“I feel sick,” said Archas.
“Best you sit up,” said Rabalyn, helping the youth to the wall. Bron struggled over, then slumped down beside his brother.
Neither of the young men spoke, and Rabalyn left them there.
He had tackled four attackers and defeated them. He should have felt uplifted and empowered. Instead his heart was heavy, and fear of retribution clung to him.
Skilgannon made his way to the high battlements, and felt a moment of irritation when he saw that he was not alone. Brother Naslyn was already there, leaning on the crenellated wall. He was a big man, wide shouldered and powerful. Turning, he saw Skilgannon and nodded a greeting. “A fine night, Brother Lantern,” he said.
“What brings you to old tower?” asked Skilgannon.
“I wanted to think.”
“Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.” Skilgannon turned away.
“No, do not leave, Brother. I was hoping you would come. I have seen you here exercising. I know some of the moves. We practiced them in the Immortals.”
Skilgannon looked at the man. It was not hard to imagine him in the black and silver armor of Gorben’s elite regiment. Invincible in battle, they had carried Gorben to victory after victory for decades. They had been disbanded after the defeat at Skeln. “Were you there?” asked Skilgannon. Such was the awesome reputation of that dreadful battle, and its aftermath, that the question could have referred to nothing else.
“Aye. I was there.” He shook his head. “The world ended,” he said, at last.
Naslyn was a quiet, solitary man. He needed to talk now, but only in his own time. Skilgannon began to stretch, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Naslyn joined him, and together they quietly moved through the familiar routines of the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock, and the Crow. It had been some time since Naslyn last practiced the moves, and it took him awhile to rediscover his balance. Then they faced each other, bowed, and began to shadow fight, spinning and leaping, hands and feet lancing out, the blows landing on target areas lightly. Skilgannon was faster than the heavier man, but Naslyn moved well for a while until fatigue overtook him. At the last he stepped back, and bowed once more. Sweat covered his face and dripped from his short, black beard. They stretched once more, then sat quietly on the battlements.
“I still dream of it,” said Naslyn, after a while. “It was one of those impossible moments, where, when you replay it in your mind, you are convinced the outcome will be different.”
He turned toward Skilgannon. “We couldn’t lose, Lantern. We were the best. Not only that but we outnumbered the enemy ten—perhaps twenty—to one. There was no way they could stand against us. No way.”
“The Drenai are fine warriors, they say.”
“Aye, they are,” snapped Naslyn. “But that’s not why they won. Three men were responsible for our downfall that day. And the odds against what happened are so enormous they are incalculable. The first was Gorben, bless him. I loved that man—even though the madness was on him at the end. We had taken losses in the eastern battles and he promoted fresh recruits to our ranks. One of these was a young soldier named Eericetes—may his soul be cursed to wander for eternity, the coward.” He fell silent and stared out at the silhouetted mountains.
“Who was the third?” asked Skilgannon, though he knew the answer.
“The Silver Slayer. Druss. They call him Druss the Legend now. Man, but he earned it that day. We struck their line like the hammer of Heaven. It buckled and damn near broke. And then—just as victory was in our grasp . . .” Naslyn shook his head in remembered disbelief “. . . Druss charged. One man, Lantern. One man with an ax. It was the pivotal moment. He was unstoppable. The ax blade clove into our ranks and men fell. He couldn’t have stood for long. No one man could. But then the coward Eericetes threw down his shield and ran. Around him other new recruits panicked and did the same. Within a dozen heartbeats the line broke and we were all retreating. Unbelievable. We were the Immortals, Lantern. We didn’t run. The shame of it burns like fire in my heart.”
Skilgannon was intrigued. Tales of Druss the Legend had abounded in Naashan, ever since the death of the champion Michanek. “What was he like? Is he a giant?”
“No taller than me,” said Naslyn, “but more heavily built. It wasn’t his size, though. It was the sheer power he radiated. Him and that damned ax.”
“They say he fought alongside the Immortals years ago,” said Skilgannon.
“Before my time, but there were some who remembered him. They told incredible tales of his skill. I didn’t believe them then. I do now. The retreat was awful. Gorben went totally mad and demanded his generals kill themselves for the dishonor. Instead they killed him. Ventria was finished then. And look at us now, tearing ourselves apart.”
“Why did you become a priest?”
“I was sick of it all, Lantern. The slaughter and the battles.” Naslyn laughed grimly. “I thought I could put right the evils of my youth.”
“Perhaps you can.”
“I might have. But I didn’t survive Skeln to be slaughtered by angry peasants. They’ll be coming, you know. With clubs and scythes and knives. I know what I’d do. I’d fight, by Heaven. I don’t want that.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’m thinking of leaving. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Why me? Why not the abbot?”
“You don’t talk much, Lantern, but I know a warrior when I see one. You’ve been in battles. I’ll wager you were an officer—and a good one. So I thought I’d get your advice.”
“I have none to give, my friend. I am still undecided.”
“You are thinking of staying then?”
Skilgannon shrugged. “Maybe. I truly do not know. When I came here I gave my swords to the abbot to dispose of. I had no wish to be a fighter anymore. In the town yesterday I wanted to kill a loudmouthed braggart who struck Braygan. It took all of my control to hold back. Had my swords been close to hand I would have left his head on the cobbles.”
“We are not such good priests, are we?” offered Naslyn, with a smile.
“The abbot is. Many of the others are. I do not want to see them slaughtered.”
“Is that why you are thinking of staying, so that you can defend them?”
“It is in my mind.”
“Then I will stay too,” said Naslyn.
3
* * *
Cethelin awoke with a start, the colors of the vision filling his mind. Lighting a lantern he moved to his small writing desk, spread open a section of parchment and took up a quill pen. As swiftly as he could before the vision faded he wrote it down. Then he sat back, exhausted and trembling. His mouth was dry and he filled a goblet with water. In the days of his youth he could hold the visions in his head, examining them until all was revealed. Now he could barely sketch out the broadest lines of them before they dissolved.
He stared down at what he had written. A gentle hound, scarred by fire, had become a snarling wolf, dangerous and deadly. The beast had lifted its head and lightning had forked up from its mouth, striking the sky with great power. This had caused a massive storm. The sea reared up in a huge tidal wave and swept toward a rocky island. Atop the island was a shrine. The last word Cethelin had scrawled was Candle. He remembered then that a single candle was burning on the beach of the island, its tiny flame bright against the onrushing darkness of the colossal wave.
Cethelin could make no sense of the hound-wolf, but he knew that the tide always represented humanity. The angry sea was the mob in the town, and the shrine was the church. Lantern was right. The mob would be coming with hatred in their hearts. Could a candle of love turn them from thoughts of murder? Cethelin doubted it.
The three-legged hound limped in from the bedroom and sat beside the abbot. Cethelin stroked its head. “You are not a wolf, my boy,” he said. “And you have chosen a poor place to seek safety.”
Rabalyn entered the small cottage and closed
the door quietly. Inserting the wooden plug that locked the latch, he wandered through to the small living room. Aunt Athyla was dozing in the chair by the fire. In her lap were several balls of brightly colored wool, and by her feet lay around a dozen knitted squares. Rabalyn moved through to the kitchen and cut himself some bread. Returning to the fire he took up the brass toasting fork, thrust a slice of bread onto it, and held it close to the coals. There had been no butter for some weeks now, but the toasted bread still tasted fine to a young man who had not eaten that day. He glanced across at Aunt Athyla as he ate. A large woman in her late fifties, she had never married, and yet she had been a mother to two generations of the family. Her own parents had died when she was just fifteen—only a little younger than Rabalyn was now. Athyla had worked to raise four sisters and a brother. They were all gone now, and only rarely did she hear from any of them. Rabalyn’s own mother had deserted the family four years ago, leaving two children in the care of the time-worn spinster.
He gazed fondly at the sleeping woman. Her hair was mostly gray, and her legs were swollen with rheumatism. Her knuckles, too, were slightly deformed by arthritis, yet she labored on daily without complaint. Rabalyn sighed. When younger he dreamed of becoming rich and repaying Aunt Athyla for her kindness, perhaps buying her a fine house, with servants. Now he knew such a gift would bring her no joy. Athyla did not desire servants. He wondered if she truly desired anything at all. Her long life had been filled with duties and responsibilities she had not asked for, yet had accepted. She had only one piece of jewelry, a small silver pendant that she unconsciously stroked when worried. Rabalyn had asked her about it and she said only that someone had given it to her a long time ago. Aunt Athyla did not engage in long conversations and her reminiscences were abrupt and to the point. As were her criticisms. “Just like your mother,” she would say, if Rabalyn left any food upon his plate. “Think of those starving children in Panthia.”
“How do you know they are starving in Panthia?” he would ask.
“Always starving in Panthia,” she would say. “It’s a known fact.”
Old Labbers had later explained that forty years earlier a severe drought had struck the nations of the southeast. Cadia, Matapesh, and Panthia had suffered crop failures and there had been great hardship. Scores of thousands had died in Panthia, the worst hit of all. Now, however, the Panthians were among the richest of nations. Aunt Athyla listened as Rabalyn explained all this to her. “Ah, well, that’s nice,” she said. Some days later, when he refused to finish a meal that contained a disgusting green vegetable he loathed, she shook her head and said: “Those little children in Panthia would be glad of it.”
It had irritated him then, but he smiled as he thought of it now. It was easy to smile and think fond thoughts when Athyla was asleep. As soon as she was awake the irritation would return. Rabalyn couldn’t stop it. She would say something stupid and his temper would flare. Almost daily he made promises to himself not to argue with Athyla. Most arguments ended the same way. The spinster would begin to cry and call him ungrateful. She would point out that she had beggared herself to raise him, and he would reply: “I never asked you to.”
His leggings were still damp, and he stripped them off and hung them over a chair near the fire.
Returning to the kitchen, he filled the old black kettle with water from the stone jug and carried it back to the fire. Adding fuel to the coals he then hung the kettle over the flames. Once the water was boiling he made two cups of elderflower tisane, sweetening them with a little crystalized honey.
Athyla awoke and yawned. “Hello dear,” she said. “Have you had something to eat?”
“Yes, Aunt. I made you some tisane.”
“How is your eye, dear. Better now?”
“Yes, Aunt. It’s fine.”
“That’s good.” She winced as she leaned forward toward where Rabalyn had left her tisane. Swiftly leaving his chair he passed her the cup. “Not so much noise tonight,” she said. “I think all this unpleasantness is over now. Yes, I’m sure it is.”
“Let us hope so,” said Rabalyn, rising from his chair. “I’m going to bed, Aunt. I’ll see you in the morning.” Leaning over he kissed her cheek, then made his way to his own room. It was tiny, barely space enough for the old bed and a chest for his clothes.
Too weary to undress he lay on his bed and tried to sleep. But his thoughts were all of Todhe and the revenge he would seek. Rabalyn had always avoided trouble with the councillor’s son. Todhe was malicious and vengeful when he failed to get his own way, and merely surly and unpleasant to those he deemed not important enough to draw into his inner circle. Rabalyn was no fool and had remained wholly neutral in the only area where they were forced to come together—the little schoolroom. When Todhe spoke to him, which was a rare occurrence, Rabalyn was always courteous and careful to avoid giving offense. He didn’t think of it as cowardice—though he was scared of Todhe—but more as good common sense. On rare occasions when he witnessed Todhe and his friends bullying other boys—like fat Arren—he had convinced himself it was none of his business and walked away.
However, the beating of Old Labbers had been brutal and sickening, and Rabalyn found that he did not regret the punch that had begun this enmity with Todhe. His reget was that he had not had the courage to rush in on the adults who began the beating. No matter how much he thought of the dreadful incident he could make no sense of it. Old Labbers had never done anything to harm anyone in the town. Quite the reverse. During the plague he had gone from house to house ministering to the sick and the dying.
The world was indeed a strange place. As he lay in his bed Rabalyn thought about the lessons he had attended. He hadn’t taken much notice of them, save for the stories about heroic battles and mighty warriors. Rabalyn had formed the impression that wars were fought by good people against evil people. The evil people were always from foreign countries. Yet was it not evil for a score of healthy men to beat an elderly priest almost to the point of death? Was it not evil for women in the crowd to jeer and scream for them to “kick his ugly face” as Marja, the baker’s wife had?
“She always was a sad and sour woman,” Aunt Athyla had said—which was a remarkable thing to hear from the spinster. Aunt Athyla never spoke badly about anyone.
It was all most unsettling. Rabalyn had heard the gossip that travelers brought to the town. In the capital, Mellicane, huge crowds were said to have burned churches and hanged priests. The king’s advisor, Lord Ironmask, had ordered the arrests of scores of ministers, who had then been executed and their lands forfeited to the state. As the government began to crumble, Ironmask had appointed Arbiters, and these had traveled all across Tantria, rooting out “foreign inspired” traitors.
When Rabalyn had first heard of these events he had thought them generally to be good. Traitors should be rooted out. Now, however, he had seen Old Labbers branded a traitor, and he was confused.
Then there were the constant tales of battles fought between loyal troops and the vile enemy from Dospilis and their evil allies, the Datians. These battles were always won by Tantria, and yet each battle seemed to get closer. He had asked Old Labbers about this one day. “How can it be that when we win we draw back, and the defeated enemy moves forward?”
“A little more reading might be in order, young Rabalyn,” said Labbers. “In particular I would refer you to the historical works of Appalanus. He wrote: “Truth in war is like a maiden pure. She must be protected at all times within a fortress of lies.” Does that help?”
Rabalyn had nodded and thanked him, though he had no idea what the old man was talking about.
As he lay in his bed he could smell the smoke from the hearth. He would have to borrow Barik’s brooms and clear the chimney of soot. Pulling a blanket over his shoulders, he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep.
His mind was too full. He kept thinking of Todhe. Perhaps if he just accepted a beating from Todhe and his friends it would all blow over. Like for like.
Rabalyn doubted it. He had raised the stakes when he assaulted them with the iron rod. Perhaps the Watch would arrest him for it. This was a new and frightening thought. Uncomfortable now, and newly afraid, he sat up and opened his eyes. Immediately they began to sting. Smoke was everywhere. Rabalyn climbed out of his bed and opened the door. The living room was filled with oily smoke, and he saw flames outside the window.
Coughing and gasping he ran across the living room and pushed open the door to Aunt Athyla’s bedroom. The fire was eating through the window frame, and he could now hear it roaring through the thatched roof above. Stumbling to the bedside, he shook his aunt by the shoulder.
“Aunt Athyla!” he shouted. “The house is on fire.” His knees buckled, his lungs hot and smoke filled. Grabbing a chair, he hammered it at the burning shutters. They would not give. Dragging a blanket from the bed, he wrapped an edge of it around his hands and tried to lift the blazing wooden locking bar. The fire had warped it too badly. Pulling all the covers from Aunt Athyla, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her from the bed. Her body hit the floor, and she gave a groan.
“Wake up!” he screamed. On the verge of panic he began to haul her back into the living room. Fire was now bright here also, and a section of the roof fell into the far corner. The heat was intense. Leaving Athyla he ran to the door, lifted the bar and pushed it. The door would not open. Something had been wedged against it from the outside. Rabalyn could scarcely breathe. Staggering to the one window in the living room, he lifted the shutter bar and pushed open the shutters. Flames were licking at the wood. Scrambling up onto the sill he threw himself out onto the path beyond. Jumping to his feet, he ran back to the front door. A wooden bench had been lodged against it. Grabbing it he hauled it clear, then pulled open the door.
White Wolf Page 5
