White Wolf (24 page)

“What is wrong, Olek?” she asked him, as they passed a gushing fountain.

“Nothing.”

“You are gripping my hand more tightly.”

“I am sorry,” he said, loosening his grip. The only time they touched was when they were outside. Skilgannon enjoyed these walks more than any other pleasure he had ever experienced.

Night was falling as they approached the park gates. Two men with fire buckets were moving along the walkways, lighting the tall, bronze lanterns which lit the paths. Skilgannon saw an old woman sitting on a bench. “You wish your fortunes told, young lovers?” she asked. Her voice grated on Skilgannon. She was extraordinarily ugly, and her clothes were ragged and filthy. He was about to refuse her offer when Sashan released his hand and moved to sit alongside the crone.

“Tell me my future,” she said.

“There are many futures, child. Not all are written in stone. Much depends on courage, and luck, and friends. Even more depends on enemies.”

“Do I have enemies?” asked Sashan, the question sounding innocent. Skilgannon was growing ill at ease.

“We should go, Sashan. Molaire will be angry if the meal goes cold.”

“Molaire will not be angry, Olek Skilgannon,” said the Old Woman. “I promise you that.”

“How is it you know my name?”

“Why would I not? The son of the mighty Firefist. Did you know that your father is now a demigod among the Panthians?”

“No.”

“They worship courage above all else, Olek. You will need all the courage your bloodline can supply. Do you have such courage?”

Skilgannon did not answer. There was something about the crone that chilled him.

“What about
my
fortune?” asked Sashan.

“
You
have the courage, my dear. And to answer your question, yes, you have enemies. Powerful enemies. Ruthless and cruel men. One in particular. He needs to be avoided for now, for his stars are strong, and his standing high. He will cause you great pain.” She looked up at Skilgannon. “And he will break your heart, Olek Skilgannon, and burden you with guilt.”

“Let’s go,” said Skilgannon. “I need to hear no more of this.”

“I still haven’t been told my fortune,” said Sashan. “I have enemies, you say. Will I defeat them?”

“They will not defeat you.”

“Enough of this nonsense!” snapped Skilgannon. “She knows nothing, save my name. All else is valueless. Strong enemies, broken hearts. It means nothing.” Fishing a small silver coin from his pouch, he dropped it in the crone’s lap. “This is all you desire. Now you have it. Leave us be.”

She pocketed the coin, then looked up at Skilgannon. There was no one close by when she spoke, and her words lanced into him. “Your enemies are closer than you think, Olek. The empress is dead. Your friend Greavas has suffered the most terrible of fates. And the young princess sitting beside me is in mortal danger. You still wish to talk of nonsense?”

The words burned into Skilgannon, stunning him. He stood very quietly, staring at her. Then slowly he turned to scan the park, expecting at any moment to see armed men emerge from the undergrowth. No one came. He glanced at Sashan. She too was shocked, but showed no grief. “How did my mother die?” she asked.

“She took poison, my dear. It was hidden in a ring she wore. She did not suffer.”

“And Greavas?” asked Skilgannon.

“They tortured him for hours. He was strong, Olek. His courage was towering. In the end, however, bereft of his eyes, his fingers, he told them everything. Then Boranius continued his butchery for sheer pleasure. It did not sate his appetite for inflicting pain. Nothing can. It is his nature.”

Skilgannon fought to marshall his thoughts. “How did Boranius find them?” he asked.

“There was a man Greavas trusted.” The Old Woman shrugged. “The trust was misplaced—as trust usually is. Now the soldiers are looking for you, Olek Skilgannon. And for the yellow-haired whore who travels with you.”

He stared hard at the ugly old woman. “Who are you? What is your place in all of this?”

“Hardly the most important questions you need to be asking at this moment. You stand here in a tunic and sandals with . . . what? . . . a few silver coins in your pouch? The princess wears a flimsy dress and has no coins. What are your plans, Olek Skilgannon? And yours, Jianna? A thousand men are searching the city for you.”

“And why do you offer us help?” asked Jianna, her voice cool.

“I did not say I would help you, child. I am merely telling you your fortune. Young Olek has paid me for that. My help comes at a much higher price. One thousand Raq seems fair to me. Does it seem fair to you?”

“You might as well make it ten thousand,” said the princess. “At this time I have nothing.”

“Your word will suffice, Jianna.”

“You could make more by betraying us,” said Skilgannon.

“Indeed. If it suited my purposes, young man, I would have done exactly that.

“If I survive and succeed I shall pay you,” said Jianna. “What do you advise?”

The Old Woman lifted a scrawny hand and scratched at a scab upon her face. “I have a place nearby. First we will go there. Then we will plan.”

Skilgannon suddenly groaned. “Sperian!” he said. “What of Sperian and Molaire?”

“There is nothing you can do now, Olek Skilgannon. They have followed Greavas on the swan’s path. Boranius is leaving your house even as we speak. He has left men behind to watch for you.”

“How many?”

“Four. One you know. A short man, with a long mustache.”

“Casensis.”

“An unpleasant fellow. He also joys in pain. He is not as naturally skilled in the arts of torture as your friend Boranius. But his pleasure in it is equal.”

Skilgannon felt a sick pain gnaw at his stomach. Rage threatened to overwhelm him, and he fought for calm. Darkness had fallen now, and a cool wind was blowing across the deserted park. “I have no proof that any of this is true,” he said, at last.

“You know where to find it, Olek Skilgannon,” she pointed out.

“We must go home,” he said to Jianna.

“That would be senseless,” the princess replied. “If she is right there are men waiting. I’ll not be taken.”

“I cannot leave you with her. She may seem helpful, but I sense the evil in her.”

Jianna rose from the bench, her eyes angry. “You do not have the right to
leave
me anywhere. Nor
take
me anywhere. I am Jianna. My life is in
my
hands. Despite all you have seen of me you still think of me as a delicate female who needs protecting. Would you be so concerned if I was a young prince? I think not. Well, Jianna is stronger than any young prince, Olek. Malanek trained me well. Go to your house if you must. I shall travel with her.”

“Such wisdom in the young,” said the old woman. “A pleasure to see it.”

Jianna ignored her. “Do not be foolish, Olek. They will take you and torture you.”

“It is not foolishness,” said the Old Woman, suddenly, “for he is not a foolish man.” She looked up at Skilgannon. “You need to
see
the truth, Olek. And more.” Olek felt her eyes upon him. She swung to Jianna. “Let him go, Princess. The sights he will witness will make him stronger. The actions he takes will bring him to sudden manhood.” With a grunt she pushed herself to her feet. “If you survive, Olek Skilgannon, go to the Street of Carpenters. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“Halfway down there is an alley, which runs alongside an old inn. Follow it and you will find yourself in a small square. At the center is a public well. Wait by the well. I will fetch you, if it is safe.”

“Where will you be?”

“Best you do not know,” said the Old Woman. “Boranius carries a number of implements designed to elicit information speedily. One is a beautifully crafted—yet small—set of shears. It can snip a finger with one long squeeze.”

Skilgannon looked into her ugly face and saw the glint of malicious pleasure in her eyes. “How would you know of his . . . shears?”

“I made them for him, Olek Skilgannon. I make many things. I made the ring the empress wore, which contained the poison. I cast the runes for the emperor on the birth of his daughter and warned him that her life would be fraught with peril. Which is why she was trained like a man, with Malanek as her tutor. I even made a sword for Emperor Gorben.” She laughed, the sound harsh and dry, like windblown leaves rustling across a graveyard. “I fear I made that one too powerful. It has gone to his head. But I digress . . . If you survive I shall come to you.”

“I do not like this plan,” said Jianna.

“If he survives he will be more useful to you,” said the Old Woman. Skilgannon stepped in to Jianna, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He stood for a moment. “I love you,” he said. Then he turned and loped away into the darkness.

He took a curcuitous route back to the house, approaching it from the rear, moving on his belly across the paddock field behind the main garden. The night was cloudy, and he timed his movements to match the moments that the moon was obscured. Reaching the garden wall he paused. Despite everything the Old Woman had said there was a part of him that could not believe it—did not dare believe it. Once he climbed the wall he would find Sperian and Molaire sitting in the house waiting for him. Doubt struck him. He stood very still, aware that as long as he stood here the world was as he had always known it. The moment he climbed the wall everything might change. His emotions in turmoil, he did not know what to do. For the first time in his life he was truly terrified. You cannot just stand here, he told himself. Taking a deep breath he leapt high, hooking his fingers over the rim of the wall. Drawing himself up he rolled across the parapet and dropped to the earth below. Lanterns were burning inside the house, but he could see no movement. Keeping low he crept to the shed where Sperian kept his tools. Inside he found a sharp pruning knife with a short, curved blade and a wooden handle.

Armed with this he darted across the garden and into the building. In the doorway he paused and listened. He could hear no sounds. Moving further inside, and avoiding the windows opening to the front of the house, he checked the main living room. It was empty. Further on he heard strange, gurgling sounds. Taking a deep breath he pushed open the door to the kitchen. A lantern had been set on the table, and by its light he saw the blood-covered, mutilated body of Sperian. Blood had also splashed to the walls of the cupboards, and had seeped across the floor. The dying man made a sound, blood bubbling from a puncture wound in his throat. Dropping the pruning knife, Skilgannon knelt beside him. Sperian lifted a hand. It had no fingers. His face had been slashed with a knife, the skin hanging from the wounds. His eyes had been put out. “Oh, my friend!” said Skilgannon, his voice breaking. “Oh, what have they done to you?”

Sperian jerked at the sound of his voice, and tried to speak. No articulate sound came. Blood pumped from the wounds in his throat. Skilgannon stared down at the tortured man. Then he realized what he was trying to mouth. It was a single word.

Mo.

In the midst of such terrible pain he was asking about his wife.

“She is fine,” said Skilgannon, tears in his eyes. “She is well, my friend. Be at peace.”

Sperian relaxed then. Skilgannon took hold of his wrist. There was no hand to hold. “I will avenge this, my friend. I swear this on the soul of my father.”

Sperian lay quietly. The blood ceased to flow. Skilgannon began to weep. “I thank you for all you have done for me, Sperian,” he said, through his sobs. “You have been a father to me, and a friend. May your journey end in peace and light.” Struggling to control his grief, he took a silver coin from his pouch and put it into the dead man’s mouth. Then he rose and moved further back into the house.

Molaire had been murdered in her bedroom. She had been hacked around the face, and her eyes, too, had been cut out. Her hands had not been mutilated, and Skilgannon placed a coin in her right hand, closing her dead fingers around it. “Sperian is waiting for you, Mo,” he said, his voice breaking. “May your journey end in peace and light.”

Then he walked upstairs to his own room. It had been ransacked. Pushing aside the chest in which he kept spare shirts, he reached into the recess hidden in the wall beyond and drew out a small box. From it he took the twelve gold coins and a few silvers. Dropping them into his pouch, he opened the chest and pulled out a dark pair of leather leggings. Kicking off his sandals he donned the leggings, and a brown hooded overshirt. Lastly he tugged on a pair of knee-length riding boots. Once fully dressed he chose other clothes. Stuffing them into a canvas backpack he slung it to his shoulders.

Then he made his way to his father’s old room. From a chest in the corner he lifted clear a short sword in a black leather scabbard. He also found a scabbarded hunting knife with a bone handle. Threading a belt through the loops in both scabbards, he swung it around his hips and buckled it. Drawing the sword he tested the edge. It was still sharp.

He stood very quietly, thinking out what to do next.

Common sense told him to leave the house the way he had come and creep back through the fields. But his burning heart and soul had another plan.

The Old Woman said Boranius had left four men to watch the house. One of them was Casensis.

They were watching out for an untried youth. Little more than a schoolboy.

Well, they would find him.

Skilgannon walked to the front door and, throwing it open, walked outside onto the narrow, tree-bordered street. As he crossed toward the trees two men came running from cover. Both held swords. Dropping his pack Skilgannon drew his own blade and darted in to meet them, plunging the short sword into the first man’s belly. It went deep, but the blood channel carved into the blade allowed him to drag it clear with ease. The second man’s saber slashed for Skilgannon’s head. Ducking beneath the swing, he clove his own blade through the man’s throat. Before his opponent had fallen, Skilgannon ran toward the trees. Another man reared up, scrabbling for his sword. Skilgannon killed him before he could draw it. A shadow moved to Skilgannon’s right.