day. Such is the way of history, though. Ultimately the coward rarely succeeds.”

“The same is true in life,” said Druss. “So why does she now want you dead?”

Skilgannon spread his hands. “She is a hard woman, Druss.” He suddenly smiled and shook his head. “She doesn’t take well to disappointment. I left her service without her permission. She sent her lover to find me, to seek the return of a gift she made me. He came with a group of killers. I don’t know whether she ordered him to kill me. Perhaps not. In the end, though, it was her lover who lay dead. After that there was a price on my head.”

“Well, laddie, you’ve been a soldier and a priest. What now?”

“Have you ever heard of the Temple of the Resurrectionists?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“I mean to find it. It is said they can work miracles. I need such a miracle.”

“Where is it?”

“I do not know, Druss. It could be in Namib, or the Nadir lands, or Shemak. It could be nowhere. Just a legend from the past. I shall find out.”

The far door opened. Skilgannon glanced round. “Ah, your drinking opponent has arrived,” he said, as the tall, young soldier with the trident beard strolled over to the table. “I’ll leave you to talk. I shall take a stroll and breathe in the sea air.”

Diagoras moved into the seat vacated by the Naashanite killer and glanced at the half-empty flagon of Lentrian Red. “I do believe you started without me, old fellow,” he said, lifting it and filling a goblet.

“You need all the help you can get, boy.”

Diagoras watched as the Naashanite left the tavern. “You are mixing with dark company, Druss. He is a butchering madman.”

“I have been called that myself,” Druss pointed out. “Anyway, I like him. He came to my aid a few days ago. An evil man would not have risked himself. And he helped a group of refugees against the Arena beasts. There’s more to Skilgannon than tales of butchery. Did you report his presence?”

“Yes. Gan Sentrin is unconcerned. It seems the Damned is no longer an officer of Naashan. The Witch Queen has put a price on his head. He is an outlaw.”

“Aye, he told me.” Druss settled back in his chair, then rubbed at his eyes. Diagoras thought he looked tired. There was more silver in his beard than there had been at Skeln. Time, as the poet once said, was a never-ending river of cruelty. Diagoras sipped his wine. He wanted to say more about the vile Skilgannon. He wanted to ask how a hero like Druss could find anything to like about him, but he knew Druss well enough to recognize when the older man was finished with a conversation. His gray eyes would become bleak, and his face harden. Diagoras understood this aspect of him well. In a world of shifting shades of gray Druss the Legend struggled to see everything in black or white. A man was good or evil in Druss’s eyes. It was, however, hard to comprehend how he could hold to that view in this case. Druss was no fool. Diagoras sat quietly. The wine was good, and he always enjoyed the company of the older axman. He may be naÏve in his view of life, thought Diagoras, but there was always a sense of certainty around him. It was reassuring. After a while he spoke again.

“Did you hear that Manahin is now serving in Abalayn’s government?” he asked. “One of the heroes of Skeln. He always has his campaign medal on his cloak.”

“He earned it,” replied Druss. “Where is yours?”

“Lost it in a dice game a couple of years ago. To be honest, Druss, I lost too many friends there to want to be reminded of it. And I’m sick of people telling me they wish they could have been there with me. Damn, but I’d give a sack of gold
not
to have been there.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, laddie. I lost friends on both sides. It would be good to think it was all worthwhile.”

The comment shocked Diagoras. “Worthwhile? It kept us free.”

“Aye, it did. But because of it these eastern lands were plunged into war. It never ends, does it?” Druss drank deeply, then refilled his goblet. “Ah, don’t mind me, Diagoras. Sometimes the wine brings a darkness to my mind. What news of Orastes’s servant?”

“The surgeon gave him something to help him sleep. He was hard used, Druss, and greatly terrified. As far as we can ascertain he was in that dungeon around two months. It is likely Orastes was with him.”

“Imprisoned? It makes no sense. Why?”

“I can’t answer that. The situation here has been chaotic. No one knew what was going on. For the last few weeks we’ve kept all the Embassy Quarter gates locked. There have been riots, and murders, and hangings. The king went insane, Druss. Utterly. Word is that he ran around his own palace attacking his guards with a ceremonial sword, shouting that he was the god of war. He was cut down by his own general, Ironmask. That’s when the Tantrians surrendered and opened the gates to the Datians. Just as well, in the end. You know what would have happened had the city fallen by storm?”

“Rape, plunder, and butchery,” said Druss. “I know. Skilgannon said it earlier. If the Tantrians had been better led, they’d have suffered more. So, why would Orastes have been imprisoned?”

“We can make little sense of it, Druss. All I have been able to learn is that his reasons for coming to Mellicane were personal and not official. Every day he went out into the city, sometimes with his servant, sometimes without. You’ll need to speak to the man, but be aware, my friend, that Orastes is probably dead.”

“If he is,” said Druss, coldly, “I’ll find the men who did it, and the men who ordered it.”

“Well, if you’re still here in four days, I’ll join you,” said Diagoras. “My commission runs out then and I’m leaving the army. I’ll help you find out what happened, then I’ll head back to Drenan. Time I got married and sired a few sons to look after me when I’m in my dotage.”

“I’ll be glad to have you, laddie. Put enemies in front of me and I know just how to deal with them. But this search has me foxed.”

“There was a rumor Orastes was seen heading southeast about a month ago,” put in Diagoras. “It must have been put out by those who had him imprisoned. Is that where you’ve been?”

“Aye. He was said to be riding his white gelding, and accompanied by a group of soldiers. It turned out to be a merchant who bore a passing resemblance to Orastes, tall, plump, and fair-haired. The soldiers were his bodyguards. I caught up with them in a market village sixty miles from here. The gelding had belonged to Orastes. The merchant had a bill of sale, signed by the earl. I know his handwriting. It was genuine.”

“Well, tomorrow—hopefully—we’ll be able to speak with the servant. Now, are you ready for that drinking contest?”

“No, laddie,” said Druss, “tonight the meal and the drinks are on me. We’ll sit and do what old soldiers are renowned for. We’ll talk about past days and old glories. We’ll discuss the problems of the world, and—as the wine flows—we’ll come up with a hundred grand ideas to put everything to rights.” He chuckled. “And when we wake tomorrow with aching heads, we’ll have forgotten all of them.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Diagoras, raising his hand and summoning the tavern girl. “Two flagons of Lentrian Red, my dear, and some larger goblets, if you please.”