White Wolf (46 page)

“Make sure his wounds are seen to,” she said. The soldier leaned in to Malanek and gave a crooked, boyish grin.

“Oh, I’ll not die now,” he said. As Malanek led him away, he swung his head. “Are you married?” he called back. Jianna ignored him.

A young, golden-haired female came into the hall and spoke in low tones to the Old Woman. She was carrying an ornate, small double-winged crossbow. The Old Woman waved an arm at her, pointing to a door across the hall. The young woman walked across to it, glancing back once. Then she was gone.

Skilgannon rose to his feet and turned. His sapphire blue eyes held to her own. Jianna allowed no expression to show. She merely waited. He strode toward her, and bowed deeply. Then he looked up, saying nothing.

“No words for me, Olek?” she asked him.

“None could do justice,” he said. “In this moment, standing here, I am complete.”

“Then come home with me.”

A spasm of pain crossed his features. “For more wars and death? For more destroyed cities and orphaned children? No, Jianna. I cannot.”

“I am a queen, Olek. I cannot promise no more wars.”

“I know.”

“Do you wish you had never met me?”

He smiled then. “Sometimes. In the depths of despair. If I could go back I would change many things. But meeting you? I would never change that. You might as well ask a man with sunstroke if he wished he had never, ever seen the sun.”

“So what will you do?”

He touched the locket around his neck. “I’ll travel on.”

“You still think you can bring her back?”

He shrugged. “I won’t know unless I try.”

“And what then? Will you live with her on some arid farm?”

He shook his head. “I have not thought that far ahead.”

“Such a quest is a waste of life, Olek.”

“My life is already a wasteland. This at least gives me some purpose.”

A soldier appeared alongside Jianna. He bowed. “The rebels have gathered together in the courtyard, Majesty. They have plundered the warehouses and are seeking to leave. They say the man Druss promised them their lives. Should we kill them?”

“Let them go.”

“Yes, Majesty. Also our scouts report a large contingent of Datian cavalry are less than two hours from here. We should be gone before they arrive.” Malanek stepped forward, and also began to speak to her. Jianna saw Skilgannon move away toward the Old Woman who was beckoning him. Malanek was also urging swift departure.

“Very well. There is no more to achieve here.”

Glancing toward Skilgannon she saw him walk through the small doorway at the rear of the hall, followed by the Old Woman. Before the door closed she saw that there were stairs leading upward toward the battlements.

“Is he coming with us, Majesty?” asked Malanek, presenting her with the scabbarded Swords of Blood and Fire. Jianna shook her head and saw the old swordsman was disappointed. He sighed. “He’s a good man. I didn’t believe he could defeat Boranius. Nice to find that life can still surprise me.”

“There is no one he cannot beat. He is Skilgannon.”

She glanced again toward the small door. Beside it lay the body of a man who seemed familiar to her. “You recognize him?” she asked Malanek.

“Yes, Majesty. It is Morcha, one of Boranius’s officers.”

“I cannot place him. Ah well, no matter.” Curling her hand around the ivory hilt of one of the swords she slowly pulled it from the ebony scabbard. The blade was etched with swirls of red flame, the hilt beautifully carved, showing intertwined demonic figures. The sword was light in her hands, and she felt a thrill pass through her. Jianna shivered. “You believe these blades could be possessed?”

Malanek looked at her and smiled. “Time will tell, Majesty,” he said, with a shrug.

As the Old Woman reached the top of the stairs she turned to Skilgannon. “Are you not curious as to why I asked you to join me here?” she asked him.

“I already know,” he said.

“Ah, you have spoken with the beast-woman, Ustarte. Well now you intrigue me, Olek. Have you come to kill me?”

“I think your death is long overdue, hag. But, no, I have come to help Garianne.”

The Old Woman’s laughter rang out. “Oh, how sweet! I was hoping you would try to kill me with one of my own swords. I would have enjoyed watching your reaction when the blades failed to pierce my flesh. I may be old, but I am not foolish. I do not make weapons which can be used against me. So,” she said, leaning on her staff, “how will you help poor Garianne? Will you promise her love and affection?”

Skilgannon eased past her and moved out on to the circular battlements. Garianne was standing on the high wall, balancing on a crenellation and staring out over the land. Her crossbow was in her hand, and Skilgannon saw that it was loaded.

She glanced back at him, her face expressionless. Skilgannon leapt lightly to stand on another crenellation some ten feet from her. “I have never liked heights,” he said.

“I am not comfortable with them, either,” she said. He noted that she was speaking in the first person. This was something she never did unless drunk. He decided to risk a question.

“Why did you come up here, Garianne?”

“This is where it ends,” she said. “This is where the voices leave me. I will be free.”

The bright moonlight upon her pale skin made her seem almost childlike. She gazed down at the bow in her hand.

“If it will free you, then do it,” he said, facing her.

“Is the child well again?”

“Yes. As well as anyone can be who has suffered so much. Her mother was killed, her father is dead. She will have to live with those memories all her life. As you have, Garianne. What happened at Perapolis was evil. It was monstrous. For my actions there I am known—will always be known—as the Damned. My guilt is certain. Do what you must.”

“We . . . I . . . cannot live like this anymore.”

“Then don’t,” he said. “Aim your bow. Find your freedom.”

The crossbow came up. Skilgannon took a deep breath and prepared for the bolt to strike. Yet, she did not release the shaft. “I don’t know what to do. There is a voice I have not heard before.” Turning away from him she looked down at the stone courtyard far below. Skilgannon guessed her intention.

“Don’t!” he called, his voice commanding. “Look at me, Garianne. Look at me!” Her head came up, but she was still perched on the very edge of the battlements. “Your death would only make the horror of Perapolis complete. You survived. Your parents would have joyed in the thought of you living on. Their lives, their blood, are in you. You are their gift to the future. You leap from here, and their line has ended. Your father did not hide you so that you could end in this way. He loved you, and he wanted you to have a life. To find love as he perhaps found love. To have children of your own. In that way he lives on. I would sooner you sent a bolt into my heart, than watch you do this to yourself.”

“He is right, child,” said the Old Woman. “Kill him and be free. Call it punishment, call it justice, call it what you will. But do what you are here for.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“You stupid coward!” shouted the Old Woman. “Must I do everything myself?” She extended a bony hand toward Garianne. The girl screamed in pain and jerked upright. Her arm spasmed, and the crossbow once more rose.

Skilgannon swung toward the Old Woman. She was chanting now, the words in a tongue he had never heard.

Suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway behind her. A silver blade burst from the Old Woman’s chest, then slid back. The crone staggered forward, and fell to her knees, her staff clattering across the stone. She struggled to her knees, a large bloodstain spreading across her breast. Slowly she turned, and saw Jianna standing in the doorway, the Sword of Fire in her hand. The Old Woman’s head dipped and she tugged the black veil from her face. Skilgannon saw blood upon her lips. Then she spoke. “Love . . . blinds us . . . to peril,” she said. The Old Woman slumped dead to the battlement floor.

On the ramparts Garianne cried out and began to fall. Skilgannon spun, took two running steps, and hurled himself at her. His left hand grabbed at her tunic, his right hit a stone crenellation. His fingers slipped clear and he began to fall. Desperately he scrabbled at the stone, ripping the skin from his fingers. His hand hooked on to an inch-wide ledge some three feet below the battlements. Garianne was a dead weight, and the muscles of his arms were stretched to the point of tearing.

Jianna appeared above him. “Let the girl go. I’ll haul you up.”

“I cannot.”

“Damn you, Olek! You’ll both die!”

“She is . . . the last survivor . . . of Perapolis.” His blood-covered hand was giving way. He grunted and tried to cling on.

Jianna climbed over the ramparts, lowering herself to the thin ledge. Holding to a crenellation, she reached down, clamping her hand over his wrist. “Now we all go, idiot!” she said. Her added strength allowed him to hang on, but he could feel his strength seeping away. All Jianna had bought him were a few moments.

Suddenly he felt Garianne’s weight lessen. Looking down he saw that Druss had climbed out of the window of the Roof Hall and was standing on the ledge, supporting the unconscious girl. “Let her go, laddie! I have her.” Gratefully he released his grip. Garianne slid down into Druss’s arms. Freed of the weight Skilgannon swung his left arm over the lip of stone and, as Jianna made way for him, climbed back to the battlements.

Jianna took his hand and wiped away the blood. His fingers were deeply gashed, and more blood pumped from the wounds. “We almost died. Was she worth it?” she asked, softly.

“Worth more than the Witch Queen and the Damned? I would say so.”

“Then you are still the fool, Olek.” she snapped. “I have no time for fools.” Yet, she did not move away.

“We need to say good-bye,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to say it,” she told him. Leaning in he kissed her lips. Malanek and several soldiers arrived on the battlements. They stood back respectfully as Jianna put her arms around Skilgannon’s neck.

“We are both fools,” she whispered.

With that she swung away from him and, followed by her men, returned to the Roof Hall. Skilgannon remained on the battlements. After a while he saw the Naashanites mount their horses and ride from the citadel.

Druss joined him, the little girl, Elanin, beside him, holding his hand. “Well, laddie, we did what we set out to do.”

“How is Diagoras?”

“Puncture wound over the hip and a cut to his shoulder. He’ll make it back to the temple.”

“And Garianne?”

“She’s sleeping. Diagoras is with her. The twins didn’t make it. Died together in the courtyard. It’s a damned shame, but I think that’s what Jared wanted. They were good lads.” The axman sighed. “Will you come with us?”

“No. I’ll head north.”

Druss put out his hand, then noticed the gashes on Skilgannon’s fingers. Clamping his hand instead to Skilgannon’s shoulder, he said: “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“And you, my friend.”

“Me?” Druss shook his head. “I’m going home to my cabin. I’ll sit on my porch and watch sunsets. I am way too old for this sort of life.”

Skilgannon laughed. Druss scowled at him. “I am serious, laddie. I’ll hang Snaga on the wall and put my helm and jerkin and gauntlets into a chest. By Heaven, I’ll even padlock it and throw away the key.”

“So,” said Skilgannon, “I have witnessed the last battle of Druss the Legend?”

“Druss the Legend? You know I have always hated to be called that.”

“I’m hungry, Uncle Druss,” said Elanin, tugging on his arm.

“Now
that
is a title I do like,” said the old warrior, lifting the child into his arms. “That is who I will be. Druss the Uncle. Druss the Farmer. And a pox on prophecies!”

“What prophecy?”

Druss grinned. “A long time ago a seer told me I would die in battle at Dros Delnoch. It was always a nonsense. Delnoch is the greatest fortress ever built, six massive walls and a keep. There’s not an army in the world could take it—and not a leader insane enough to try.”

EPILOGUE

Ustarte stood on a ledge balcony, staring down at the inner gardens. Little Elanin was braiding small white flowers into a crown for the powerful bearded man sitting alongside her at the pool’s edge. Diagoras was sitting quietly on a marble bench, watching them.

The servant, Weldi, came alongside her. “Garianne has returned the Gray Man’s crossbow to the museum, Priestess,” he said. She nodded, and continued to gaze upon the child and the warrior. Elanin reached up as Druss dipped his head, accepting the crown of blooms. “Why did the voices leave her?” asked Weldi.

Ustarte turned away from the balcony. “Not all mysteries can be solved, Weldi. That is what makes life so fascinating. Perhaps Skilgannon’s offer of sacrifice was enough for them. Perhaps Garianne had fallen in love with him, and that love gave her peace. Perhaps the soul of the child she is now carrying softened her need for revenge. It does not matter. She is no longer haunted.”

“And Skilgannon does not know he is to be a father.”

“No. One day, perhaps . . . Look at the child, Weldi. Is she not beautiful?”

“She is, Priestess. A rare delight. Will she be someone important to the world?”

“She already is.”

“You know what I mean. The two greatest warriors in the world came together on a quest to save her. They risked their lives. They battled a sorceress and a villain with magic swords. The result ought to be world changing.”

“Ah yes,” she agreed. “I like those romances too. The return of a golden age, the banishment of evil, the little princess who will one day be great.”

“Exactly. Do any of the many futures show this?”

“They show that Elanin will be happy, and will have happy children. Is that not enough?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Weldi.

“In a few years time Druss the Legend will stand on the walls of Dros Delnoch and defy the greatest army the world has ever seen. He will do this to save the Drenai people from slaughter and to keep alive the dreams of civilization. Is this more to your liking?”

“Ah, indeed it is, Priestess.”

She smiled fondly at him. “And do you think Druss would find that more important than rescuing this child from a place of darkness and horror?”

Weldi gazed down at the warrior below, the absurd crown of flowers on his graying hair. “I suppose that he wouldn’t,” he admitted. “Why is that?”

“Let me ask you this,” said Ustarte, “if a hero sees a child in danger of drowning, does he need to know the fate of worlds hangs in the balance before leaping in and trying to rescue it?”

“No,” said Weldi. “But if we are playing this game, what if someone told the hero that the child was destined to be evil?”

“A good question. What then would Druss do?”

Weldi laughed suddenly. “He would leap in and save the child.”

“And why?”

“Because that is what heroes do.”

“Excellent, my friend.”

“So what will happen at Dros Delnoch?”

Ustarte laughed. “Your curiosity is insatiable. Why not ask me what you really want?”

He grinned at her. “I would like to see one of the many futures. A good one, though. Nothing sad or depressing. I know you have delved them, Priestess, because your curiosity is no less pronounced than mine.”

“Take my arm,” she said, and together they walked through the inner corridors of the temple, coming at last to a small room. Soft, golden light blossomed around them as Ustarte entered. The room was cool and quiet, and the scent of cedarwood hung in the air. There were no windows, and no furniture of any kind. Three of the four walls were of rugged red rock, the fourth was of smooth glass. Ustarte stood for a moment, staring at their reflections. “I will show you one possible future,” she said. “No more than that. It is one that pleases me. Though it will only make you the more curious. Are you ready?”

“I am, Priestess,” said Weldi, happily.

Ustarte lifted her arm and the glass shimmered and went dark. Bright stars appeared in a distant sky, and they found themselves staring down at a colossal fortress bathed in moonlight. A vast army was camped before the fortress. Weldi peered at the campsite. “What are they doing?” he asked.

“Preparing a funeral pyre.”

“Who is dead?”

“Druss the Legend.”

“No!” wailed Weldi. “I don’t want to see an unhappy future.”

“Wait!” The glass shimmered once more, and now it was as if Weldi and the priestess were standing inside a large tent. A powerful figure stood there, surrounded by Nadir warriors. The figure turned and Weldi saw that he had violet eyes of striking power. Another man entered the tent.

“It is Skilgannon,” said Weldi. “He is older.”

“Ten years older,” said Ustarte. “Now listen!”

“Why are you here, my friend?” asked the violet-eyed man. “I know it is not to fight in my cause.”

“I came for the reward you promised me, Great Khan.”

“This is a battlefield, Skilgannon. My riches are not here.”

“I do not require riches.”

“I owe you my life. You may ask of me anything I have and I will grant it.”

“Druss was dear to me, Ulric. We were friends. I require only a keepsake, a lock of his hair, and a small sliver of bone. I would ask also for his ax.”

The Great Khan stood silently for a moment. “He was dear to me also. What will you do with the hair and bone?”

“I will place them in a locket, my lord, and carry it around my neck.”

“Then it shall be done,” said Ulric.

Once more the glass shimmered. Weldi saw Skilgannon riding from the Nadir camp, the great ax, Snaga, strapped to his shoulders. Then the image faded. Weldi stood for a moment, staring at his reflection.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“I told you it would only arouse your curiosity further.”

“Oh, this is unfair, Priestess! Tell me, I implore you.”

“I do not know, Weldi. I looked no further. Unlike you, I am fond of mysteries. I am also enchanted by legends. And you know that, with all great legends, the same story circulates. When the realm is under threat the greatest hero will return. So we will leave it there.”

“I think you are very cruel,” said Weldi.

Ustarte laughed. “What else would you expect from someone who is part wolf?”