White Wolf (42 page)

The dagger was ripped from him. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Looking up he saw a narrow pathway between the thorns. Touching his fingers to his belly, he found no blood, nor any sign of a wound. Pushing himself to his feet, he moved down the winding path. A savage roar made the ground tremble beneath his feet. He walked on.

The thorn wall ended. Before him was a clearing. At its center stood a huge bear with slavering fangs. Skilgannon stepped to meet it—and saw that he once more held his swords in his hands.

“No!” he shouted, hurling them from him. “I don’t want them!”

The beast charged. Skilgannon instinctively dived to his right, rolling on his shoulder and coming smoothly to his feet. “I will not hurt you, Elanin,” he shouted. “I am here to help.”

The beast reared and moved toward him. Skilgannon stood very still. “I have come with Uncle Druss to find you,” he said, scanning the undergrowth for signs of the child.

The bear loomed above him, and he looked up into its huge brown eyes.

“Where is Uncle Druss?” it asked, with the voice of a small girl.

“He is coming to the citadel.”

“Does he have an army?”

“No. I am with him. And Diagoras and Garianne. Two friends of Uncle Druss.”

The bear sat down. Its shape shimmered and changed. The ground shifted. Walls reared up around the clearing. Within moments Skilgannon found himself sitting in a high room, with a wide window overlooking the sea. It was a child’s room, full of toys and books. On the bed by the window sat a blond girl, with large, blue eyes. “Hello, Elanin,” he said.

“Where is my father?” she asked. “I cannot find him.”

Skilgannon sighed. “May I sit with you?” he asked.

“You can sit in the chair.”

He did as she bid. “I am Brother Lantern,” he said. “I am . . . I was . . . a priest. I am also called Skilgannon. I do not know your father. I have never met him. Uncle Druss tells me he is a fine man.”

“They killed him, didn’t they? They killed Father. Ironmask told me. He said they turned him into a wolf and he was killed in the Arena.”

“Ironmask is an evil man. But you must be strong. We will come for you.”

“He wants to kill me too. But he won’t find me here.”

“No, he won’t.”

The little girl looked into Skilgannon’s eyes. “If you haven’t got an army you won’t win. There are lots of soldiers with Ironmask. Big men with big swords. More than a hundred. I saw them from my window.”

“I have seen them too. It will be difficult. Tell me, little one, do you know the way back to the citadel?”

“I’m not going there! You can’t make me!” The room shimmered, thorn limbs sprouting from the walls.

“No one is going to make you do anything,” he said, swiftly. “Is that the harbor outside? Do you have a boat there? I have always liked boats.” The thorns withdrew. Elanin rose from the bed and walked to the window.

“Father doesn’t like boats. They make him feel sick.”

“I sometimes feel sick in boats. But I still like them.” He knelt down in front of her. “When we come to rescue you in the citadel we need to be able to call you home. We need . . . a secret password so you know it is safe.”

“I am not coming home. Father isn’t there. I shall stay here.”

“That is one plan,” he agreed. “I think it will make Uncle Druss sad.”

“Then he can come here.”

“And what of your friends back in Dros Purdol? They can’t come here. This is your special place. I only came because I have a special friend who showed me the way.”

“Ironmask killed Mother too. He cut her up.” Tears welled in the child’s eyes. Instinctively Skilgannon reached out and drew her in to a hug. He stroked her hair and patted her back.

“I cannot bring her back,” said Skilgannon. “I cannot take away your suffering. But you are strong. You are a very brave girl. You will make your own decisions. Let us agree on a password. You can then decide whether to stay here, or come back to Uncle Druss and me.”

“I think you should go now,” she said. “It is getting late.”

The room spun. Skilgannon was flung through the air, in total darkness. He landed heavily on the ground—just in front of the thorn forest.

“I will see you soon, Elanin,” he called. Then he whispered the name of Ustarte.

Skilgannon opened his eyes. Ustarte was standing by the balcony’s edge, looking at him intently. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Weary.”

“Drink a little of our water. It will revive you.” The sun was shining brightly, and a cool breeze flowed across the balcony. Skilgannon filled a crystal goblet and drained it. His limbs felt leaden, as if he had run a great distance.

“You suffered much,” said Ustarte. “I will be honest, you have surprised me, warrior. You almost died in there.”

“You warned me it could be dangerous.” Strength was seeping back into his limbs.

“That is not what surprised me. Even Druss, I think, would have taken his ax to that thorn thicket. He would certainly have fought the bear.”

“It doesn’t matter. I failed. She is too terrified to come out.”

“You have planted a seed. You could do no more. You should rest for a while.”

“Not yet,” said Skilgannon. “Can you take me to the citadel once more? I need to see exactly how many soldiers there are, and what their duties are.”

“I can tell you the numbers.”

“With respect, lady, I need to see for myself. Four warriors cannot attack the citadel. If we merely needed to enter and kill Ironmask we could do it. However, I have now seen the child, and the most important duty we have is to rescue her, to bring her safely home. If that is to be even remotely possible I need to know the movements of their troops, their methods, and their duties. I need to understand their loyalties. Do they fight for love of Boranius, or for plunder? Everything is against us at this moment. Had we arrived in secret we might have spirited the child away, and then returned for Boranius. But we are not arriving in secret. He knows we are coming. And I know Boranius. He is not a fool. From what I saw of the citadel there are only four approaches. He will have scouts out, watching for us. Once we are seen on the open road he will send riders to intercept us. Even with twenty Druss the Legends we would be overcome, by arrows and spears, if not by swords.” He looked up at her. “So I ask again that you take me back.”

“Would it make a difference to your plans if I told you that you cannot win, Olek?”

“No,” he said, simply.

“And why is that?”

“Not an easy question to answer, lady, and I am too weary to debate it.”

“Then I shall take you back to the citadel, Olek. Close your eyes.”

19

Morcha sat outside the bedroom. The groans of pain were easing now as the surgeon applied narcotic salves to Boranius’s ruined face. The burns were severe, and yet strangely had only affected the discolored skin. The rest of his face and his eyes were completely untouched. After a while the surgeon Morcha had brought from the market town emerged from the bedroom. “He is sleeping now,” he said. “I have never seen a wound like it.”

“Nor I,” said Morcha. The sandy-haired officer rose from his seat. “I thank you for coming,” he said. The surgeon, a thin-faced man with rounded shoulders looked at him curiously. Morcha felt embarrassed suddenly. The man had had no choice. When Ironmask issued a command you either obeyed or died. Sometimes you did both.

“I will need a room close by. When he awakes the pain will return. I need to be here.”

“Of course,” said Morcha.

“I am amazed his sight is not affected. There are no burns to the skin around the eyes. How did this accident occur?”

“I was not present, sir. The Nadir was burned to ashes. Not a bone remained. My lord was mutilated as you saw. Some of the men heard screams from the Roof Hall and ran to the room. The door was barred. They heard voices from within—one of them a woman’s. When they finally broke in the woman was gone.”

“Were there other exits?”

“No.”

The surgeon shivered. “I need to know no more about this,” he said, making the sign of the Protective Horn. “Show me where I may sleep.”

Morcha took him to a small room on the ground floor. “I shall send you some food and drink,” he said. “I hope you will be comfortable.” Once again the surgeon looked at him strangely.

“If you don’t mind me asking, young man, how is it that you are here?”

“I do mind you asking,” said Morcha, giving a short bow and leaving the surgeon.

As he walked out into the night the question continued to burn in his mind. He strolled across the open ground, then wandered past the warehouses and storage areas, coming at last to the low barracks which housed the soldiers who still followed Boranius. Alongside the barracks was the Long Tavern, where the men relaxed at day’s end. The sounds from within were raucous. Morcha did not feel like joining them. He walked on, coming to the now near-deserted Nadir area. The death of Nygor had been seen by most of the warriors as an evil omen—especially coming so soon after the killing of the men sent after Deathwalker. Of the sixty Nadir warriors who had inhabited this section only four scouts now remained. The rest had saddled their ponies and ridden off toward the north.

Morcha made his way to the outer defensive wall and climbed to the ramparts. He found the two sentries on this section in deep conversation. One of them saw him and leapt to his feet. The other merely stared at Morcha and remained where he was. “There are still enemies out there,” said Morcha. “We need to be alert.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the standing soldier. “We were just talking about the attack on Ironmask.”

“And the fact that we’re all out of luck,” said the second. “We should be quitting this place, Morcha. If we don’t we’ll die here.”

“There are merely a handful of warriors out there, Codis. Druss may be a legend, but even he cannot defeat us all.”

“No, he can’t,” agreed the man, rising to his feet. “But what next? A few years back we were soldiers of the king. Shemak’s balls, man, we were the elite. Then we lost, and barely got out with our lives. What have we been since then? Truth to tell, Morcha, I wish you had never come to me and said Boranius was still alive. I wish with all my heart that I’d stayed quietly in Dospilis. Not one of the promises has been met.”

Morcha sat down on the crenellated battlement. “You weren’t saying that, Codis, while we were gathering riches in Mellicane.”

“Does this look like Mellicane to you?” sneered Codis. “This is a crumbling ruin. What is the point of having sentries on the walls, when there are at least ten full breaches, and other areas where a man could just walk in unobserved? We have trees which come almost to the edge of the walls. When the enemy get here they will just walk in. We’ll see them only when the blood-letting starts. I say we take off and head into the hills. We can plunder a few caravans, make some money, and then strike east toward Sherak. They are hiring mercenaries. We could do well there.”

“Aye, we could. Perhaps you would like to put that view to Boranius?”

“Perhaps we all should,” said Codis. “Perhaps we should go to him now and put him out of his misery.” Codis fell silent, and the words hung in the air. He looked into Morcha’s eyes. “He’s never going to win back power, Morcha. He had a chance in Mellicane, but not now. What are we? A band of robbers. Sooner rather than later the Datians will come for us. We used to be part of an army of thousands. Now there are seventy of us. We’re out of gold, out of opportunities, and out of luck.”

“Luck can change,” said Morcha.

“Aye, it can. For us though its likely to move from bad to worse. I spoke to the three Nadir who survived the attack on Druss. Have you heard?”

“I heard they were massacred.”

Codis suddenly chuckled. “Ah yes, you’ve been in the north. You haven’t heard the best news then?”

“Just tell me.”

“Well, the Nadir made camp the night before the attack. A lone swordsman walked in, killed a bunch of them, then rode out on one of their ponies. The swordsman had two curved blades, with white ivory hilts. One of the Nadir recalled he had a tattoo of a spider on his forearm.”

“So?”

“So?” echoed Codis. “Who do you think that is likely to be? We’re not just facing Druss the Legend. Skilgannon is coming.” He stared intently at Morcha, then his expression hardened. “You knew. You damned well knew!”

“He is one man. As you said yourself, we are seventy.”

“Oh yes, one man! If he was to walk in here now how many of us would he take down before we stopped him? Five? Ten? I don’t want to be one of those ten.”

“You won’t be, Codis,” said Morcha, with a smile. Easing himself off the battlements, he suddenly laughed. “I can guarantee that.”

“Oh yes, and how exac—” Codis grunted. His knees buckled. Morcha powered the dagger further into Codis’s chest. The soldier sagged against his killer. Morcha stepped back. Codis fell face first to the stone. The other soldier stood by silently. Morcha rolled the body to its back and retrieved his dagger.

“Keep watch,” said Morcha. “I’ll send another sentry to join you. Best you don’t fall into conversation again.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“I believe you.”

Morcha wiped his dagger clean on the dead man’s tunic, then sheathed it. Descending the rampart steps, he walked back to the tavern, where he located an officer and ordered him to send some men to retrieve Codis’s body.

Then he returned to the citadel. Remembering the surgeon, he ordered one of the cooks to take the man some food, and sat alone in the deserted dining hall. The cook returned after a while and brought Morcha a tankard of cold beer. Morcha thanked the man.

His mind flowed back over the years, recalling the day that he and Casensis had followed the youth, Skilgannon. He still remembered fondly the time at the bathhouse. How neatly the boy had fooled them, and how priceless had been the disguise the princess had adopted. The whole city had been searching for Jianna, and there she was, dressed as a whore, and standing before two of the men charged with capturing her. Morcha smiled at the memory.

How cool the young Skilgannon had been. Morcha admired him. More than that he had liked him. He had even been secretly pleased when the lad escaped the city with the girl. With luck they would have kept on moving, and drifted out of the pages of history. But no. The rebellion had begun. Boranius had been delighted. The prospect of battles and glory had thrilled him. Thoughts of defeat had entered no one’s head. The forces of the princess had been small, offering mere pinpricks and irritation to Bokram. A few outlying forts were taken, a few caravans seized. The attacks were hit-and-run and small in scale. The first year had seen little more than bee stings against the body of Bokram’s army. The second year much the same. Then two more tribal leaders had joined Jianna’s army. They had blocked the high passes in the west of Naashan, effectively liberating a region containing two cities and a score of silver mines. Looking back, that was the beginning of the end for Bokram. Though none of us saw it at the time, recalled Morcha.

Even up to the last battle we believed we would conquer. A sudden shiver rippled through him. The day, begun in high spirits, had ended with Morcha and five others carrying the mutilated Boranius from the field.

Now, years later, Boranius was mutilated again, and once more Skilgannon was coming.

Codis had been right. The only sensible course was to ride away now.

And yet he could not.

In a world of shifting values Morcha believed in loyalty. He had pledged himself to Boranius, and he would stand by him.

Have you seen enough?” asked Ustarte. Skilgannon struggled to open his eyes. His body felt as if it had been without sleep for a month. Every muscle ached. He could not raise himself from the chair. Ustarte’s gloved hand stroked his face. “Humans without training find the journey of the spirit exhausting,” she said. “Drink a little of our water. It will help.” It was all Skilgannon could do to raise the goblet to his lips. His hand trembled. He drank, then fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.

“I feel I have aged twenty years,” he said.

“It will pass when you have rested. Sleep a little. I will come back in a while.”

Skilgannon needed no urging. He fell asleep immediately, deep and dreamlessly. When he awoke the new dawn was breaking. Ustarte was standing by the balcony’s edge, the sunlight glinting on her red and gold gown.

“Do you feel better?”

“I do, lady. It was the best sleep I have had in years.”

“You did not see the White Wolf?”

He smiled. “It seems my curse to meet people who know my dreams. But, no, the wolf did not come to me. I almost slew it the last time.”

“It is as well that you did not.”

He sat up and drank some more water. “I feel it would stop it disturbing my sleep.”

“Indeed it would. Which is why you must not.”

“You think I need troubled dreams?”

“I think you need to understand the nature of the wolf. Has it ever attacked you?”

“No.”

“It is you who hunt the wolf, yes?”

“That is true. Whenever I see it I draw my swords. Usually it disappears. The last time, though, it padded toward me.”

“It did not charge? Its fangs were not bared?”

“No. It just walked toward me. I raised my swords to kill it, but Diagoras woke me.”

“The swords again. Did you know that the Old Woman conjured demons and trapped them within the blades?” Skilgannon shook his head. “The demons give them power. It is a trade, however. Slowly the demons will exert an influence over you. They will corrupt you, increasing your angers and your hatreds. It is they who wish to kill the White Wolf. That is why whenever you see it in your dreams they leap to your hands.”

“Why do they need to kill the wolf?”

“That is for you to answer, Olek. The White Wolf is usually driven from the pack. He is different, and the other wolves fear him. So this wolf stands alone. He has no mate, no pack to follow or to lead. Does he remind you of anyone?”

“The wolf is me.”

“Yes—or rather your soul. He is all that is good in you. The swords need him dead before they can overcome you. Did the journey to the citadel help you?”

“I believe that it did. The troops there are demoralized. The Nadir have fled. More will desert as the days pass. They fear Druss. Merely knowing he is coming is filling the soldiers with terror.”

“And you, Olek Skilgannon. They fear you mightily.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“I sense you knew one of those we saw. You even have affection for him.”

“I knew him years ago. And, yes, I liked him then. Strange to see a man like him following a monster like Boranius.”

She laughed then. “You humans amuse me. When someone is evil you need to demonize them. He is a monster, you say. No, Olek, he is merely a man who has given in to the evils of his nature. All of you have a potential for evil, and for good. Much depends on the stimuli applied. The soldiers you led into Perapolis butchered and raped, mutilated and destroyed other humans. Then they went home to their wives and their sweethearts, and raised children and loved them. You are all monsters, Olek. Massively complex and uniquely insane. You teach your children that to lie is wrong. But your lives are governed by small lies. The peasant does not tell the lord what he truly thinks of him. The wife does not tell the husband she saw a man in the marketplace who made her loins burn. The husband does not tell his wife he went to the whorehouse. You follow a god of love and forgiveness, and yet you rush into war bellowing, ‘The Source is with us.’ Need I go on? Boranius is evil. That is true. Yet in all his life he has not ordered as many innocents slain as you.”

“I cannot argue with you, lady,” said Skilgannon, sadly. “I cannot undo the past. I cannot bring them back.”

“You can give them peace,” she said, softly.

He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “By letting Garianne kill me? You said yourself that she is probably unhinged, and that there are no ghosts inside her head.”

“I could be wrong.”

He laughed then. “One problem at a time, lady. First we need to rescue the child. After that I will consider the problem of Garianne. Where is Druss?”

“He is with Rabalyn. The boy is recovering well.”

“And Diagoras?”

“He and the twins are in the lower gardens with Garianne. Diagoras has discovered much in common with Nian. They argue wonderfully about the nature of the stars.” Ustarte turned and stared out over the red mountains. “There is something else you should know, Olek. The Old Woman has cast a concealing spell over the lands to the northeast of the citadel. I cannot penetrate it.”

“The northeast?” he repeated. “The lands of Sherak?”

“Not all of Sherak. Even she is not that powerful. No, it is merely a . . . mist, if you like . . . over a small area.”