White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend dt-10

by David Gemmell

  She hoped that Father would send Uncle Druss to Mellicane.

  When Rabalyn awoke the sky was bright and clear, a glorious blue that lifted the heart. He yawned and stretched. The axeman looked at him and grinned. ‘I tell you, laddie, if sleeping ever catches on as a sport I’ll wager everything I have on you becoming champion.’

  Rabalyn rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked.

  ‘I dozed a mite.’ Druss looked away, towards the trees, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Is there something out there?’ asked Rabalyn, fear rising.

  ‘Not something. Someone. Been there a while now,’ answered Druss, his voice low.

  ‘I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘She’s there.’

  ‘She?’

  Druss swung back to the youth. ‘When she comes in don’t question her.

  Sometimes she’s a strange lass.’ The axeman added fuel to the fire, then rose and stretched his huge arms over his head. ‘Damn, but my shoulder aches,’ he said. ‘Must be rain coming.’ As he spoke a young woman emerged from the trees. Over one shoulder she carried a small pack, and in her hand, held by the ears, were two dead hares. Rabalyn watched her.

  She was tall and slim, her movements graceful. Her long honey-gold hair was pulled back from the brow and bound into a single braid that hung between her shoulders. Her clothes were dark, an ankle-length cloak over a jacket of sleek black leather, the shoulders adorned with beautifully fashioned mail rings, blackened to prevent them gleaming in the light. Her trews were also of leather, though dark brown. She wore knee-length, fringed moccasins, and a short sword in a black scabbard. Rabalyn looked at her face. She was strikingly attractive, though her expression was grim and purposeful. Striding to the fire she dropped her pack, and tossed the hares to the ground. Without saying a word she drew a small curved knife and began to skin them. Druss wandered away into the trees, leaving Rabalyn alone with the woman. She ignored him, and continued to prepare the meat. From the pack she took a small pan, laying it by the fire.

  Rabalyn sat quietly as she sliced meat into it. Druss strode in, carrying his helm upturned. Walking to the fire he offered it to the woman. Rabalyn saw it was full of water. Taking it, the woman emptied the contents into the pan, and placed it over the fire.

  Then she settled back and glanced at the bodies of the beasts. ‘The fourth one is dead,’ she said. Rabalyn jerked as she broke the odd silence.

  ‘We killed it last night.’ Her voice was hard and cold. ‘We were lucky. It was already wounded and weak.’

  ‘The boy struck it with my axe,’ said Druss.

  The woman turned her gaze on Rabalyn for the first time. Her eyes were a smoky grey. She tilted her head as she looked at him, her expression unchanging. Rabalyn felt himself reddening. Then she looked back at Druss. Finally she stood and wandered over to the dead beasts, examining them, and then the ground around the campsite. At last she returned to the fire. ‘Now you know,’ said Druss.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought you would.’

  The woman undipped her cloak and let it fall to the ground. Then she lifted clear a narrow leather baldric from which hung a small black double-winged crossbow. Rabalyn had never seen a weapon like it before.

  He leaned forward. ‘May I look at it?’ he asked.

  The woman ignored him. ‘Your axe became lodged in one of the beasts.

  The boy pulled it clear as you wrestled with the last,’ she said to Druss.

  ‘The boy hid in that tree until then.’

  ‘Exactly. Now show him your bow, Garianne,’ said the axeman softly.

  ‘He’s a good lad and means no harm.’

  Lifting the weapon, she passed it to Rabalyn without glancing at him.

  The bow was around a foot in length, with two bronze triggers, and a sharply curved grip. He turned it in his hands, trying to see how the lower bolt could be inserted. It was a clever mechanism. The top bolt was merely placed in a groove in the main shaft; the second was loaded below it, through an opening in the side. Rabalyn curled his hand around the grip and extended his arm. The weapon was lighter than it looked. An image appeared in his mind, of a tall man, dark-eyed and lean. Then it was gone.

  Rabalyn placed the crossbow on the ground. Garianne moved to the cookpot, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. From the pack she took a small sack of salt, and added several pinches. Then, from another muslin package, she sprinkled dried herbs into the broth. A savoury scent filled the air.

  Time passed, and Rabalyn became uneasy at the lack of conversation.

  The woman said nothing. The axeman seemed unconcerned. Finally Garianne lifted clear the pot, and set it on the ground to cool. Occasionally she would stir it. ‘I’ll buy you a meal in Mellicane,’ said Druss.

  ‘We are not going to the city. We’re heading north. We want to see the high country.’

  ‘There’s some sights to see,’ agreed the axeman. ‘If you change your mind I’ll be staying at the Crimson Stag on the west quay.’ She seemed not to be listening, then Rabalyn saw her cock her head to one side, and nod.

  ‘I don’t like cities,’ she said, staring upwards. Then there was a pause.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ she continued. Then another pause. ‘But I can hunt what we need.’ Finally she shrugged and said: ‘As you wish.’

  Now Rabalyn was totally confused. The axeman seemed to take the entire one-sided conversation in his stride. Moving to the pan he lifted the spoon, and stirred the contents. ‘Smells good,’ he said.

  ‘Eat,’ said Garianne. Druss ate several spoonfuls, then passed the pot and spoon to Rabalyn. The broth was thick and tasty, and he too ate. At last he pushed the pot towards Garianne. She sighed. ‘I am not hungry now,’ she said, replacing her baldric and clipping her cloak back into place. ‘We will see you in Mellicane, Uncle.’

  ‘I’ll bring your pot with me,’ he said.

  She walked off into the trees without another word.

  Druss finished the last of the broth. ‘Who was she talking to?’ asked Rabalyn.

  The axeman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve learned there is more in this world than I can see. I like her, though.’

  ‘Are you her uncle?’

  ‘I can imagine worse nieces. But no, I’m not her uncle. She started calling me that after I nursed her through a fever last year.’

  ‘I think she’s mad,’ said Rabalyn.

  ‘Aye, I can see why you would.’

  ‘Why didn’t she wait for you to finish the broth? Then she would have had her pot.’

  ‘She’s uncomfortable around people. You made her nervous.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘You asked her a question. I did warn you, laddie. She doesn’t take well to questions.’

  ‘I only asked to see her crossbow. I was being polite.’

  ‘I know. She’s a strange lass. But she’s got heart, and she uses that crossbow like a master.’

  ‘What does her family think of her running around dressed like a man?’

  asked Rabalyn.

  Druss laughed aloud. ‘I’m forgetting you come from a small community, laddie. She doesn’t have any family — not that I know of. She sometimes travels with a pair of twins. Good lads. One’s a simpleton. I have never heard her speak of family, though. My guess is they were probably killed.

  That, or some other shock unhinged her. She is not always as you saw her today. A little wine inside her and she’ll sing sweeter than a songbird. Aye, and dance and laugh. It’s only when the voices come that she.. well, you saw,’ he concluded lamely.

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘Do you never run out of questions, laddie?’ replied Druss, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Come on, it’s time to be moving. I have a feeling we’ll be meeting your friends before long.’

  With the coming of the dawn Braygan was more exhausted than at any other time in his life. The bright sunshine hurt his eyes, and he felt as if he was walking through a drea
m. A small boy was sleeping beside him, his terrified mother stroking the child’s hair. Other women and children were huddled together at the centre of the circle. A girl of around three began to cry. Braygan reached out to comfort her, but she backed away from him. A woman called to the child, who scrambled over to her, sobbing.

  Braygan pushed himself to his feet and eased his way to the outer circle where Skilgannon stood, with around a dozen surviving men, and the same number of strong women. Some of the women in the circle were armed with knives. The remainder held thick lumps of wood, which they had used as clubs when the beasts attacked.

  ‘Have they gone for good this time?’ asked Braygan, glancing down at the dried blood on Skilgannon’s blades.

  Skilgannon looked at the priest and shrugged. Just beyond the circle lay the giant body of a hideous creature. Braygan tried not to look at it, but his eyes were drawn to its massive jaws. The little priest had seen those fangs crunch into the skull of a man, ripping the head from the shoulders, before Skilgannon had leapt in, cutting a gaping hole in the beast’s throat.

  The headless body of the man was no longer in sight. Other creatures had dragged it away into the darkness, along with the corpses of other Joinings.

  Braygan swung to look back at the crowd of people huddled together inside the circle. There were some fifty or more, half of them children.

  ‘How many of us did they get?’ asked Braygan.

  ‘Ten… fifteen,’ answered Skilgannon wearily. ‘I had no time to keep count.’

  The two brothers, Jared and Nian, broke away from the outer circle and approached Skilgannon. Both carried longswords, with double-handed hilts. ‘You think we should try to get away now it’s light?’ asked Jared.

  ‘Wait a while,’ said Skilgannon. ‘They may have retreated back into the reeds, and be watching for just such a move.’

  ‘I counted eighteen of them,’ said the young man. ‘I think we killed five at least, and wounded four others.’

  ‘I cut the head from one,’ said Nian. ‘Did you see that, Jared? Did you see me cut its head?’

  ‘I saw. You did well. Very brave, Nian.’

  ‘Did you see?’ the man asked Skilgannon. ‘Did you see me cut its head off?’

  ‘Your brother is right. You are very brave,’ said Skilgannon. Braygan saw the simpleton give a crooked smile, then reach out and take hold of the long blue sash that hung from his brother’s belt. He stood there, sword in one hand, sash in the other.

  ‘We cannot just wait here all day,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Either they have gone, or they are waiting. We need to know which.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Jared.

  ‘I’m going to take a stroll to the reeds.’

  ‘We’ll keep you company.’

  Skilgannon glanced past Jared, at his brother. ‘Might be best if Nian remains behind — to look after the women and children.’

  Jared shook his head. ‘He couldn’t do that, my friend. He needs to be close to me.’

  ‘Then you both remain here,’ said Skilgannon. With that he sheathed his swords and strolled away towards the northwest.

  Braygan watched him go, and felt his heart sink. A murmur began among other people in the circle, as they watched Skilgannon move away towards the reeds. ‘Hold the circle!’ shouted Jared, moving away from Braygan. ‘He’s just scouting. He’ll be back. Stay watchful!’

  A flicker of resentment flared in Braygan, and he was immediately ashamed. How swiftly Skilgannon had become important in these people’s lives. He was their saviour and their hope. What am I, wondered Braygan?

  I am nothing. If these people survive they will not remember the chubby little priest who cowered at the centre of the circle, begging the Source to keep him alive. They will recall the dark-haired warrior with the twin swords who took command, forming the circle that saved them. They will remember him to the ends of their lives.

  ‘There’s one!’ The shout was full of terror, and a wail went up from the children.

  Braygan swung round, eyes wide and fearful. A dark shape emerged from the tall grass. It was a golden-haired woman in a dark cloak.

  Braygan’s relief was immense.

  ‘It’s Garianne! It’s Garianne!’ shouted the simpleton, Nian. Still holding to his brother’s sash he walked towards the woman. Jared grabbed his arm.

  ‘Don’t pull me,’ he said gently. ‘She’s coming here.’

  Nian waved. ‘Over here, Garianne. We’re over here.’

  The woman was beautiful, her eyes a soft flecked grey, her braided hair gleaming in the sunlight. She approached the two brothers. Nian moved towards her, and, dropping his sword, lifted her into a hug. She kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Put me down,’ she said, ‘and be calm.’ Then she swung towards Jared. ‘We are glad to see you alive,’ she said, her voice flat and emotionless. She did not smile.

  ‘It is good to see you, Garianne,’ Jared told her. ‘Did…?’ He cleared his throat. ‘We were wondering if the beasts were still close by.’

  ‘Some moved northeast in the night. We killed one. Old Uncle and his friend killed three more.’

  ‘I cut the head off one,’ said Nian. ‘Tell her, Jared.’

  ‘He did. He was very brave, Garianne. It would be good if you could stay awhile and help us fight off the creatures. There are many children here.’

  ‘We are going to Mellicane. Old Uncle is buying us a meal.’ ‘We are all heading to Mellicane, Garianne. Nian would be happy if you came with us.’

  ‘Yes, yes, come with us, Garianne,’ insisted Nian. Suddenly the woman smiled. Braygan found the moment breathtaking. In that instant she moved from attractive to stunningly beautiful. Stepping towards Nian, she reached up and curled her arm round his shoulder.

  ‘I wish I had seen you cut its head off,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘Three whacks it took. Is Old Uncle coming too?’

  Her smile faded and she stepped away from Nian.

  ‘No questions, Nian,’ said Jared softly. ‘Remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Garianne,’ muttered Nian. Her smile returned briefly, and she seemed to relax.

  ‘Old Uncle is coming. Maybe an hour. Maybe less,’ she told them. Jared swung to Braygan. ‘Old Uncle is a warrior named Druss.

  You have heard the name?’ Braygan shook his head. ‘He is Drenai, and, like your friend, he is deadly. With Garianne and Druss we have more than a chance against any beasts.’

  Skilgannon walked towards the swaying bank of reeds, his movements smooth and unhurried, scanning the stalks for any sign of movement not caused by the breeze. He was exactly as he seemed to those who watched him from the circle, relaxed and strolling, his swords sheathed.

  Malanek had called it the illusion of elsewhere; where the mind floats free and surrenders control of the body to the instincts and the senses. As he walked Skilgannon allowed his thoughts to roam far, even as his eyes watched for danger.

  He thought of Malanek, and the tortuous training, the endless exercises and the harsh regime of physical stress. He remembered Greavas and Sperian, and the increasing tension of the days after Bokram’s coronation.

  Arrests were sudden. Houses were raided, the occupants dragged away.

  No-one spoke of the departed. Known followers of the dead Emperor disappeared, or were publicly executed in Leopard Square.

  Fear descended on the capital. People watched each other with suspicious eyes, never knowing who might inform on them for a hasty word, or a suggested criticism. Skilgannon worried about Greavas, and his connections to the royal family, and, indeed, the former actor often went missing for days before returning without a word as to his previous whereabouts. Skilgannon asked him one evening where he had been.

  Greavas sighed. ‘Best you don’t know, my friend,’ was all he would say.

  One night, around three weeks after the coronation, armed soldiers arrived at the house. Molaire was beside herself with fear, and even the normally resolute Sperian was ashen and afraid. Skilgannon was
sitting in the garden when the officer marched out. It was the golden-haired former athlete, Boranius. Skilgannon rose from his chair. ‘Good to see you,’ he said, and meant it.

  ‘And you,’ answered Boranius coolly. ‘However, I am here on official business.’

  ‘I shall have refreshments served for you,’ said Skilgannon, gesturing towards the pale-faced Sperian. The man gratefully withdrew. Skilgannon glanced at the two soldiers standing in the garden doorway. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ he told them. ‘There are chairs for all.’

  ‘My men will stand,’ said Boranius, lifting his scabbard, and seating himself on a wicker chair. He still looked every inch the athlete Skilgannon had so admired.

  ‘Do you still run, Boranius?’

  ‘No, I have little time for such pursuits. You?’

  Skilgannon laughed. ‘I do, but it is not the fun it was, for I have no-one to test me. You were my inspiration. You set the standard.’

  ‘And you beat me.’

  ‘You had an injured ankle, Boranius. However, I did enjoy getting the medal.’

  ‘The days of school medals are behind me now — and you too soon. Have you considered your future?’

  ‘I shall be a soldier like my father.’

  ‘That is pleasing to hear. We need good soldiers. Loyal soldiers.’ The blond officer leaned back in his chair. ‘These are difficult times, Olek.

  There are traitors everywhere. They must be hunted down and exterminated. Do you know any traitors?’

  ‘How would I recognize them, Boranius? Do they wear odd hats?’

  ‘This is not a subject for jests, Olek. Even now someone is sheltering the Emperor’s concubine and her bastard daughter. Bokram is king by right and by blood. Those who speak or act against him are traitors.’

  ‘I have heard no-one speak against him,’ said Skilgannon. There was a tightness around Boranius’s blue eyes, and the man seemed constantly on edge.

  ‘What about the pervert who lives here? Is he loyal?’

  Skilgannon felt a coldness settle in his belly. ‘You are a guest in my home, Boranius. Do not speak ill of any of my friends.’

  ‘I am not a guest, Olek. I am an officer of the King. Have you heard Greavas speak against the King?’