White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “There’s a surprise. I see now why you are not known as Druss the Lover. Very well, let me ask another question. Do you agree that in war it is necessary to deceive one’s enemy? For example, to make him think you are weaker than you are, in order to lure him into a foolhardy assault?”

  “Of course,” said Druss.

  “Then it is fine to lie to an enemy?”

  “Ah, laddie, you remind me of Sieben. He loved these debates, and would twist words and ideas around and around until everything I believed in sounded like the grandest nonsense. He should have been a politician. I would say that evil should always be countered. He would say, “Ah, but what is evil for one man may be good for another.” I remember once we watched the execution of a murderer. He maintained that in killing the man we were committing an evil as great as his. He said that perhaps the killer might have one day sired a child, who would be great and good, and change the world for the better. In killing him we might have robbed the world of a savior.”

  “Perhaps he was right,” said Diagoras.

  “Perhaps he was. But if we followed that philosophy completely we would never punish anyone, for any crime. You could argue that to lock the killer away, rather than hanging him, might prevent him meeting the woman who would have given birth to that child. So what do we do? Free him? No. A man who willfully takes the life of another forfeits his own life. Anything less makes a mockery of justice. I always enjoyed listening to Sieben ranting and railing against the ways of the world. He could make you think black was white, night was day, sweet was sour. It was good entertainment. But that is all it was. Would I deceive an enemy? Yes. Would I deceive a friend? No. How do I justify this? I don’t.”

  “I think I understand,” said Diagoras. “If a friend in an ugly dress asks your opinion, you’ll give it honestly and break her heart. But if an enemy in an ugly dress comes before you, you’ll tell her she looks like a queen.”

  Druss chuckled, then burst into laughter. “Ah, laddie,” he said, “I am beginning to look forward to this trip.”

  “I’m glad one of us is,” muttered Diagoras.

  Servaj Das was a careful man, painstaking in all that he did. He had found that attention to detail was the most important factor in the success of any undertaking. Originally a builder by trade he had learned that without adequate foundations even the most beautifully constructed building would crumble. In the army he had soon discovered that this principle could be applied to soldiering. The uninitiated and the romantic believed that swords and arrows were the most vital tools to a soldier. Servaj Das knew that without good boots and a full food pack no army could prevail.

  He sat now in a high room at the Naashanite Embassy, staring out over the harbor and considering the mission orders he had received by carrier pigeon. He was to locate and kill a man swiftly.

  How could one pay attention to detail when the orders specified speed? Speed almost always led to problems. Under normal circumstances Servaj would have followed the man for some days, establishing his routines, getting to know and understand the way the man’s mind worked. In doing this he would better be able to judge the manner of the man’s death. Poison, or the knife, or the garroting wire. Servaj preferred poison. Sometimes when he followed a man, and observed his habits, he found himself liking the victim. He had never forgotten the merchant who always stopped to pet an old dog at the street corner. It seemed to Servaj that a man who took pity on a mangy, unwanted hound must have a kind heart. Often the man would feed the creature small tidbits he had taken along for that purpose. Sarvaj sighed. He had been forced to garrote him when the poison failed. Not a pleasant memory. Servaj filled a goblet with watered wine. Sipping it he rose from his chair and stretched his lean frame. His back gave a satisfying crack. Placing the goblet on the table, he interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. No, poison was better. Then one was not forced to observe the death.

  Picking up the small piece of parchment, he again scanned the message. “Kill him. Swiftest. Recover Swords.”

  He was not happy.

  This was not some offending politican, soft, fat, and weak. Nor a merchant unused to violence. This was the Damned.

  Servaj had been in the army during the time of the Insurrection. One of the moments he would never forget was when Skilgannon had fought the swordmaster, Agasarsis. As a common soldier Servaj had no intimate knowledge of the reasons for the duel, but gossip among the men claimed that Skilgannon’s closeness to the queen had enraged Prince Baliel. This jealousy came to the fore when Skilgannon was almost killed at the Battle of the Ford. Baliel’s forces had mysteriously drawn back, leaving Skilgannon and his horsemen exposed to an enemy counterattack. Baliel, it was said, maintained he had misinterpreted his battle orders. The queen replaced him as the marshal of the right flank. Enraged and embittered Baliel made it known that he believed Skilgannon had engineered the debacle to discredit him. The bitterness grew during the next few weeks, until finally the legedary swordsman, Agasarsis—a sworn servant of Baliel—found an excuse to challenge Skilgannon.

  He was not the first. During the two years of the Insurrection seven others had crossed swords with the Damned. Only one had lived, and he had lost his right arm. But Agasarsis was different. The man had fought sixty duels in his thirty-one years. His skills were legendary and there was much excitement in the camp as the day dawned. There was also unrest. The queen’s army at this time had reached thirty thousand men, and not all could witness the epic confrontation. In the end lots were drawn. Servaj had been offered twenty silver pieces for his pass to the contest, and had refused. Duels like this one were rare indeed, and he had no wish to miss it.

  There was rain in the morning, and the ground was soggy and treacherous, but the sun shone brightly by midday. The one thousand men privileged to witness the fight had formed a large circle some two hundred feet in diameter. Skilgannon was the first of the combatants to arrive. Striding through the ranks of the waiting men, he stripped off his battle jerkin and moved effortlessly through a series of exercises to loosen his muscles.

  Even then Servaj was a keen student of human behavior. He looked for signs of nervousness in the general, but could detect none. Agasarsis arrived. He was more powerfully built than Skilgannon, and when he stripped off his shirt he looked awesome. Both men sported the crested plume of hair that signified their swordmaster status, but Agasarsis also had a neatly fashioned trident beard, which gave him a more menacing appearance.

  He approached Skilgannon and bowed, and then both men continued their exercises, their movements fluid and synchronized, like two dancers, each mirroring the other. A sudden blaring of trumpets announced the arrival of the queen. She wore thigh-length silver chain mail, and knee-length cavalry boots, edged with silver rings. Two men carried a high-backed chair into the circle and she sat upon it, her raven hair gleaming in the sunshine.

  Servaj was close enough to hear her words to the fighters.

  “Are you determined upon this folly, Agasarsis?”

  “I am, my queen.”

  “Then let it begin.”

  “Might I make a request, Majesty?” said Agasarsis.

  “I am in no mood to grant you anything. But speak and I will consider it.”

  “My swords are well made, but they hold no enchantment. Skilgannon’s blades, however, are known to be spell enhanced. I request that he uses no unfair advantage against me.”

  The queen turned to Skilgannon. “What say you, General?”

  “This fight is already folly, Majesty. But in this he is right. I shall use other blades.”

  “So be it,” she said. Turning to the nearest soldiers, one of whom was Servaj, she called six of them forward. “Take out your swords,” she ordered them. Once they had done so she gestured to Skilgannon. “Choose one.” He hefted them all, then chose the saber carried by Servaj. “Now you,” snapped the queen, pointing a regal hand at Agasarsis.

  “I already have swords, Majesty.”

  “Indee
d you do. And you have used them so often they are like a part of your body. Your own request was for no unfair advantage. So choose. And do it swiftly, for I am easily bored.”

  After Agasarsis had chosen a blade the two men bowed to the queen and moved back toward the center of the circle. She gestured for them to begin.

  The duel did not begin swiftly. Both men moved warily around each other, and the first clash of steel seemed more like an extension of the exercises they had undergone before the queen’s arrival. Servaj knew that the duelists were merely accustomising themselves to the feel of the weapons. Neither Skilgannon nor Agasarsis attempted a death strike. They were gauging each other’s strengths and weaknesses. The crowd was silent as the two masters continued to circle each other. Sunlight gleamed on the blades, and each sudden attack would see the swords create a glittering web of brightness around the combatants. The ground below their feet was slick and treacherous, and yet it seemed that they remained in perfect balance. Time passed, the action quickened, and the music of clashing steel increased in tempo. Servaj was transfixed, flicking his gaze between the fighting men. Both exuded confidence. Both expected to win. First blood went to Skilgannon, the tip of his saber scoring a cut to Agasarsis’s shoulder. Almost immediately the champion countered, and blood appeared on Skilgannon’s torso. It seemed to Servaj that the blood was dripping from the fangs of the panther head tattoed upon his chest.

  The speed and skill of the fighters was dazzling. Bets had been placed by the soldiers, but no one in the crowd cheered or shouted for their favorite. The watchers were all fighting men, and they knew they were observing a classic encounter. Not a whisker separated the talents of the duelists, and Servaj began to believe they would be fighting all day. He half hoped it would be true. Such a brilliantly balanced contest was rare, and Servaj wanted to savor it for as long as possible.

  Yet he knew it could not last. The blades were razor sharp, and they flashed and lunged, parried and countered, within a hair’s breadth of yielding flesh.

  They had been fighting for some twenty minutes when Agasarsis stumbled in the mud. Skilgannon’s saber lanced into Agasarsis’s left shoulder as he fell, then slid clear. The champion hit the ground and rolled, coming up in time to block a vicious cut that would have beheaded him. He threw himself at Skilgannon, hammering his shoulder into Skilgannon’s chest, hurling him backward. Both men fell heavily.

  At a command from the queen the herald beside her blew a single blast upon his curved horn.

  Two soldiers ran forward, bearing towels. The combatants plunged their swords into the earth and took the towels. Agasarsis wiped sweat from his face, then pressed the towel into the deep wound in his left shoulder. Skilgannon approached him. Servaj did not hear what was said, but saw Agasarsis shake his head angrily, and guessed that Skilgannon was inquiring as to whether honor had been satisfied.

  After a few moments the queen ordered the horn sounded, and the two fighters took up their swords. Once again they circled. Now the duel entered into its last phase. Servaj found it fascinating. Both men were tired, but he could see desperation in the eyes of Agasarsis. Doubt had entered the champion’s mind, and was leeching away his confidence. To counter this he launched a series of reckless attacks. Skilgannon defended smoothly for a while. When the death blow came it was so sudden that many in the crowd missed it. Agasarsis lunged. Skilgannon met the attack, blocking the lunge and rolling his blade around the saber of Agasarsis. The two men leapt back. Blood suddenly gushed from Agasarsis’s severed jugular. The champion tried to steady himself, but his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees before his killer. Servaj realized then that, even as he parried, Skilgannon had flicked the point of his saber across the throat of his opponent.

  Agasarsis pitched face forward to the earth.

  Skilgannon dropped his saber and walked back to the queen. He bowed, and Servaj saw that his face was set, his eyes angry. “Agasarsis was the best cavalry commander we had, Majesty,” he said. “This was madness.”

  “Indeed it was,” she agreed. “Behold the man responsible.” She gestured to the herald, who sounded the horn twice in succession.

  Two of the queen’s trusted bodyguards, Askelus and Malanek, came into sight, leading a bound man. His eyes had been torn out, and his face was a mask of blood. Even so Servaj recognized Prince Baliel. The man was sobbing piteously.

  Askelus dragged him out to stand alongside the fallen Agasarsis. The queen rose from her chair and walked out to the center of the circle. “Our war is almost won,” she said, her voice ringing out over the seated men. “And why? Because of your bravery and your loyalty. Jianna does not forget those who serve her faithfully. But this creature,” she cried, pointing to the pitiful Baliel, “put all your courage at risk. My gratitude to my friends is infinite. My enemies will always find that my vengeance is swift and deadly.” Askelus drew his sword and plunged it into the belly of the blinded man. His scream was hideous. Servaj saw Askelus twist the blade, then wrench it clear. Disemboweled, Baliel fell to the ground, and began to writhe in fresh agony. The queen let the sounds go on for a while, then signaled Askelus. The soldier drove his sword through Baliel’s neck. The silence that followed was total. “So die all traitors,” said the queen. Someone began to chant: “Jianna! Jianna!” Servaj saw it was the former swordmaster Malanek. Other men began to follow his lead, but the cheering was not enthusiastic. Jianna raised her hands for silence. “When we have taken Perapolis every man in my army will receive three gold pieces, as a sign of my love and gratitude.”

  Now the cheering began in earnest. Servaj shouted in jubilation, along with the others. Three gold coins was a fortune. Even as he cheered, however, he glanced at Skilgannon. The general looked troubled.

  Shaking himself from his memories, Servaj returned to the problem at hand. The Damned had been sentenced to death, and it was left to Servaj to determine the manner of his execution.

  He had under his command a number of good swordsmen, but none with the skill of Agasarsis. Skilgannon was staying at the Crimson Stag. There would be no opportunity to poison his food.

  Servaj thought the problem through. There would need to be an attack on the general. Five, maybe six men. And two men with crossbows, hidden close by. Even this was fraught with risk. He would have to visit the alchemist. If the crossbow bolts were tipped with poison, then even if Skilgannon escaped the ambush he would die later.

  How, though, could he ensure Skilgannon came to the place of his execution?

  13

  * * *

  Back at the Crimson Stag, Skilgannon was delighted to find that two merchants had vacated a room overlooking the harbor. He paid Shivas an extortionate four silver pieces for two nights, then went upstairs to the room and closed the door. He had not been aware that his need for solitude was so great. Even the muted noise from the tavern below was welcome, for it emphasized that he was alone now. Lifting the Swords of Night and Day from his shoulders he dropped them to the bed, then pushed open the window and gazed out over the ocean.

  The visit to the Old Woman had been hard—bringing back memories he preferred to forget. Something in him had died that night, along with Molaire and Sperian. In truth he did not know what it was. Childhood perhaps. Or innocence. Whatever the answer his heart had withered like a flower in the frost.

  The planning of the escape from the city had taken days and nights, as each idea he put forward was discussed and dismissed. The Old Woman offered to take them through the gates in the back of a loaded wagon, hidden beneath sacks of grain. Skilgannon disliked this idea. Were he the captain of the Gates he would search all conveyances. They talked of separating, and meeting later in the forests of Delian, but this was too fraught with the possibilities of becoming lost. Eventually they decided on simple deception. The Old Woman fashioned a harness that Jianna wore below a torn and colorless knee-length dress. The leather straps of the harness hung down her back. Lifting Jianna’s left leg, the Old Woman secured a strap to her foot,
then bound the ankle tightly to the thigh. Jianna complained of the discomfort. The thigh and calf were then bandaged leaving the knee exposed. With great skill the Old Woman added to the disguise, using small strips of shaved pig skin, and partly congealed blood, which she pasted to the skin of the knee. Skilgannon watched it all, amazed. By the finish the knee looked like a stump covered in weeping, bleeding sores. This deception was repeated on Skilgannon, this time twisting his left arm up between his shoulder blades. She also added, using a mixture of white candle wax and a foul-smelling balm, three long scars to his left cheek and eyebrow. Once she had fashioned an eye patch for him, Skilgannon gazed into a cracked mirror. The face he saw looking back at him seemed to have been raked by the talons of a bear.

  Lastly the Old Woman cut away the dyed parts of Jianna’s hair, leaving her with a short, boyish hairstyle.

  She allowed them an hour to become used to their acquired deformities. Jianna spent it practicing with a pair of old crutches. Skilgannon merely waited, his crooked and tied arm pulsing painfully.

  Finally they set out in the Old Woman’s wagon. She stopped some three hundred paces from the east gate. Already lines of supplicants were queuing there, waiting to be allowed on the two-hour walk to the Maphistan Temple, and the yearly opening of the Chest of Relics. As far as Skilgannon knew there had been no reported miracles for years, but it didn’t stop the diseased and the lame from making the annual trip, to kneel before the bones of the Blessed Dardalion, and the faded gloves of the Revered Lady. The richest of the supplicants were allowed to kiss the hem of the robe said to have been worn by the immortal Silverhand, whose death two thousand years ago had caused a dead tree to bloom into life.

  It was almost dusk as Skilgannon leapt down from the wagon, then clumsily helped Jianna. She half fell against him and swore. The Old Woman passed down her crutches. Jianna took them and slowly made her way to join the line. Skilgannon fell in behind her, and waited.