White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Druss!” yelled Skilgannon. “He’s wearing a mailshirt. He might drown.”

  The axman hesitated, then lowered the man to the ground. “True,” he said. “And we don’t want to be drowning our allies, do we, laddie.” The first officer had dragged himself from the trough. He was reaching for the hilt of his knife when the skinny form of Shivas, the tavern owner, emerged from the Crimson Stag.

  “What is going on here?” he asked. “Are you fighting in my establishment?”

  “You couldn’t call it a fight, Shivas,” said Druss, with a smile. “A little gentle horseplay.”

  “Well take it elsewhere—or take your business elsewhere. I’ll have no troublemakers at the Crimson Stag. And I make no exceptions. Not even for you, Druss. And what do you expect me to do with that officer sleeping on my floor? If he stays the night he’ll pay lodging like everyone else.”

  “Put it on my bill, Shivas,” said Druss.

  “Don’t think I won’t,” muttered the tavern owner, casting a malevolent gaze at the four men before returning inside.

  The two Vagrians left without a word to Druss. The axman walked over to Skilgannon. “Strange race, the Vagrians,” he said. “They’d fight to the death on the smallest matter of principle. No threat of pain or injury would stop them. Yet the thought of missing out on Shivas’s cooking has them scuttling away like frightened children.”

  Skilgannon smiled. “And how is your head?”

  “Clearing, laddie. Just what I needed. A little gentle exercise.” Druss yawned and stretched. “Now what I need is a little sleep.”

  A figure moved from the shadows. Skilgannon saw it was the strange woman, Garianne. “You’re a little late for that meal, lass,” said Druss. “But you are welcome to share my room and I’ll buy you a fine breakfast.”

  “We are very tired, Uncle,” she said. “But we cannot sleep yet.” She turned to Skilgannon. “The Old Woman would like to see you both. We can take you to her.”

  “I have no wish to see her,” said Skilgannon.

  “She said you would say that. She knows the temple you seek. And something else which is very important to you. She told me to tell you this.” She looked at Druss, then half stumbled, righting herself by grabbing the jetty rail. Druss moved in. Garianne took one step and fell. Druss caught her, sweeping her up into his arms. Her head sagged against his chest.

  The axman walked back to the Crimson Stag. Skilgannon moved ahead, opening the door. Moving past the snoring Diagoras, Druss carried Garianne to the rear stairs and up to the room he had rented. There were three beds in it. Rabalyn was asleep in the one beneath the window. Druss laid Garianne on a second narrow bed. She groaned, and tried to rise. “Rest, lassie,” said Druss. “The Old Woman can wait for an hour or two.” He stroked the golden hair back from her brow. “Rest. Old Uncle is here. Sleep.” Lifting a blanket he covered her. She smiled and closed her eyes.

  Druss sat by the bedside for several minutes, then rose and gestured to Skilgannon to follow him. The two men returned to the tavern dining hall.

  “What is wrong with her?” asked Skilgannon.

  “She’ll be fine when she’s rested. What do you know of the Old Woman?”

  “Too much and too little,” answered Skilgannon. “I have never believed that evil is linked to ugliness. I have known handsome men who are utterly without souls. But the Old Woman is as evil as she is ugly.”

  Druss sat silently for a moment. “Aye, I expect that she is. But she also once helped me bring my wife back from the dead.”

  “I’ll wager she wanted something from you.”

  Druss nodded. “She wanted a demon that had been imprisoned in my ax. I later found out she had plans to transfer it into a sword she was making for Gorben.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “I would have. But the demon was cast from Snaga when I walked in the Void.”

  “So, will you go to her?”

  “I owe her. I always pay my debts.”

  They sat in silence for a while. “How did she bring your wife back from the dead?” asked Skilgannon, at last.

  “Another time, laddie. Just thinking of Rowena makes my heart heavy. Tell me, did the Old Woman forge those swords you carry?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Be wary of them. There is more to her work than simple steel. Do you feel them calling to you?”

  “No,” said Skilgannon, sharply. “They are just swords.” Druss sat quietly, holding to Skilgannon’s gaze. Finally it was the swordsman who looked away. “Yes, they call to me,” he admitted. “They desire blood. But I can control them. I did so tonight.”

  “You are a strong man. It’ll take them time to eat into your soul. It was one of the Old Woman’s swords which drove Gorben mad. The recently deceased Tantrian king had another of them.”

  “Are you advising me to be rid of them?” asked Skilgannon.

  “You don’t need my advice, laddie. You said it yourself. The Old Woman is evil. Her blades mirror her heart. Did she make a weapon for the Witch Queen?”

  “Yes. A knife. Jianna said it gave her discernment.”

  “It will give her more than that.” Druss pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to sit in that chair by the fire and doze for a while. Why don’t you go up and get some rest?”

  “And deprive you of your bed?”

  “I am an old soldier, laddie. I can sleep anywhere. Youngsters like you need pillows and blankets and mattresses. You go and lie down. If you can’t sleep I’ll bring you a goblet of hot milk and tell you a story.”

  Skilgannon laughed and felt all tension ease from him. He strode to the stairs and glanced back. “Put a little honey in the milk. And I want the story to have a happy ending.”

  “Not all my stories have happy endings,” said Druss, settling down into a deep leather chair. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Skilgannon returned to Druss’s room and stepped inside. Garianne and Rabalyn were still sleeping. Moving to the third bed he stretched himself out. The pillow was soft, the mattress firm.

  Within moments he had drifted into a shallow sleep.

  He was walking through a shadow-haunted forest, and furtive sounds were coming from the undergrowth. Spinning on his heel, he caught a glimpse of white fur. His hands reached for his swords. . . .

  Skilgannon awoke in the predawn and rose from the bed. His eyes felt gritty, and he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Stripping off his shirt, he moved to the rear of the room, where there was a jug of water and an enameled bowl. Filling the bowl he splashed water to his face, then opened a small flap in his belt and removed a folded razor knife. Flipping it open he shaved slowly and carefully. Back home in Naashan he would have had a servant prepare heated towels to lay upon his face. Then the man would rub warm oils into the stubble before shaving him. Here he had no mirror, and shaved slowly by feel. At last satisfied he cleaned and dried the razor, before folding it and returning it to the hidden pouch in his belt.

  As dawn broke he saw smoke in the east of the city. Pushing open the window, he leaned out. He could just make out the distant sounds of uproar. He guessed the cause. Food riots among the poor.

  Turning away from the window, he saw that Garianne was still sleeping. He gazed down at her face. She looked much younger asleep, no more than a girl. Donning his shirt and jerkin and looping the Swords of Night and Day over his shoulder, he left the room and walked downstairs.

  Servants were already busy in the kitchens and Skilgannon smelled fresh-baked bread. Druss was nowhere to be seen. Skilgannon sat at a table by a harbor window and stared out over the sea. He felt a yearning to be aboard a ship, traveling toward distant horizons, to step ashore where no one had ever heard of the Damned. Even as the thought came to him he recognized how stupid it was. You cannot run from what you are.

  His thoughts swung to the Old Woman, and he felt the familiar surge of distaste and fear. Jianna had used the hag more and more during the civil war.
Several enemies had been slain using demonic spells. It was actions such as these that had led to her being known as the Witch Queen.

  Shivas strolled toward him, wiping flour from his hands. “You are too early for breakfast,” he said. “I can get you a drink, though.”

  Skilgannon looked up at the wiry tavern owner. “Just some water.”

  “I am making some herbal tisane. A local apothecary prepares the ingredients for me. Most refreshing. Chamomile and elderflower I can recognize, but there are other subtle flavors I cannot place. I recommend it.”

  Skilgannon accepted the offer. The concoction was delicious, and he felt fresh energy flow through his tired body. Shivas returned. “Now you look better, young man. Good, is it not?”

  “Wonderful. Could I have another?”

  “You could—if you want to find yourself singing sweet songs and dancing on my table. Trust me, one is enough. I have some smoked fish for breakfast, with a side order of onion bread. Both are delicious. Especially with three eggs, whisked with butter and seasoned with a little pepper.”

  Smoke from the riots was now drifting across the water. “You’d think the city would have seen enough bloodshed,” muttered Shivas.

  “Starvation brings out the worst in people,” said Skilgannon.

  “I suppose it would. I shall fetch you some breakfast.”

  After Shivas had gone Skilgannon’s thoughts returned to the Old Woman. If she truly knew the location of the Resurrectionists, he would be foolish to ignore her request. Idly he fondled the locket around his neck. Do you really believe, he asked himself, that Dayan can be returned to life through a fragment of bone and a lock of hair? And supposing that she can, what will you do? Settle down with her on some smallholding and raise sheep? She is . . . was . . . a Naashanite aristocrat, raised in a palace, with a hundred servants to furnish all her needs. Would she live happily on a dirt farm?

  Would you?

  You were a general. The most powerful man in Naashan. Would you be content as a farmer, a tiller of soil?

  Skilgannon drained the last of his tisane.

  Shivas returned with his breakfast and Skilgannon ate mechanically, the exquisite flavors wasted on him, as his mood darkened.

  Druss wandered in to the tavern and sat opposite him. “Sleep well, laddie?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” answered Skilgannon, sharply, feeling his irritation mount.

  “Not a morning person, I see.”

  “What does that mean?” he snapped.

  “Beware of the tone, boy,” said Druss, softly. “I like you. But treat me with disrespect and I’ll bounce you off these walls.”

  “You’ll trip over your guts the moment you try,” hissed Skilgannon. Druss’s eyes blazed. Then he saw the empty tankard. Lifting it to his nose he drew in a deep breath.

  “Drinking makes you disagreeable, you said. How do narcotics affect you?”

  “I don’t take them.”

  “You just did. Most men who sip Shivas’s tisanes merely sit around with happy grins on their faces. You, it seems, slide in the opposite direction. I’ll have some water brought out for you. Drink it. We’ll talk when the opiates have worn off.”

  Druss left the table and walked into the kitchen. A serving girl brought a jug of water and a large blue cup. Skilgannon drank deeply. A mild headache began at his temples. He saw Druss leave the kitchen and climb the stairs.

  Suddenly tired Skilgannon leaned forward, resting his head on his arms.

  Colors swirled before his eyes. He found himself staring at the blue cup. Light from the window was gleaming upon its glazed surface. Skilgannon closed his eyes. The bright shimmering blue remained in his mind, swirling like the ocean. His thoughts drifted free, skimming across the blue like a seabird—flowing back to the day when blood and horror tore into his life, changing it forever.

  It had begun so well, so innocently. Sashan was holding his hand as they walked in the park at dusk. They had strolled together to the market, and eaten a meal at a riverside tavern. It had been a good day. Spies no longer watched the house, and Skilgannon had begun to believe that his plan had succeeded. The festival was only a week away now, and soon he would take Sashan from the city to seek her destiny among the mountain tribes. This thought was disturbing, and caused his stomach to tighten.

  “What is wrong, Olek?” she asked him, as they passed a gushing fountain.

  “Nothing.”

  “You are gripping my hand more tightly.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, loosening his grip. The only time they touched was when they were outside. Skilgannon enjoyed these walks more than any other pleasure he had ever experienced.

  Night was falling as they approached the park gates. Two men with fire buckets were moving along the walkways, lighting the tall, bronze lanterns which lit the paths. Skilgannon saw an old woman sitting on a bench. “You wish your fortunes told, young lovers?” she asked. Her voice grated on Skilgannon. She was extraordinarily ugly, and her clothes were ragged and filthy. He was about to refuse her offer when Sashan released his hand and moved to sit alongside the crone.

  “Tell me my future,” she said.

  “There are many futures, child. Not all are written in stone. Much depends on courage, and luck, and friends. Even more depends on enemies.”

  “Do I have enemies?” asked Sashan, the question sounding innocent. Skilgannon was growing ill at ease.

  “We should go, Sashan. Molaire will be angry if the meal goes cold.”

  “Molaire will not be angry, Olek Skilgannon,” said the Old Woman. “I promise you that.”

  “How is it you know my name?”

  “Why would I not? The son of the mighty Firefist. Did you know that your father is now a demigod among the Panthians?”

  “No.”

  “They worship courage above all else, Olek. You will need all the courage your bloodline can supply. Do you have such courage?”

  Skilgannon did not answer. There was something about the crone that chilled him.

  “What about my fortune?” asked Sashan.

  “You have the courage, my dear. And to answer your question, yes, you have enemies. Powerful enemies. Ruthless and cruel men. One in particular. He needs to be avoided for now, for his stars are strong, and his standing high. He will cause you great pain.” She looked up at Skilgannon. “And he will break your heart, Olek Skilgannon, and burden you with guilt.”

  “Let’s go,” said Skilgannon. “I need to hear no more of this.”

  “I still haven’t been told my fortune,” said Sashan. “I have enemies, you say. Will I defeat them?”

  “They will not defeat you.”

  “Enough of this nonsense!” snapped Skilgannon. “She knows nothing, save my name. All else is valueless. Strong enemies, broken hearts. It means nothing.” Fishing a small silver coin from his pouch, he dropped it in the crone’s lap. “This is all you desire. Now you have it. Leave us be.”

  She pocketed the coin, then looked up at Skilgannon. There was no one close by when she spoke, and her words lanced into him. “Your enemies are closer than you think, Olek. The empress is dead. Your friend Greavas has suffered the most terrible of fates. And the young princess sitting beside me is in mortal danger. You still wish to talk of nonsense?”

  The words burned into Skilgannon, stunning him. He stood very quietly, staring at her. Then slowly he turned to scan the park, expecting at any moment to see armed men emerge from the undergrowth. No one came. He glanced at Sashan. She too was shocked, but showed no grief. “How did my mother die?” she asked.

  “She took poison, my dear. It was hidden in a ring she wore. She did not suffer.”

  “And Greavas?” asked Skilgannon.

  “They tortured him for hours. He was strong, Olek. His courage was towering. In the end, however, bereft of his eyes, his fingers, he told them everything. Then Boranius continued his butchery for sheer pleasure. It did not sate his appetite for inflicting pain. Nothing can. It is his nat
ure.”

  Skilgannon fought to marshall his thoughts. “How did Boranius find them?” he asked.

  “There was a man Greavas trusted.” The Old Woman shrugged. “The trust was misplaced—as trust usually is. Now the soldiers are looking for you, Olek Skilgannon. And for the yellow-haired whore who travels with you.”

  He stared hard at the ugly old woman. “Who are you? What is your place in all of this?”

  “Hardly the most important questions you need to be asking at this moment. You stand here in a tunic and sandals with . . . what? . . . a few silver coins in your pouch? The princess wears a flimsy dress and has no coins. What are your plans, Olek Skilgannon? And yours, Jianna? A thousand men are searching the city for you.”

  “And why do you offer us help?” asked Jianna, her voice cool.

  “I did not say I would help you, child. I am merely telling you your fortune. Young Olek has paid me for that. My help comes at a much higher price. One thousand Raq seems fair to me. Does it seem fair to you?”

  “You might as well make it ten thousand,” said the princess. “At this time I have nothing.”

  “Your word will suffice, Jianna.”

  “You could make more by betraying us,” said Skilgannon.

  “Indeed. If it suited my purposes, young man, I would have done exactly that.

  “If I survive and succeed I shall pay you,” said Jianna. “What do you advise?”

  The Old Woman lifted a scrawny hand and scratched at a scab upon her face. “I have a place nearby. First we will go there. Then we will plan.”

  Skilgannon suddenly groaned. “Sperian!” he said. “What of Sperian and Molaire?”

  “There is nothing you can do now, Olek Skilgannon. They have followed Greavas on the swan’s path. Boranius is leaving your house even as we speak. He has left men behind to watch for you.”