White Wolf (44 page)

“What did he say that made you realize he was a simpleton?”

The soldier shrugged. “Just his manner of speaking, sir. You know how they sound. Don’t recall what he said.”

“And there were dogs in the back of the wagon?”

“Yes, sir. Thought they were furs at first. I poked at them and then one of the dogs snarled at me. I jumped like a startled rabbit.”

“You walked up to the wagon and did not recognize three dogs?”

“Yes, odd isn’t it. The sun was very bright about then. Could hardly see.”

“And this was when?”

“A little after noon yesterday.”

Morcha shuffled through the reports, coming at last to the note concerning Skilgannon and the others reaching the temple. The Nadir scout said he had seen a large Arena beast, a Joining. It was crouched down alongside the old axman.

“Are you finished with me, sir? I could do with a meal.”

“Did you see all three dogs in the wagon?”

“Of course.”

“Think for a moment. You heard a snarl and jumped back. What happened then?”

“I saw the first dog snarling. The others were behind it.”

“You saw all their heads?”

“Yes.” The man hesitated. “Well . . . no. But there must have been at least three.”

“Forget the meal,” said Morcha, rising. “Saddle a fast horse, and take a spare. Find Naklian. He is with twenty men, guarding the nomad road. Tell him to bring his men back here as soon as possible. What you saw was not three dogs. Nor was it a bale of fur, as the other report stated. It was a Joining. It is traveling with Druss and Skilgannon. The enemy is here.”

“With respect, you are wrong, sir. There were no fighting men. Just the old cripple.”

“They came from the temple. There was a spell put upon you. That is why the sun seemed so bright. Trust me. The enemy is close.”

The soldier looked bemused. He was one of the newer recuits, from the Naashanite community in Mellicane. “Am I wrong, sir?” he asked. “There are only a handful of men coming after us, aren’t there?”

“Yes. Though two of them are more deadly than I could make you understand.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I have listened to the men talking about Skilgannon and Druss. But even so, they can’t attack the citadel, can they? If they are hunting Lord Ironmask, they’ll have to wait until he leaves the fortress. They’ll be looking for an ambush, surely?”

“I cannot anticipate what they’ll do,” admitted Morcha. “I fought against Skilgannon for years. What I learned was that he always found a way to attack. In every battle we were always, somehow,
reacting
to him. You understand? Action and Reaction. Action is what usually wins battles and wars. Reaction is almost always defensive. You think six men cannot attack a fortress? I agree with you. But what I think does not matter. The question is this: Does Skilgannon think he can attack the citadel?”

“It would be madness. They couldn’t survive.”

“Perhaps survival is not uppermost in their minds. There is no more time to debate, soldier. Find Naklian, and get him and his men back here as soon as possible.”

Survival
was
uppermost in the mind of Diagoras, as he waited for the sun to drop behind the mountains. The Drenai officer was standing in a grove of trees no more than a quarter of a mile from the citadel. From here the fortress looked impressive. True, the walls around it were crumbling and in disrepair, but the tall, round citadel itself, with its murder holes, through which archers could shoot barbed shafts down at attackers, and its ramparts, from which defenders could hurl down rocks and hot oil, seemed particularly daunting.

Diagoras had listened as Skilgannon outlined his plan. It was a good plan—if you were talking of it theoretically. It was a dreadful plan if you actually had to carry it out. There was no way they could accomplish what was required and escape unscathed. Diagoras gazed at the others. Jared and Nian were sitting apart. Nian’s head was causing him pain, and Jared had given him some powder, and was sitting alongside his brother, his arm around his shoulder. Garianne was lying down, apparently asleep, and Druss and Skilgannon were talking in low voices. Diagoras stared at the huge, gray beast, crouched down at Druss’s side. He kept trying to tell himself that this was Orastes, but it was almost impossible to hold to this thought. Fat Orastes was a jolly and timid fellow, the butt of many jokes when they had soldiered together. He never seemed to take offense. This massive beast, with its slavering jaws and its coldly glittering, golden eyes made Diagoras’s blood run cold. It amazed him that Druss could be so calm around it. Diagoras believed that at any moment it might rend and rip at them.

Returning his gaze to the citadel, he shuddered. I might be looking at my tomb, he thought. A rider emerged through the gateway. Diagoras ducked further back into the trees. The horseman galloped past the stand of trees, heading back toward Khalid Khan’s mountains.

One less, thought Diagoras, trying to force himself to be cheerful. You survived Skeln, he reminded himself. Surely this can’t be any worse. No, of course it can’t. All you have to do is walk into an enemy fortress, and defend the citadel entrance against around forty swordsmen. Diagoras glanced across at the brothers. Nian had said he would sooner die than live as a simpleton. Now Jared was aiming to grant him that wish. They weren’t here to rescue Elanin. They were here to die together.

Dusk was less than an hour away.

Diagoras strolled over to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking. Carefully he skirted the beast. “Would it not be better to wait until full nightfall?” he asked Skilgannon. “At least some of them will be sleeping then.”

“Dusk will be better,” said Druss.

“Why?”

“Less traditional,” said the axman.

“What does that mean?”

Skilgannon stepped in. “Night attacks are standard. They know we are coming. Because we are so few they will expect either that we stay close to the citadel and ambush them, or that we attack at night and seek to surprise them. Therefore night is when they will be ready for us.”

“I don’t wish to sound critical at this late juncture,” said Diagoras, “but how many of us do you expect to survive this plan?”

“I would be amazed if any of us did,” said Skilgannon.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I intend to survive,” said Druss. “That little girl needs to be taken home. I think it a good plan.”

“If we are still discussing its merits tomorrow, I will agree with you,” said Diagoras.

“Cheer up, laddie. Nobody lives forever.”

“Oh I expect you will, Druss, Old Horse. It’s the mortals around you who always seem to kiss the granite.”

“Once Boranius is dead his men will be less likely to want to go on fighting,” said Druss. “Simple fact of life among mercenaries. No one to pay them, then they don’t fight. We just need to get to him fast. Anyhow, there won’t be seventy men inside. They’ve got men in the hills scouting for us. I’d say there were around forty inside. Maybe less.”

“I am hugely comforted,” muttered Diagoras, sarcastically.

Druss grinned at him. “You can always wait here, laddie.”

“Don’t tempt me!” He glanced at the setting sun. Just under an hour to wait. Diagoras guessed the time would race by.

20

Ippelius was nineteen years of age. His father had been a captain in the king’s army, killed in the last battle, when Bokram fell. The months following the Witch Queen’s victory had been harsh for the families of those whose men had served the king. Ippelius’s mother had been driven from the family home, her goods and wealth seized by the crown. A crowd had gathered outside, hurling dirt and dung at the family as they were marched away. Ippelius had been thirteen years old, and hugely frightened. Many of the widows had left the capital, seeking sanctuary with relatives in outlying towns and villages. Others had journeyed to Naashanite communities in other lands. His mother had come to Mellicane.

Ippelius had finished his education there. It was a fine city, and the horrors of the past, though powerful in his nightmares, seemed insubstantial in the city sunlight. When Ironmask had come to power he promised a chance for revenge. One day the outcasts would return to Naashan. The Witch Queen would be overthrown. It seemed to Ippelius a golden opportunity to avenge his father’s death, and his mother’s shame.

Now, as he sat in the miserable tavern, with some twenty or so soldiers, he realized the dream was dead. As dead as poor Codis on the walls. He had been so stunned when Morcha stabbed his friend. The action was sudden and murderous. Codis had been dead before he knew it.

Ippelius sipped his ale. It was sour and he did not like the taste. Yet all men drank it, and Ippelius did not wish to seem less than the men around him. Also if he forced himself to drink enough of it his fears did, at least, lessen. Codis had been like a brother to the young soldier, helping him in the early days, when he made a fool of himself during training. Ippelius was constantly tripping over his sword and falling flat on his face. His horsemanship was not of the highest quality, and he would bounce around in the saddle like a sack of vegetables. Through it all Codis had offered advice and support. As had Morcha, who had always appeared to be good-natured and understanding. Ippelius felt his stomach churn. Codis had liked Morcha and respected him. How terrible it must have been to be killed by a man you liked.

Then there was Boranius. How impressed Ippelius had been when first he had been introduced to the general. A man of power and courage, who radiated purpose. When this man said they would overthrow the Witch Queen it sounded a certainty.

Ippelius shuddered. A little while ago he and Codis had been ordered to remove a body from the citadel. It was wrapped in canvas, which had been hastily stitched. Blood was seeping through the cloth. Halfway down the stairs the canvas had split. What fell from it was the hideously mutilated body of a woman. Ippelius had vomited at the sight. He was no help to Codis, who forced the remains back into the canvas.

Later, after they had buried her, Ippelius had sunk to the ground in tears. “How could any man do that to a woman?” he asked Codis.

“Boranius is not any man.”

“That is no answer.”

“Gods, man, what do you expect me to say? I have no answers. He always was a torturer. Best to put it from your mind.”

Ippelius had gazed down on the grave. “There’s not even a marker,” he said. “I thought they were lovers.”

“They
were
lovers. Then he killed her. End of story. Now get a grip on your emotions, lad. We are not going to talk about this to anyone. You understand that? Boranius tortures men too. I don’t want to have my fingers cut off or my eyes put out.”

“You think he killed the little girl too?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Neither should you. We are going to bide our time and then get out of here.”

“Why can’t we leave now?”

“What, with patrols everywhere looking for Druss? How far would we get? No. When Druss is dead, and things calm down. Then we’ll slip away east. Head for the coastal cities.”

Ippelius drank more of his ale. The bitterness of the taste was passing now. He looked around him at the other soldiers. There was little laughter in the tavern this evening. The murder of Codis had affected them, as had the news that Skilgannon was coming. Some of them had fought against the man in the past. They all had stories to tell.

A burly soldier named Rankar came into the tavern. He strolled through the dining area and came to where Ippelius sat. Easing himself down he waved his hand at the barman, calling out for a jug of ale.

“How goes it?” he asked Ippelius.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine. Barracks is empty. They’ve moved a lot of the men into the citadel. I’m heading there after I’ve eaten.”

Ippelius looked at the man. His heavy face was pockmarked and a jagged white scar cut down from his brow to his cheekbone. His left eyelid drooped over a bright green eye. Ippelius found himself staring at the scar. “You were really lucky,” he said.

Rankar rubbed at the drooping lid. “Didn’t feel lucky at the time. But I guess you are right. You eaten?”

“No. I am not hungry.”

Rankar nodded. “Codis was a good man. We fought our way across Naashan together—and then fought our way out. They don’t come better.”

“I can’t believe that Morcha killed him.”

“Me neither. Goes to show you can’t trust anyone.”

At that moment the door at the far end of the tavern opened, and a powerful figure entered. Ippelius stared at him. He was wearing a round, silver-ringed helm, decorated with silver axes flanking a skull. His once-black beard was heavily speckled with silver. Upon his enormous torso he wore a black jerkin, the shoulders reinforced by silver steel. And in his right hand he carried a shining, double-bladed ax. The man walked into the middle of the room and paused by a table at which sat four soldiers. Spinning the ax he thudded it into the tabletop. “Let’s have a little quiet, lads!” he bellowed. “I’ll not take much of your time.”

Silence fell, as the twenty or so men stared at the newcomer. “I am Druss,” he said, laying his gauntleted hand on the black hilt of the ax, “and this is Death.” His gaze swept the room. Ippelius shuddered as the winter gray eyes fastened on his own. “Now I have come here to kill Boranius. I shall be doing that presently. I don’t much care if I have to kill every man in this room first. But I have always had a soft spot for soldiers. Good men, in the main. So I’m giving you an opportunity to live a while longer. I suggest you finish your meals, then gather whatever wealth there is in this flea pit of a fortress, and ride away. Any questions?”

The silence continued, as men stared at one another.

“Then I’ll leave you to your food,” said the man, wrenching the ax clear. As he turned to leave two soldiers drew knives from their belts and leapt at him. The silver ax clove through the chest of the first, and a left hook thundered into the face of the second. He flew across a table, hit the floor, and did not move.

“Anyone else?” said the axman. No one moved, though Ippelius could see a number of the men surreptitiously reaching for their weapons.

The axman moved toward the door. At that moment it burst open and a creature from Hell loomed in the doorway. It was an Arena beast, one of the largest Ippelius had ever seen. Its jaws opened and it gave out a long, bloodcurdling howl. Soldiers leapt from their seats, scattering tables as they drew back from the abomination in the doorway.

The axman walked up to it and patted it on the shoulder. The beast dropped to all fours and stared malevolently at the soldiers. Then Druss left the tavern, the creature following.

Ippelius sat very still. Rankar swore softly.

“What should we do?” asked Ippelius.

“You heard the man. Finish our food and then leave.”

Diagoras and the twins passed through the gate. The Drenai officer glanced up at the body of the dead sentry on the parapet steps. Garianne was kneeling over him, tugging at the black bolt in his chest. Swiftly Diagoras crossed the open ground to where Skilgannon was waiting at the citadel entrance. Druss came loping toward them, the Joining alongside.

“Now it begins,” said Skilgannon.

Suddenly the Joining gave out a howl. Running past Druss it leapt through the wide doors of the citadel entrance and on up the first flight of stairs. Druss called out to it, but the beast was gone.

“It has scented the child,” said Skilgannon.

Hefting his ax, Druss ran through the doorway. Skilgannon swung to Diagoras. “Hold the doors for as long as you can.”

“Rely on it,” said the Drenai, drawing his saber and a razor-edged hunting knife. Then Skilgannon followed Druss into the building. There were two sets of stairs. Druss was climbing those on the right. Skilgannon took the left.

Diagoras moved back into the doorway, scanning the buildings and alleyways that led out past the warehouses toward the tavern. Jared and Nian stepped alongside him, longswords in their hands. Garianne remained on the rampart steps, some thirty feet away, her double-crossbow in her hands. The howling of the Joining came from above, followed by screams.

No soldiers had emerged from the tavern. This astonished Diagoras. When Druss had said he was going in to talk to them he had been incredulous. “Are you mad? They’ll come down on you like rabid wolves.”

“Probably not,” was all Druss had said.

Diagoras had waited with Skilgannon. “You agree with this insanity?” he asked the Naashanite.

“It has a good chance of working. Picture it yourself. You are having a meal and in walks the enemy. He has absolutely no fear of you. We expect fear from our enemies in certain situations. Where he is outnumbered, for example. Or trapped. By contrast there are places where our own fear is much less. Like inside our own fortress. Now, you have a single warrior, striding in, hugely outnumbered and yet fearless. It will give them pause for thought. Bear in mind also that their morale is low.”

“So, you think he will just tell them to leave and they’ll do it?” asked Diagoras.

Skilgannon thought about the question. “I’d say he might have to kill a few. The rest will not interfere.”

Diagoras shook his head. “You are a different breed, you two,” he said.

Now, as he stood in the shadows of the entrance, he began to feel more relaxed. Druss and Skilgannon were inside the citadel, and his own role seemed far less perilous. No soldiers were attacking him. No flashing blades, no piercing of his flesh. Jared obviously had the same thought. He grinned at Diagoras. “So far, so good,” he said.

Diagoras was about to reply, when Garianne suddenly waved at them, and pointed out beyond the gates.

That was when Diagoras heard the pounding of hooves. The first of the twenty riders galloped through the gates. He pitched from his saddle, a crossbow bolt through his neck. His horse reared. A second bolt thudded into a man’s chest. Then Garianne was running along the ramparts above them.

A group of riders saw Diagoras and the twins, and spurred their mounts forward.

The Drenai officer swore—and hefted his saber.

Other Naashanites jumped down from their mounts and ran up the rampart steps toward Garianne, who was reloading her crossbow. Diagoras backed up the steps to the citadel doors. A horseman galloped at him. Diagoras ducked under the mount’s neck, plunging his saber into the rider’s unprotected left side. The man fell back. The horse reared, dumping him from the saddle.

Jared and Nian charged into the milling horsemen.

On the ramparts Garianne shot the first man running at her, then turned and sprinted toward the roof of the gate. Several of the riders at the rear of the group lifted bows from their saddles. An arrow slashed past Diagoras. Other riders had dismounted and were running toward the citadel. Diagoras leapt to meet them. Garianne scrambled up to the gate roof, then turned and shot a man through the head. Two others were climbing toward her. Running forward she kicked the first in the head, hurling him back to the ramparts. The second lashed out with his sword. The blade twisted in the man’s hand, the flat of the steel thudding against Garianne’s ankle. She fell heavily. The man grabbed at her. Savagely she struck him in the face with her bow. Losing his grip he slipped back to the ramparts.

Diagoras had three men attacking him, and was backing away, parrying furiously. Nian raced to his aid, his longsword cleaving through the back of a Naashanite’s neck. Seeing his chance to attack, Diagoras leapt in. His saber glanced from a breastplate, but his hunting knife plunged home between collarbone and neck. A sword slashed across his shoulder. With a grunt of pain, Diagoras let go of the hunting knife and spun to meet this fresh attack. Blocking a second wild cut he twisted his wrist, sending his own blade in a deadly riposte that opened his attacker’s throat.

Horses were screaming and rearing, and the cries of wounded men filled the air. Diagoras was under attack again. A blade tore into his side. Diagoras stumbled. Before the death blow could be struck the Naashanite grunted and staggered back, twisting as he fell. Diagoras saw a crossbow bolt in his back.

Now the Naashanite archers turned on Garianne. Shafts struck the rampart wall close to where she was crouched. Rising she coolly shot a rider from the saddle, then ran along the wall.

Diagoras forced himself to his feet. He felt light-headed. He saw Jared go down, a lance through his back. Then Nian hacked the lancer from his saddle and, dropping his sword, ran to his brother. Diagoras charged across toward them, slashing his sword across the face of one man and plunging the blade through the chest of another. Nian hauled Jared to his feet. “Pick up your sword!” he heard Jared yell. Nian ran back toward the weapon. A black arrow materialized in his back. He stumbled and fell. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword and he half rose. Another arrow slammed into him. With a roar of pain Nian gained his feet. Turning he ran at the archer on the horse. The man tried to loose another shaft, but his mount reared. Then Nian was upon him. The longsword clove through the man’s side. As he fell from the saddle Nian brought the sword down on his skull. Jared was facing two men. He no longer had the strength to hold them back. One ran in. Jared weakly lashed his blade at the man. The blow was blocked. The second dove in, plunging a long dagger into Jared’s belly. Nian, seeing his brother’s plight, screamed at the top of his voice. He charged the men, who fell back. Instead of chasing them, Nian dropped his sword once more and knelt beside his fallen brother. He kept shouting his name, over and over.