White Wolf (45 page)

Diagoras could see Jared was dead. The two men Nian had attacked rushed in. One stabbed Nian in the neck, the other slashed his sword down onto Nian’s skull. Diagoras charged them. One tried to defend himself, and died with Diagoras’s saber through his neck. The other backed away, and was joined by four others. They advanced on Diagoras.

“Come on then!” yelled the Drenai. “Which of you whoresons wants to die first?”

They stood for a moment, swords ready. Then, as one, they backed away a few steps, before turning and running back toward the tavern. Diagoras blinked sweat from his eyes, trying to make sense of their flight.

Then he heard sounds behind him. Slowly he turned.

A large group of heavily armored horsemen were sitting their mounts. Their armor was black, their helms full-faced, with high horsehair plumes. Each man carried a lance, and a sword, and a small round shield, bearing the sign of the spotted snake.

The line of horsemen parted and a woman rode in. Diagoras found his pain forgotten as he gazed on her. Her hair was raven dark and held back in a single braid, through which silver wire had been entwined. She wore a white, flowing cloak, and silver chain mail. Her legs were bare above knee-length riding boots of black leather, embossed with silver. Lightly she leapt to the ground and approached Diagoras.

Stupidly he tried to bow, but his legs gave way. Stepping in she caught him.

“If this is a dream,” he said, “I never want to wake.”

“Where is Skilgannon?” she asked.

Skilgannon stepped across the bodies of the two soldiers and moved forward warily. There were a number of doors on the landing, all of them open. Coming to the first room he stood outside, listening. Hearing nothing he took a deep breath and stepped quickly through the doorway. The first man rushed at him from across the room, sword raised. In that moment Skilgannon heard a whisper of movement from behind. Dropping to one knee he reversed the Sword of Day, ramming it backward. The curved blade sliced up through the attacker’s belly and clove his heart. The Sword of Night slashed out, half severing the leg of the second attacker. The man screamed and pitched to the floor. Another soldier loomed in the doorway, holding a crossbow. Skilgannon rolled to his right as the string twanged. The bolt ripped into the carpeted floor. Rising swiftly Skilgannon leapt at the crossbowman, who dropped his weapon and ran for his life. Out on the landing several more soldiers had arrived. Skilgannon tore into them, spinning and leaping, his blades flashing. Blood-spattered, he ran on to the second staircase.

The howling of the Joining had ceased now, and Skilgannon guessed it had been cut down.

He ran up the stairs. Another crossbow bolt hissed by his head. Two swordsmen blocked his path. They died. The crossbowman tried another shot. Skilgannon dived forward, rolled on his shoulder, and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. The crossbowman grunted as the Sword of Day plunged into his heart.

A long corridor connected the third landing to the stairs Druss had taken. Skilgannon could hear the sounds of battle. Taking no time to check the rooms as he passed, he sprinted along the corridor. He came to two open double doors, leading to a large dining area. Druss was battling furiously against a dozen opponents. Several bodies were already sprawled on the timber floor. The survivors were seeking to circle him, but the axman spun and whirled, the huge ax glinting in the lantern light. Blood flowed from a cut on Druss’s face, and his jerkin had been slashed in several places. His leggings, too, were damp with blood. A soldier more daring than the rest darted in. His head bounced to the floor, a gush of blood pumping from his severed neck.

Skilgannon ran to Druss’s aid. Seeing this new enemy, the soldiers tried to re-form. Two went down swiftly under the slashing Swords of Night and Day. Another died, his spine smashed to shards by Druss’s ax. The remaining men broke and ran toward the double doors.

Skilgannon stepped in toward Druss. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked.

“Hurt?” responded Druss. “Pah! Scratches only.” He was breathing hard and once more looked weary and gray in the face. Only days ago he had been close to death. Skilgannon looked at him and shook his head. “Don’t be concerned about me, laddie,” said Druss. “I can still climb the mountain.”

“I don’t doubt it, axman.”

“Then let’s find Boranius.”

Druss hefted his ax once more, but Skilgannon paused. “The child will be with him, Druss,” he said.

“I know.”

“He will seek to make you suffer. It is likely he will kill her in front of you.”

“I know that too.” The old man’s eyes were cold now, like polished steel. “Let’s find the whoreson and finish this.”

Together the two warriors headed for the final staircase.

21

In the Roof Hall Morcha waited with five swordsmen. Boranius, bare-chested, and wearing his ornate mask of black iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair, the catatonic child Elanin in his lap. There was blood on Boranius’s chest, seeping from the four talon marks that scored his skin from shoulder to belly. The huge gray Joining lay on the floor before him, its own body pierced by a score of wounds. It was still breathing, and its golden eyes were open and fixed on Boranius. Its spine was severed and it could not move.

“See the hatred there?” said Boranius, with a harsh laugh. “How it would love to come at me again. A large pool of blood was spreading from beneath the dying beast. Boranius took hold of the child’s blond hair and tilted her head toward the Joining. “See there, little one. Daddy has come for you. Isn’t that sweet?”

Morcha looked away.

So, he thought, it all ends here. All the dreams, all the hopes, all the ambitions. He looked around at the decaying Roof Hall, then back at the blood-smeared man in the black mask. Boranius was stroking the child’s hair, but there was no reaction. Her eyes were open and unblinking. Morcha drew his cavalry saber. It was a beautiful weapon, with a filigree fist guard and a pommel stone of emerald. It had been given to him by Bokram, as a reward for his loyalty and bravery. He glanced at the five swordsmen and saw the fear on all their faces. They had all run here from the hall below, where they had faced Druss and Skilgannon. They knew they were going to die.

Morcha swung back to Boranius. “Lord, if you will just put the child down. We will need you to fight.”

“Oh, I will fight, Morcha. I will kill them both. First, though, you can tire them for me.”

“Tire them? Are you insane? Do you not know what is happening here?”

“Skilgannon is coming, and the axman. Of course I know. How is it that two warriors have breached our defenses and are now climbing my stairs? I will tell you, Morcha. It is because I am surrounded by dolts and cowards. After today I will raise a fresh force. Only this time I will pick the fighting men myself. Your judgment has proved to be sadly defective.”

Morcha stood silently for a moment. “You are right, my lord. My judgment has for years been defective.” Before he could go on the sound of horses’ hooves echoed up to them from the courtyard below. Morcha ran to the window and looked out. When he turned away there was a grim smile on his face.

“It seems, Boranius, that you will not be raising a new army—even if you kill Skilgannon and Druss. The Witch Queen is here, with a company of her guards.”

“I’ll kill them too,” said Boranius. “I’ll cut the bitch’s heart out.”

Skilgannon stepped into the hall, followed by the black-clad axman. The five Naashanite swordsmen backed away, dropping their blades. Morcha sighed, then glanced at Skilgannon.

“You have done well since those early days,” he said. “I still have fond memories of the bathhouse.”

“Put up your sword, Morcha. There is no need for you to die here.”

Morcha shrugged. “There is every need. Defend yourself!” He leapt forward, his saber slashing through the air. Skilgannon swayed. A piercing pain shot through Morcha’s chest. He stumbled and dropped his saber, watching it clatter to the floor. Then he slumped against the wall, and slid down.

“Oh neatly done,” said Boranius. Rising from his seat, still holding to the child, he drew one of his own swords. Resting the blade against Elanin’s waist he stepped away from the chair.

“It is good to see you, Axman,” he told Druss. “I have heard so much about you.”

Druss slowly advanced on the masked figure. Blood seeped through the child’s thin, blue dress. “One more step and I will slice her open, and you can watch her entrails fall to the floor.”

Druss paused. “Excellent choice,” said Boranius. “Now be so good as to lay your ax down.”

“He will kill her anyway, Druss,” said Skilgannon. “He is just prolonging the moment.”

“I know what he is doing,” replied Druss, his voice cold. “I have met his like before. Weak men. They are all the same.” Even as he spoke Druss let Snaga fall to the timber.

“Now step forward so that I may savor this moment,” said Boranius. Druss did so, moving within range of the sword Boranius held at the girl’s side. “You know what happens now, axman?”

“Of course I know. You are going to die. I am going to kill you.”

“If you move I shall kill the child.”

“That’s what I am waiting for,” said Druss, coldly. “The moment that sword slides into her you won’t be able to use it against me. And then, you whoreson, I will break every bone in your body. So let us not wait. Do it!” he thundered, stepping in. Shocked Boranius instinctively stepped back. The dying Joining growled, its jaws snapping toward Ironmask’s leg. The sword in Boranius’s hand flashed down, striking the Joining across its snout. Blood sprayed out. In that moment Druss dived forward, snatching Elanin from Boranius’s grasp. The silver blade swept out. Druss turned his back, protecting the child, and threw himself to the floor. The sword sliced through the back of his jerkin, scoring the flesh. Boranius screamed in fury and charged toward the axman.

The Sword of Fire lunged toward Druss’s unprotected body.

The Sword of Day parried it.

Boranius leapt back, drawing his second sword from the scabbard hanging between his shoulders. Then he faced Skilgannon. “Oh, I have waited long for this, Olek,” he said, his voice muffled by the iron mask. “I shall carve you like a banquet swan.”

The Swords of Blood and Fire glinted in the lantern light as the two men circled. Boranius sprang forward and their swords clashed. Time and again the music of the steel rang out.

Morcha watched them, his pain forgotten. The two warriors seemed to glide across the timbered floor, their swords creating glittering arcs of light. The fighters spun and moved, ever faster, and yet perfectly in balance. The deadly blades clanged and clashed, hissed and sang, the razor-sharp steel seeking to sheath itself in soft flesh. Back and forth across the hall the two men fought without pausing for breath.

Morcha became aware that others had entered the hall. Looking up he saw Jianna, the Witch Queen. Alongside her was the old swordsman, Malanek. Black-clad guards thronged the hall, and beyond them stood an old woman, leaning upon a gnarled staff. Morcha knew he was dying, but he prayed to be allowed to see the end of this incredible contest.

Both men had suffered wounds. Skilgannon was bleeding from a shallow cut to his face, Boranius had been sliced across the left bicep, the skin flapping, blood flowing.

They fought on.

Inevitably they were slowing now, and once more circling one another. Then Boranius spoke. “You remember Greavas, Olek? Ah, you should have heard him squeal. He was brave enough when I cut away his fingers. But when I sawed away at his arm his cowardice came through. He begged me to kill him.”

“Don’t let him goad you, laddie!” called Druss. “Stay cool and cut his heart out!”

Boranius leapt to the attack. Skilgannon parried desperately, then spun away. Boranius followed. The Sword of Blood lunged toward Skilgannon’s throat. He parried it, then blocked a cut from the Sword of Fire. Off balance now, Skilgannon went down on one knee. Boranius launched a fresh assault. Skilgannon hurled himself to his right, rolled and came up, just as Boranius swung his right-hand blade in a murderous arc. The Sword of Night came up, the blades chopping through Boranius’s fingers. With a scream he fell back, the Sword of Fire dropping from his mutilated hand. Boranius backed away.

Skilgannon followed. “Now tell me about Greavas!” he said. “Now tell me about his pleading!”

Boranius screamed in pain and fury and rushed in. Skilgannon parried, leapt aside, and sent a slashing cut across Boranius’s back as he blundered past. The Sword of Night sank deep, slicing into Boranius’s spine. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, his remaining sword slipping from his hand.

Skilgannon walked around the man. The Sword of Day sliced through the leather straps holding the iron mask in place. It fell away, exposing the horror of Boranius’s mutilated face. The man’s blue eyes blazed with undisguised malice and hatred. “You are nothing, Boranius,” said Skilgannon, his voice emotionless. “You never were. Greavas was ten times the man you are.”

With that he walked away. Boranius screamed insults after him. His body jerked as he tried to force his legs to obey him, but his fractured spine could no longer send messages to his muscles. He tried to reach for his sword, but his arm spasmed and twitched.

He looked up to see the Witch Queen walking toward him, a slender dagger in her hand.

She knelt down before him, and he looked into her eyes. “You killed my mother,” she said.

The dagger came up slowly, the tip moving toward his eye.

Boranius screamed as the cold steel slowly, so slowly, pushed its way into his brain.

Skilgannon did not watch the tortured finish to Boranius’s life. Instead he moved to where Morcha was sitting by the wall, his hands trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound to his lower chest.

“You were too good a man to follow such a wretch,” said Skilgannon. “Why did you do it?”

“I wish I could answer that,” said Morcha. “I’m glad you beat him. Didn’t think you could. Didn’t think anyone could.”

“There’s always someone better,” said Skilgannon. Wearily he rose and walked back to where Druss was sitting with the child.

“You did fine, laddie,” said the old warrior. “You think Elanin will ever recover?”

Skilgannon lifted her from Druss’s arms and carried her to where the Joining lay. The golden eyes were still open, but its breathing was harsh now, and ragged. Kneeling down he laid the child alongside its huge head. A low moan came from the beast, and it pressed it muzzle against her face.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Orastes,” said Skilgannon. “But your daughter is safe now.” Druss came and squatted down by the beast. He laid a huge hand upon its brow, stroking it as if it were a dog. The golden eyes remained fixed on the delicate features of the child for a while. Then they closed, and the breathing ceased.

For a while no one moved. Then the child’s eyes flickered, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. She blinked and sat up. Druss reached for her, drawing her into his arms.

“It is good to see you, pretty one,” he said.

“Daddy came for me,” she told him. “He told me you were here.”

Jianna stood back, gazing down at the man who had haunted her dreams for what seemed almost half a lifetime. Her thoughts fled back to those early, perilous days when she had posed as a prostitute, and had lived with the youth Skilgannon. The memories were sharp and vivid, tinged with many sadnesses. Yet they were also golden, and bright. Her dreams then had been simple. First there was survival, and then revenge. Nothing complicated. And always by her side was the swordsman Skilgannon.

He was kneeling now beside a golden-haired child, his hand gently brushing back her long fringe. She remembered when his hand was upon her face. She felt the first warning signs of tears, and angrily shut off the memories. Turning away from the scene she saw the Old Woman leaning upon her staff by the far wall. She wore a heavy black veil, and there was no way to read her expression.

She had appeared by the quayside as Jianna was leading her personal bodyguard on to the ship that would bear them up the coast to Sherak, on the first leg of the journey to the citadel.

“Are you traveling to kill Boranius or to rescue Skilgannon?” she had asked, as they stood on the aft deck.

“Perhaps both,” she had replied.

“He is wrong for you, Jianna. He will destroy you.”

Jianna had laughed then. “He loves me. He would do nothing to harm me.”

“It is love which is dangerous, my queen. Love blinds us to peril. Love leads to foolishness and sorrow.”

“And what if I love him?”

“You
do
love him, Jianna. I have known this since first we met. And that is the peril of which I speak. You are wise now, and ruthless as a leader must be. You are loved and you are feared. You can achieve greatness. It is there . . . just ahead . . . beckoning you.”

“Why do you hate him so?”

“I do not hate him. He is a fine, courageous man. I wish him dead because he is a threat to you. No more than that. Have you not also tried to have him killed? Can you not understand why? Your secret self, the true you, the center of your soul, knows he must be dealt with. Thoughts of him torment your mind.”

Jianna watched as the ship’s sails were unfurled, and sailors ran along the quay, letting slip the ropes. “Perhaps it is my true self telling me that I need him,” she countered.

“Pah! You need no one. I have lived long, Jianna. I know what you are experiencing. I was there myself once. You love him too much and too little. Too much ever to love another, and too little to change for his sake. He wants a wife and a mother to his children. You want an empire and a place in history. Do you believe these ambitions can be linked? He feels the same, my queen. He cannot love another, and your image is constantly in his mind. Yet he will not change either. He will not become your general again—even if it means sharing your bed and your life. As long as he lives he will be a rock in your heart.”

“I will think on what you have said,” Jianna told her.

Now, in this crumbling citadel, she realized more than ever before how much she had missed this tall man, and the joy of his company. She longed to walk across to him, and lay her hand upon his shoulder. To take a cloth and wipe away the blood that ran from the cut on his face.

A movement came from behind her. She turned to see the Drenai warrior she had first noticed in the courtyard below. His face was gray, and blood was drenching his tunic and leggings. He paused before her. “What are you doing climbing stairs, idiot?” she asked him. “I told you to wait until our surgeon attended you.”

“Thought I might die before seeing you again,” he told her.

“You fool. You could have died climbing those stairs.”

“Worth it, though.” The man swayed. Malanek stepped forward, taking his arm.