White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Somebody spoke to Braygan, the voice angry. He turned to answer, but a fist struck him in the face and he fell clumsily to the ground. A booted foot caught him in the chest and he cried out, and rolled toward the wall of the apothecary.

  Brother Lantern stepped across him and blocked the path of Braygan’s attacker. “Beware,” said Lantern, softly.

  “Beware of what?” asked the man, a heavily built and bearded figure, wearing the green sash of the Arbiters.

  “Beware of anger, brother,” said Lantern. “It has a habit of bringing grief in its wake.”

  The man laughed. “I’ll show you grief,” he said. His fist lashed out toward Lantern’s face. The priest swayed. The blow missed him. The attacker stumbled forward, off balance, and tripped over Lantern’s outstretched leg, falling to his knees. With a roar of rage he surged upright and leapt at the priest—only to miss him and fall again, this time striking his face on the cobbles. There was blood upon his cheek. He rose more warily—and drew a knife from his belt.

  “Be careful,” said Lantern. “You are going to hurt yourself further.”

  “Hurt myself? Are you an idiot?”

  “I am beginning to think that I might be,” said Lantern. “Do you happen to know when the apothecary will be arriving? We have an injured brother and are in need of herbs to reduce his fever.”

  “You’re the one who’ll need the apothecary!”

  “I have already said that I need the apothecary. Shall I speak more slowly?”

  The man swore loudly then rushed in. The knife lanced for Lantern’s belly. The priest swayed again, his arm seeming to brush against the charging man’s shoulder. The Arbiter surged past Lantern and struck the apothecary wall headfirst. Slumping down he screamed as his knife blade gouged into his own thigh.

  Lantern walked over and knelt beside him, examining the wound. “Happily—though I suppose that is arguable—you have missed the major artery,” he said, “but the wound will need stitching.” Rising, he turned toward the crowd. “Does this man have friends here?” he called. “He needs to be attended.”

  Several men shuffled forward. “Do you know how to treat wounds?” Lantern asked the first.

  “No.”

  “Then carry him into the tavern. I will seal the cut. And send someone to fetch the apothecary. I have many duties today and cannot tarry here long.”

  Ignored by the crowd, Braygan pushed himself to his feet, and watched as the injured man, groaning in pain, was carried to the tavern. Lantern glanced back at Braygan. “Wait for the apothecary,” he said. “I will be back presently.” With that he strolled toward the tavern, the crowd parting for him.

  Braygan felt light-headed and vaguely sick. He took several deep breaths.

  “Who was that?” asked a voice. It was one of the black-armored soldiers, a thin-faced man with deep-set dark eyes.

  “Brother Lantern,” answered Braygan. “He is our librarian.” The soldier laughed. The crowd began to drift away.

  “I do not think you will be further troubled today,” said the soldier.

  “Why do they want to harm us? We have always sought to love all people, and I recognized many in the crowd. We have helped them when they were sick. In the famine last year we shared our stores with them.”

  The soldier shrugged. “Not for me to say.”

  “Why do you not protect us?” asked the priest.

  “Soldiers obey their order, priest. The martial code does not allow us to obey only those orders we like. Were I you I would leave the monastery and journey north. It will not be long before it is attacked.”

  “Why would they attack us?”

  “Ask your friend. He seems to be a man who knows which way the wind will blow.” He paused. “During the fight I saw he had a dark tattoo upon his left forearm. What kind was it?”

  “It is a spider.”

  “I thought so. Does he perhaps also have a lion or some such upon his chest?”

  “Yes. A leopard.”

  The soldier said nothing more, and walked away.

  For three years now Skilgannon had sought to recapture that one perfect moment, that sense of total clarity and purpose. On rare occasions it seemed tantalizingly close, like a wispy image hovering at the corners of vision that danced away when he tried to focus upon it.

  He had cast aside riches and power, and journeyed through the wilderness seeking answers. He had entered the priesthood here at the converted castle of Cobalsin, enduring three mind-rotting years of study and examination, absorbing—and largely dismissing—philosophies and teachings that bore no relation to the realities of a world cursed by the presence of Man.

  And each night the dreams would haunt him. He would be wandering through a dark wood seeking the white wolf. He would catch a glimpse of its pale fur in the dense undergrowth and draw his swords. Moonlight would glisten on the blades, and the wolf would be gone.

  Instinctively he knew there was a link between the swords and the wolf. The moment he touched the hilts the beast would disappear, and yet, such was the fear of the wolf, that he could not resist the lure of the blades.

  The monk known as Lantern would awake with a start, fists clenched, chest tight, and roll from his narrow pallet bed. The small room, with its tiny window would seem then like a prison cell.

  On this night a storm was raging outside the monastery. Skilgannon walked barefoot along the corridor and up the steps to the roof, stepping out into the rain. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.

  It had been raining that night too, after the last battle.

  He remembered the enemy priest, on his knees in the mud. All around him were corpses, thousands of them. The priest looked up at him, then raised his thin hands to the storm. Rain had drenched his pale robes. “The tears of Heaven,” he said.

  It still surprised Skilgannon that he remembered the moment so powerfully. Why would a god weep? He recalled that he had laughed at the priest, and called him a fool. “Find yourself a god with real power,” he had said. “Weeping is for the weak and the powerless.”

  Now on the monastery roof Skilgannon walked through the rain and stared at the undulating landscape, gazing out toward the east.

  The rain eased away, the clouds clearing. A bright, gibbous moon illuminated the glistening land. The houses in the town below shone white and clean. No rioting crowds tonight, no rabble-rousers. The fires in the merchant district had been doused by the storm. The mob will gather again tomorrow, he thought. Or the next day.

  What am I doing here, he wondered? The fool in the town had asked whether he was an idiot. The question dogged his thoughts. He had looked into the man’s eyes as he had stitched his wounded thigh. The glint of hatred shone there. “We will sweep your kind from the pages of history,” the man had said.

  Your kind.

  Skilgannon had looked at him lying upon the tavern table, his face gray with pain. “You might kill the priests, little man. It will not be hard. They do not fight back. But the pages of history? I think not. Creatures like you do not have such power.”

  A bitter wind rippled across the rooftop. He shivered—then smiled. Pulling open his soaked robes, Skilgannon let them fall to the floor. Standing naked in the moonlight he stretched the muscles of his arms and back, then moved smoothly into the Eagle pose, the left foot hooked behind the right ankle, the right arm raised, the left arm wrapped around it, the backs of the palms pressed together. Motionless he stood, in perfect balance. In this moment he did not look like a priest. His body was well muscled and lean, and there were old scars upon his arms and chest, from sword and spear. His breathing deepened. Then he relaxed. The cold did not touch him now, and he began to move smoothly through the exercises that had sustained him in another life: the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock, and the Crow.

  His muscles stretched, his body loose, he began a series of dancelike movements, leaping and twirling, always in perfect balance. Warm sweat replaced the cold sheen of rain
upon his naked flesh.

  Dayan’s face appeared in his mind. Not in death as he had last seen her, but bright and smiling as they swam together in the marble pool of the palace garden. His stomach tightened. His face betrayed no emotion, save for a tightness now around the eyes. Drawing in a deep breath he moved to the edge of the parapet and ran his hand along the foot-wide ledge. Water droplets clung to the smooth stone, making it greasy. The man known as Lantern vaulted to the ledge and stood some seventy feet above the hard rock upon which the monastery had been built. The narrow ledge ran straight for some thirty feet, before a sharp, right angle turn.

  He studied the ledge for a few moments, then closed his eyes. Blind now he ran forward then leapt high, twisting his body through a tight pirouette. His right foot landed firmly on the ledge and did not slip. His left caught the lip of the right angle. He swayed then righted himself. Opening his eyes he looked down once more on the rocky ground far below.

  He had judged it perfectly. A small part of his mind wished that he had not.

  Turning he leapt lightly back to the roof and donned his robes.

  If it is death you want, he told himself, it will be coming soon.

  For two days the thirty-five priests remained mostly within the grounds of the old Cobalsin Castle and its outbuildings, only venturing to the meadows east of the town. Here they tended the three flocks of rare sheep and goats, from whose wool, and the garments they fashioned from it, the priests earned enough to support themselves and the headquarters of the church in the Tantrian capital, Mellicane.

  The town itself remained ominously quiet. The bodies of the hanged foreigners were removed and the soldiers departed. Many among the priests hoped that the terror was at an end, and that life would soon return to normal. Spring was coming, and there was much to do, gathering the wild flowers to provide the dyes for cloaks and tunics, purchasing and preparing the secret blends of oils that would make the clothes they crafted waterproof, and help to maintain the richness of color. The garments made here were highly prized by the nobles and the rich of the cities. Lambing season was also in full flow, and the spring cull was due. Merchants would soon be arriving to buy meat and deliver produce and supplies for the coming season.

  The mood in the monastery was lighter than it had been for weeks, and the injured Brother Labberan had overcome his fever and—it was hoped—would soon be on the road to recovery.

  Not everyone, however, believed the worst was over.

  On the second morning Brother Lantern sought out the abbot.

  “We should leave and head west,” said Brother Lantern. Abbot Cethelin, an elderly priest with wispy white hair and gentle eyes, beckoned Brother Lantern to follow him to his study in the high tower. It was a small room, sparsely furnished with two hard-backed chairs, a long writing desk, and a single, narrow window, overlooking the town.

  “Why do you wish us to leave, Brother?” asked the abbot, gesturing for Lantern to take a seat.

  “Death is coming, Holy Brother.”

  “I know this,” answered the abbot, softly. “But why do you wish us to leave?”

  Brother Lantern shook his head. “Forgive me, but your answer makes no sense. This is merely a respite. The storm is coming. Even now the rabble-rousers will be encouraging the townsfolk to come here and massacre us. Soon—tomorrow or the next day—crowds will begin to form outside. We are being cast in the role of enemy. We are being demonized. When they break through the gates they will cut us all down. They will rage through these buildings like a fire.”

  “Once again, Younger Brother, I ask: Why do you wish us to leave?”

  “You want to die here?”

  “What I want is not the concern. This is a place of spiritual harmony. We exist to offer love and understanding in a world too often bathed in blood and hatred. We do not add to that suffering. Our purpose is enlightenment, Younger Brother. We are seeking to enhance the journey of our souls as they yearn to be united with the Source of All Things. We have no fear of death, it is merely another step of the journey.”

  “If this building was ablaze, Holy Brother, would you sit within it and wait for the flames to devour you?”

  “No, Lantern. I would take myself to a place of safety. That, however, does not equate with the situation we are facing. Fire is inanimate and nondiscerning. We are ordered to offer love in the face of hate, and forgiveness in the face of pain. We cannot run away when danger threatens. That would be like saying we have no faith in our own philosophy. How can we obey our teachings if we run in the face of hate?”

  “It is not a philosophy I can share,” said Lantern.

  “I know. That is one of the reasons you cannot find what you seek.”

  “You do not know what I seek,” answered Lantern, a touch of anger in his voice.

  “The White Wolf,” said the older man, softly. “But you do not know what it is, nor why you seek it. Until you do, what you seek will always be lost to you. Why did you come here, Younger Brother?”

  “I am beginning to wonder that myself.” His keen blue eyes held to the abbot’s gaze. “How much do you know of me?”

  “I know that you are a man rooted in this world of flesh. You have a keen mind, Lantern, and great intelligence. I know that when you walk through the town the women admire you, and smile at you. I know how hard it has been for you to obey the rules of celibacy. What else do you wish to hear?”

  “I have tried to be a good priest,” said the tall man, with a sigh. “I have immersed myself in this world of prayer and kindness. I thought that, as time passed, I would come to understand it. Yet I do not. Last summer we risked our lives in the plague to help these townspeople. Two of the men whose lives we saved took part in the beating of Brother Labberan. One of the women whose child we brought back from the brink of death was baying for her husband to break Labberan’s face. They are scum.”

  The abbot smiled. “How simple love would be, Younger Brother, if we only had to bestow it on those who deserved it. Yet, what would it be worth? If you gave a poor man a silver coin, then that would be a gift. If you expected him to pay you back, then that would make it a loan. We do not loan our love, Lantern. We give it freely.”

  “And what will be achieved if you let them kill you? Will that add one spark of love to the world?”

  The abbot shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. “How did you know of the White Wolf?” asked Lantern. “It is only in my dreams.”

  “How do you know it is a wolf?” countered the abbot, “when you have never seen it?”

  “That does not answer my question.”

  “I have a gift, Lantern. A small gift. For example, as we sit here now I can see you, but I also see glimpses of your thoughts and memories. They flicker around you. Two young women—very beautiful—one with golden hair, the other dark. They are opposites; one is gentle and loving, the other fierce and passionate. I see a slender man, tall with dyed yellow hair and a womanly face.” Cethelin closed his eyes. “I see a weary man, kneeling in a garden, tending plants. A good man. Not young.” Cethelin sighed and looked at Lantern. “You knew these people?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you carry them in your heart.”

  “Always.”

  “Along with the White Wolf.”

  “It seems so.”

  At that moment came the sound of the bell, heralding morning prayer. The abbot rose.

  “We will talk again, Brother Lantern. May the Source bless you.”

  “And you, Elder Brother,” answered Lantern, rising from his chair and bowing.

  There was so much about the world that Braygan failed to comprehend. People mystified him. How could men gaze upon the wonders of the mountains, or the glories of the night sky, and not understand the pettiness of human ambition? Fearing death, as all men did, how could they so easily visit death upon others? Braygan could not stop thinking about the hanging bodies he had seen before the burning buildings.
They had not merely been strung up by their necks. They had been beaten and tortured first. The young priest could not imagine how anyone could find pleasure in such deeds. And yet they surely had, for it was said there was much laughter in the crowd as the hapless victims were dragged to their places of execution.

  The young priest sat at the bedside of Brother Labberan, spoon-feeding him vegetable broth. Occasionally he would stop and dap a napkin to Labberan’s mouth. The left side of the older priest’s face was swollen and numb, and the broth dribbled from his mouth to his chin.

  “Are you feeling a little stronger, Brother?” asked Braygan.

  “A little,” answered Labberan, his words slurred. Splints had been applied to both of Labberan’s forearms, and his hands were also swollen and blue with bruises. There was an unhealthy sheen on the man’s thin face. Close to sixty years old, Labberan was not strong, and the beating had been severe. Braygan saw a tear form, and slowly trickle down the old priest’s face.

  “Are you in pain still, Brother?”

  Labberan shook his head. Braygan put aside the bowl of broth. Labberan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The young priest rose silently from the bedside and left the small room. He took the empty broth bowl to the lower kitchens and cleaned it. Several other priests were there, preparing the midday meal. Brother Anager approached him.

  “How is he?” asked the little man. “Did my broth sit well with him? It was always his favorite.”

  “He ate well, Anager. I am sure he liked it.”

  Anager nodded and seemed relieved. Small and round-shouldered, he had a nervous tic that caused his head to twitch as he spoke. It was most disconcerting to Braygan. “It was the boys, you know,” said Anager. “They hurt him the worst.”

  “The boys?”

  “His boys. From church school.”

  Braygan was nonplussed. Labberan’s role was as a teacher to the local children. Two days a week he would travel into the community hall, offering lessons in writing and arithmetic. He would also tell them stories of the Source and His wonders. Teaching children was Labberan’s joy. “Our future lies with the young,” he would say. “They are the foundations. Only through the young can we hope to eradicate hatred.”