White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “How many?”

  “Four. One you know. A short man, with a long mustache.”

  “Casensis.”

  “An unpleasant fellow. He also joys in pain. He is not as naturally skilled in the arts of torture as your friend Boranius. But his pleasure in it is equal.”

  Skilgannon felt a sick pain gnaw at his stomach. Rage threatened to overwhelm him, and he fought for calm. Darkness had fallen now, and a cool wind was blowing across the deserted park. “I have no proof that any of this is true,” he said, at last.

  “You know where to find it, Olek Skilgannon,” she pointed out.

  “We must go home,” he said to Jianna.

  “That would be senseless,” the princess replied. “If she is right there are men waiting. I’ll not be taken.”

  “I cannot leave you with her. She may seem helpful, but I sense the evil in her.”

  Jianna rose from the bench, her eyes angry. “You do not have the right to leave me anywhere. Nor take me anywhere. I am Jianna. My life is in my hands. Despite all you have seen of me you still think of me as a delicate female who needs protecting. Would you be so concerned if I was a young prince? I think not. Well, Jianna is stronger than any young prince, Olek. Malanek trained me well. Go to your house if you must. I shall travel with her.”

  “Such wisdom in the young,” said the old woman. “A pleasure to see it.”

  Jianna ignored her. “Do not be foolish, Olek. They will take you and torture you.”

  “It is not foolishness,” said the Old Woman, suddenly, “for he is not a foolish man.” She looked up at Skilgannon. “You need to see the truth, Olek. And more.” Olek felt her eyes upon him. She swung to Jianna. “Let him go, Princess. The sights he will witness will make him stronger. The actions he takes will bring him to sudden manhood.” With a grunt she pushed herself to her feet. “If you survive, Olek Skilgannon, go to the Street of Carpenters. You know it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Halfway down there is an alley, which runs alongside an old inn. Follow it and you will find yourself in a small square. At the center is a public well. Wait by the well. I will fetch you, if it is safe.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Best you do not know,” said the Old Woman. “Boranius carries a number of implements designed to elicit information speedily. One is a beautifully crafted—yet small—set of shears. It can snip a finger with one long squeeze.”

  Skilgannon looked into her ugly face and saw the glint of malicious pleasure in her eyes. “How would you know of his . . . shears?”

  “I made them for him, Olek Skilgannon. I make many things. I made the ring the empress wore, which contained the poison. I cast the runes for the emperor on the birth of his daughter and warned him that her life would be fraught with peril. Which is why she was trained like a man, with Malanek as her tutor. I even made a sword for Emperor Gorben.” She laughed, the sound harsh and dry, like windblown leaves rustling across a graveyard. “I fear I made that one too powerful. It has gone to his head. But I digress . . . If you survive I shall come to you.”

  “I do not like this plan,” said Jianna.

  “If he survives he will be more useful to you,” said the Old Woman. Skilgannon stepped in to Jianna, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He stood for a moment. “I love you,” he said. Then he turned and loped away into the darkness.

  He took a curcuitous route back to the house, approaching it from the rear, moving on his belly across the paddock field behind the main garden. The night was cloudy, and he timed his movements to match the moments that the moon was obscured. Reaching the garden wall he paused. Despite everything the Old Woman had said there was a part of him that could not believe it—did not dare believe it. Once he climbed the wall he would find Sperian and Molaire sitting in the house waiting for him. Doubt struck him. He stood very still, aware that as long as he stood here the world was as he had always known it. The moment he climbed the wall everything might change. His emotions in turmoil, he did not know what to do. For the first time in his life he was truly terrified. You cannot just stand here, he told himself. Taking a deep breath he leapt high, hooking his fingers over the rim of the wall. Drawing himself up he rolled across the parapet and dropped to the earth below. Lanterns were burning inside the house, but he could see no movement. Keeping low he crept to the shed where Sperian kept his tools. Inside he found a sharp pruning knife with a short, curved blade and a wooden handle.

  Armed with this he darted across the garden and into the building. In the doorway he paused and listened. He could hear no sounds. Moving further inside, and avoiding the windows opening to the front of the house, he checked the main living room. It was empty. Further on he heard strange, gurgling sounds. Taking a deep breath he pushed open the door to the kitchen. A lantern had been set on the table, and by its light he saw the blood-covered, mutilated body of Sperian. Blood had also splashed to the walls of the cupboards, and had seeped across the floor. The dying man made a sound, blood bubbling from a puncture wound in his throat. Dropping the pruning knife, Skilgannon knelt beside him. Sperian lifted a hand. It had no fingers. His face had been slashed with a knife, the skin hanging from the wounds. His eyes had been put out. “Oh, my friend!” said Skilgannon, his voice breaking. “Oh, what have they done to you?”

  Sperian jerked at the sound of his voice, and tried to speak. No articulate sound came. Blood pumped from the wounds in his throat. Skilgannon stared down at the tortured man. Then he realized what he was trying to mouth. It was a single word.

  Mo.

  In the midst of such terrible pain he was asking about his wife.

  “She is fine,” said Skilgannon, tears in his eyes. “She is well, my friend. Be at peace.”

  Sperian relaxed then. Skilgannon took hold of his wrist. There was no hand to hold. “I will avenge this, my friend. I swear this on the soul of my father.”

  Sperian lay quietly. The blood ceased to flow. Skilgannon began to weep. “I thank you for all you have done for me, Sperian,” he said, through his sobs. “You have been a father to me, and a friend. May your journey end in peace and light.” Struggling to control his grief, he took a silver coin from his pouch and put it into the dead man’s mouth. Then he rose and moved further back into the house.

  Molaire had been murdered in her bedroom. She had been hacked around the face, and her eyes, too, had been cut out. Her hands had not been mutilated, and Skilgannon placed a coin in her right hand, closing her dead fingers around it. “Sperian is waiting for you, Mo,” he said, his voice breaking. “May your journey end in peace and light.”

  Then he walked upstairs to his own room. It had been ransacked. Pushing aside the chest in which he kept spare shirts, he reached into the recess hidden in the wall beyond and drew out a small box. From it he took the twelve gold coins and a few silvers. Dropping them into his pouch, he opened the chest and pulled out a dark pair of leather leggings. Kicking off his sandals he donned the leggings, and a brown hooded overshirt. Lastly he tugged on a pair of knee-length riding boots. Once fully dressed he chose other clothes. Stuffing them into a canvas backpack he slung it to his shoulders.

  Then he made his way to his father’s old room. From a chest in the corner he lifted clear a short sword in a black leather scabbard. He also found a scabbarded hunting knife with a bone handle. Threading a belt through the loops in both scabbards, he swung it around his hips and buckled it. Drawing the sword he tested the edge. It was still sharp.

  He stood very quietly, thinking out what to do next.

  Common sense told him to leave the house the way he had come and creep back through the fields. But his burning heart and soul had another plan.

  The Old Woman said Boranius had left four men to watch the house. One of them was Casensis.

  They were watching out for an untried youth. Little more than a schoolboy.

  Well, they would find him.

  Skilgannon walked to the front door and, throwing it open, w
alked outside onto the narrow, tree-bordered street. As he crossed toward the trees two men came running from cover. Both held swords. Dropping his pack Skilgannon drew his own blade and darted in to meet them, plunging the short sword into the first man’s belly. It went deep, but the blood channel carved into the blade allowed him to drag it clear with ease. The second man’s saber slashed for Skilgannon’s head. Ducking beneath the swing, he clove his own blade through the man’s throat. Before his opponent had fallen, Skilgannon ran toward the trees. Another man reared up, scrabbling for his sword. Skilgannon killed him before he could draw it. A shadow moved to Skilgannon’s right.

  It was Casensis. The man tried to run, but Skilgannon chased him down, cracking the flat of his sword against his skull. Casensis fell heavily. In the bright moonlight Skilgannon could see that the front of Casensis’s tunic shirt was covered in blood. Dried spots of blood were also on his face and brow. Grabbing him by the tunic he hauled the semiconscious man back into the trees. Casensis struggled. Skilgannon struck him again, this time with the pommel of the sword. Casensis sagged back to the ground, groaning.

  Skilgannon leaned over him. “When Boranius returns, tell him that I will find him. Not today, or tomorrow. But I will find him. Can you remember that?” Skilgannon slapped the man’s face. “Answer me!”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Skilgannon’s fist cracked against the man’s jaw, jolting his head. Satisfied that he was unconscious, Skilgannon stood and looked around. Close by was a flat stone. Dragging it to Casensis’s side, he laid the man’s left hand upon it, then splayed the fingers. He raised the short sword, bringing it down with all his strength. The blade sliced through the first three fingers, severing them. The smallest finger had curled back and escaped the cut. Skilgannon moved the stone to the other side of the unconscious man, and repeated the maneuver, this time cutting away all four fingers and the thumb.

  The pain roused Casensis, and he screamed. Skilgannon knelt on his chest and drew his hunting knife.

  “You also took her eyes, you piece of scum. Now exist without yours!”

  The scream that came from Casensis was almost bestial.

  It was still echoing in his mind as he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Druss and Garianne standing beside the table. The tavern was almost full now.

  “Are you feeling better, laddie?” Skilgannon nodded. “Then let’s go. We’ve kept the Old Woman waiting long enough. And I have other tasks to complete today.”

  12

  * * *

  Skilgannon’s head was pounding, and his mouth was dry as he walked alongside Druss and Garianne. As they moved along the dockside he heard someone running behind them, and swung back. It was Rabalyn. The youth came alongside him. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To see a sorceress,” said Druss. “Be careful what you say, boy. I don’t want to be carrying you back as a frog.”

  “You were right,” replied Rabalyn, “you are not good at jokes.”

  “A man cannot be good at everything,” said Druss, amiably.

  They walked on. Skilgannon paused at a well, drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply. Bright colors were dancing before his eyes and his stomach felt queasy. He could not shake the memory of that dreadful night back in the capital. Images of the dead Sperian and the mutilated Molaire would not leave him.

  “Are you all right?” asked Rabalyn, as they moved on.

  “I am fine.”

  “Your face looks gray.”

  They came at last to the Drenai gate. Today there were six soldiers there, in bright helms and red cloaks. The guards greeted Druss warmly, and warned the travelers of the riots that had spread through the city in the night. “You should have brought your ax, Druss,” said one man.

  Druss shook his head. “Not today, laddie. Today is just a quiet stroll.”

  The men glanced at one another and said nothing more.

  Once into the city, Garianne led them through a series of streets and alleyways. The smell of burning hung in the air, and the people they saw looked at them with undisguised hatred. Some turned their backs and moved indoors, others just glared.

  Rabalyn stayed close to Skilgannon.

  After a while they came to an area of older buildings and narrow streets. The people here wore shabby clothes. Children with filthy faces were playing in outside derelict houses, and scrawny dogs delved among piles of discarded garbage, seeking scraps of food.

  Garianne led the way, moving across an old market square and down a set of cracked and broken steps, coming at last to an abandoned tavern. The windows were boarded, but the main door had been hastily repaired and rehung with leather hinges. Garianne opened it and stepped inside. Part of the roof had given way, and sunlight filled the interior. Several rats scurried across the rubble inside. One ran over Rabalyn’s foot. He kicked at it and missed. Garianne climbed over the fallen roof and made her way to the rear of the building, tapping her knuckles on the door that once led to the tavern kitchens.

  “Come in, child,” came a familiar voice. Skilgannon felt his stomach tighten, and his flesh crawl.

  “Is she really a sorceress?” whispered Rabalyn.

  Skilgannon ignored him and followed Druss across the rubble.

  The old kitchen area was gloomy, the windows boarded. The only light came from two lanterns, one set on the warped worktop, the other hanging from a hook on the far wall. The Old Woman was sitting in a wide chair by the rusting ovens, a filthy blanket covering her knees. Her face was partly hidden by a veil of black gauze. Her head came up as the men entered. “Welcome, Druss the Legend,” she said, with a dry laugh. “I see the years are beginning to tell on you.”

  “They tell on everyone,” he answered. Garianne moved alongside the Old Woman and crouched down at her feet.

  “Indeed they do.” She shook her head and the gauze veil trembled. Then she transferred her gaze to Rabalyn. “You remember when you were that young, Axman? The world was enormous and filled with mystery. Life was enchanting, and immortality beckoned. The passing of the years meant nothing. We stared at the old with undisguised contempt. How could they have allowed themselves to become so decrepit? How could they choose to be so repulsive? Time is the great evil, the slave master who strips us of our youth, then discards us.”

  “I can live with it,” said the axman.

  “Of course you can. You are a man. It is different for a woman, Druss. The first gray hair is like a betrayal. You can read that betrayal in the eyes of your lover. Tell me, are you a different man now that you have gray hairs?”

  “I am the same. Hopefully a little wiser.”

  “I too am the same,” she told him. “I no longer look in mirrors, but I cannot avoid seeing the dried, wrinkled skin on my hands and arms. I cannot ignore the pains in my swollen joints. Yet in my heart I am still the young Hewla, who dazzled the men of her village, and the noblemen who came riding through.”

  “Why did you summon us here?” put in Skilgannon. “I have no time for such maudlin conversations.”

  “No time? You are young yet, Olek. You have all the time in the world. I am the one who is dying.”

  “Then die,” he said. “As it is you have lived too long.”

  “I always liked a man who would speak his mind. Lived too long? Aye, I have. Twenty times your lifetime, child. And I have paid for my longevity with blood and pain.”

  “Most of that was not yours, I’ll warrant,” said Skilgannon, his voice angry.

  “I paid my share, Olek. But, yes, I have killed. I have taken innocent life. I have poisoned, I have stabbed, I have throttled. I have summoned demons to rip the hearts from men. I did this for wealth, or for vengeance. I have not, however, taken an army into a city and slaughtered all the inhabitants. I have not killed children. I have not cut the hands and eyes from a helpless man. So save your indignation. I am Hewla, the Old Woman. You are the Damned. You have no right to judge me.”

 
; “And yet I do,” said Skilgannon, softly. “So speak your piece, and let me be free of your foul company.”

  She sat silently for a moment, then returned her attention to Druss. “The man you seek is no longer in the city, axman. He left some days ago.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” asked Druss.

  “To feed, Druss. Simply that.”

  “This makes no sense.”

  “It will. He came to Mellicane in search of his former wife. She had earlier traveled to Dros Purdol, ostensibly to see her daughter, Elanin. You remember Elanin, Druss. Orastes brought her to see you at your farm. You carried her on your shoulders, and sat beside a stream. She made a crown of daisies and placed them on your head.”

  “I remember,” said Druss. “A sweet child. And a gentle father. So where is Orastes?”

  “Be patient,” she said. “While Orastes was away from the city his former wife snatched the child and fled from Dros Purdol. She came to Mellicane where she joined her lover. Orastes followed them as soon as he could. Once in the city he sought news of her. He did not know the identity of her lover, and the search proved fruitless. News of the search, however, reached the wife. One afternoon, Orastes and his servant were arrested as they sought information. They were taken to the Rikar Cells below the Arena. The Rikar Cells held prisoners who would be melded into Joinings. That was the fate of Orastes. He was merged with a timber wolf, and the beast that he became fled with the others when the city fell.”

  “No!” roared Druss. Skilgannon saw the axman’s face twist into a mask of pain and grief. “This cannot be!”

  “It can and it is,” said the Old Woman. Skilgannon detected something in her voice, a note of malicious glee. In his grief this was lost on the axman. Skilgannon’s anger swelled, but he stood quietly, watching the scene. The huge Drenai warrior turned away, and stood, head bowed, his fists clenching and unclenching.