White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Locating a hiding place for his mount, Skilgannon crawled out to the edge of a high ridge and watched the road. The sun was setting now, and there was still no sign of the enemy. He waited, allowing his mind to relax. Not so long ago he had twenty thousand soldiers under his command, archers, lancers, spearmen, infantry. Now he had five fighters. Druss was not a concern. If he could get close enough to the enemy he would create carnage among them. Diagoras? Tough and skilled and brave. But could he take out five hardened Nadir warriors? Skilgannon doubted it. Then there were the twins. Good men, but—in truth—nothing special in terms of combat. They would fight hard, and maybe account for two each. Again, if they could get close enough. Garianne was harder to judge, but Skilgannon’s instinct was that she would prove deadly enough.

  He saw dust to the northwest. Shading his eyes against the sun setting to his left, he focused on the distant band. A column of riders was moving down the mountainside. Flicking his gaze left, he located the jutting rocks, within which Khalid Khan had said there was water. Did the Nadir know of it? The column slowed as it neared the rocks. Two riders split off from the column and rode out of Skilgannon’s sight. A few moments later they returned, and the men in the column dismounted, leading their ponies into the rocks.

  Skilgannon counted twenty-seven men in the party.

  Easing himself back from the ridge, he rose and walked to where his horse was tethered.

  Darkness was gathering now. Skilgannon sat down with his back against a rock and rested for half an hour. Then he mounted the gelding and set off down the slope to the desert floor, heading slowly toward the distant oasis and the camp of the Nadir.

  With a fighting force of six his options were few. They could retreat and seek to avoid the enemy. This would only delay the inevitable. Or they could fight. The harsh reality, though, was that a Nadir force of almost thirty, once engaged, would win. Skilgannon had made his name as a general not merely by his prowess with a blade. He had a sharp mind and an instinctive grasp of tactics. His ability to spot a weakness in enemy formations had become legendary. This situation, however, offered few opportunities to use such skill.

  He rode on. Would the Nadir put out scouts to watch for enemies. It seemed unlikely, but even so he held to the low ground, riding through high brush where he could. Pulling up in a small stand of pine some two hundred yards from the entrance to the rocks, he dismounted, tethering his horse. The scent of woodsmoke was in the air. The Nadir had lit a fire. Skilgannon squatted down and closed his eyes, sharpening his senses. After a while he caught the aroma of cooking meat.

  Moving out on foot, he approached the rocks, climbing silently above the Nadir camp. There were two fires, a dozen men around each. This left three. Skilgannon waited. Another man emerged from the shadows. After a while a second came into sight. This one was naked, carrying his clothes in a bundle. Skilgannon guessed he had been swimming.

  So where was the last man?

  Was he even now creeping toward Skilgannon’s position?

  The answer was not long in coming. A second naked man came in from the rock pool. There were ribald comments from his friends. The man dressed swiftly and approached the fires.

  All twenty-seven Nadir were in sight. Skilgannon settled down to wait.

  An hour drifted by. Some of the warriors, having eaten, stretched out on the ground and slept. Several others squatted in a circle and began to gamble with knuckle bones. This told Skilgannon a great deal about them. They had set no sentries, and therefore were confident that no danger threatened. Why should it? They were hunting—at worst—a few travelers, and at best a single, ageing axman and his companion. Why would they be worried? It was vital, Skilgannon knew, that warriors remained confident. Only confident men achieved victory. The good leader, however, watched out for the subtle movement between confidence and arrogance. An arrogant army carried the seeds of its own destruction. The secret to defeating them lay in the ability of the enemy to nurture those seeds, to introduce doubt and fear.

  He knew then what he had to do.

  But it bothered him. It would be high risk, and the chances of surviving were low. For another hour he worked through other strategies, but none would yield such high rewards. Having exhausted all other possibilities, he began to prepare, sitting quietly, eyes closed, settling himself into the illusion of elsewhere. Fear and stress melted away. Rising, he drew both swords and silently made his way down the rocks.

  The Nadir had sent one sentry at the entrance to the oasis. The man was sitting with his back to a tree, head down. Skilgannon knelt in the shadows watching the man for some minutes. The Nadir did not move. He had fallen asleep. Rising from his hiding place, Skilgannon crept forward. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth. The Sword of Night sliced across the Nadir’s throat. Blood spurted. The man jerked once—and died.

  Moving through to the center of the campsite, Skilgannon stood for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Awake!” he bellowed. Men rolled from their blankets, scrambling to their feet, eyes bleary with sleep. Skilgannon stepped toward the first. The Sword of Day slashed through his neck, decapitating him. A second man was disemboweled as Skilgannon spun and sent the Sword of Night plunging into his belly. Nadir warriors dove for their weapons. Several grabbed swords and rushed at the newcomer. Skilgannon leapt to meet them, blocking and parrying. The Sword of Night sliced open a man’s jugular, and he fell back into his comrades. Then Skilgannon was among them, swords cutting into flesh and severing bone.

  They fell back from his fury. Spinning on his heel, Skilgannon darted back toward where the Nadir had tethered their ponies. A warrior ran to head him off. Skilgannon dove below a ferocious cut, rolled on his shoulder, and came up running. The ponies were in two lines, each line held by a picketing rope. Slicing his blade through the first rope, he spun in time to parry a lunge. His riposte plunged the Sword of Day into the Nadir’s chest. The Nadir ponies whinnied and reared, breaking free. Moving back, Skilgannon slashed his sword through the second picket rope, then pushed himself in among the nervous mounts.

  Sheathing one of his swords, he gave a high-pitched wolf howl. This was too much for the ponies. The sudden movement around them and the smell of blood had made them skittish. The bestial howl was enough to send them running. Nadir warriors, still trying to reach Skilgannon, made an effort to block the ponies’ escape. Skilgannon grabbed the mane of one mount as it passed and vaulted to its back. An arrow slashed past his face. Giving another howl, he slapped the flat of his sword against the pony’s rump and galloped through the camp. Two more arrows flashed past him. A third sliced into the pony’s shoulder, making it stagger. It did not go down, but followed the rest of the herd out onto the desert floor.

  Skilgannon rode to where his own horse was tethered and jumped down from the pony. Mounting his gelding, he swung round to see Nadir warriors racing from the rocks.

  “Come to me tomorrow, my children,” he called. “We will dance again!”

  Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode away from the furious Nadir.

  He had been lucky, but even so he was disappointed. He had hoped to kill at least seven of the enemy, reducing the odds for tomorrow. Instead he had slain five, maybe six. Several others were wounded, but their cuts could be stitched readily enough. He doubted the wounds would stop them. Riding southeast he came up behind a dozen or so of the Nadir ponies and continued to herd them away from the rocks, forcing them further and further from their riders. Several of them were still saddled, and hanging from the saddles were horn bows and quivers of arrows. Skilgannon rode alongside the mounts, lifting clear the weapons and hooking them over his saddle pommel. Then he left the ponies and set off up the snaking mountain road to where the others would be waiting.

  The Nadir had been tough and fast. They had aroused from sleep more like animals than men, instantly alert. This had surprised him. He had hoped to be able to kill more of them as they blundered from sleep to awareness.

  Skilgannon rode on, s
till scanning the land, and planning the next attack.

  Only one important question remained. What sort of losses would the Nadir need to suffer before they pulled back from the fight? There were, at most, twenty-two fighting men left. How many would the companions need to kill? Another ten? Fifteen?

  He saw Druss and the others waiting on a wide section of the road. Stepping from the saddle he approached the axman.

  “You’re bleeding, laddie,” he said.

  In the shelter of a concave depression in the cliff face, Diagoras knelt behind the standing Skilgannon, stitching the cut in his lower back. Moonlight shone down on the blue and gold tattoo of the eagle, its flaring wings rising across Skilgannon’s shoulder blades. There were old scars on the young man’s body, some jagged, some clean and straight. There were old puncture wounds from bolts or arrows. Diagoras pulled close the last stitch, knotted it, then sliced his dagger through the twine. Skilgannon thanked him and donned his shirt and sleeveless jerkin.

  Diagoras placed the crescent needle and remaining twine in his pouch and sat back, listening as Skilgannon outlined his plan for the morning. He had said little of his fight with the Nadir, merely telling them that he had entered the camp and killed five. He made it sound undramatic, almost casual. Diagoras was impressed. He had not fought the Nadir himself, but he knew men who had. Ferocious and brutal, they were enemies to be feared. Skilgannon asked Druss if he had any idea how many men the Nadir would have to lose before they withdrew. The old warrior shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “If their leader is a bold one we might have to kill them all. If he is not . . . another ten, maybe twelve, dead will convince him to pull back. It is hard to say with Nadir fighters. Their chief back at the fortress may be the kind of man who will kill any survivors who have failed him.”

  “Then we must plan to take them all,” said Skilgannon.

  Diagoras swallowed back a sarcastic comment and remained silent. He glanced at the others. The twins were listening intently, though the simpleton had a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea what was really going on. Garianne seemed unconcerned at the prospect of defeating twenty Nadir warriors, but then she was a fey creature, and more than a little insane. The boy, Rabalyn, sitting with his back to the far wall, looked frightened but resolute.

  Skilgannon outlined his strategy. It sounded, at first, breathtakingly simple, and yet Diagoras, who prided himself on his tactical skills, had not thought of it. Few men would have. Skilgannon called for questions. There were a few from Druss and one from Jared. They were all concerned with timing. Skilgannon glanced at Diagoras, who shook his head.

  This was not the time to point out that there was no fallback plan and no line of escape. Which, of course, was the danger with a strategy of such stunning simplicity. It was win or die. No middle ground. No safety factors.

  Skilgannon moved to where a water skin had been placed. Hefting it he drank deeply. Then he gestured to Diagoras and walked out on to the road. Diagoras joined him there.

  “I thank you for your silence back there,” said Skilgannon.

  “It is a good plan.” He gazed down over the sickening drop to the valley floor below, then stepped back. “But you know what General Egel once said of plans?”

  “They survive only until the battle starts,” replied Skilgannon.

  Diagoras smiled. “You are a student of Drenai history?”

  “A student of war,” corrected Skilgannon. “Yes, there is much that could go wrong, and, even if it goes right, we are likely to take losses.”

  Diagoras laughed suddenly. Skilgannon eyed him curiously. “What is amusing you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? A mad woman, a simpleton, and an unskilled boy make up half of our fighting force. And here we are talking of what might go wrong.” Skilgannon was about to answer, but then he too laughed.

  Druss wandered out to join them. “What are you two discussing out here?” he asked.

  “The stupidity that comes with war,” said Diagoras.

  “Diagoras believes our force is not as good as it might be,” offered Skilgannon.

  “That’s true,” said Druss, “but then you can only fight with what you have. I’ve seen Garianne and the twins in action. They’ll not let us down. And the boy has courage. Can’t ask for more than that.”

  “This is all true,” said Diagoras, with a grin. “So we’re not worried about them. It’s you. Let’s be honest, Druss, you are a little too old and fat to be of much use to young and powerful warriors like us.”

  Druss stepped in and Diagoras was hauled from his feet. Even as he began to struggle he was hoisted above the axman’s head. Druss grabbed his ankle, then swung him upside down. Diagoras found himself hanging head first over a six-hundred-foot drop. Twisting his head, he looked up. Druss was standing, arms outstretched, holding him by his ankles. “Now, now, Druss,” he said, “no need to get angry.”

  “Oh, I’m not angry, laddie,” said Druss, amiably. “We old folk have difficulty hearing sometimes, and with you speaking out of your arse I couldn’t catch what you were saying. Now, with your arse where your mouth was, it should be much easier. Speak on.”

  “I was telling Skilgannon what a privilege it was to be traveling with a man of your renown.”

  Druss stepped back and lowered Diagoras to the rock. The Drenai breathed a sigh of relief, then stood. “I fear you don’t have much of a sense of humor, Old Horse,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” offered Druss. “I laughed so much I nearly dropped you.”

  Diagoras was about to say more when he looked into the axman’s face. In the moonlight there was a sheen of sweat upon his brow, and he was breathing heavily. “Are you all right, my friend?” he asked.

  “Just tired,” said Druss. “You are heavier than you look.” With that he turned away from the two warriors and walked back to where the others waited. Diagoras saw him kneading his left forearm. Skilgannon moved alongside him.

  “What is worrying you?” asked the Naashanite.

  “Druss does not seem himself. At Skeln his complexion was ruddy. These last few days he has looked ten years older. His skin is gray.”

  “He is an old man,” said Skilgannon. “He may be strong, but he is still a half a century old. Traveling these hills and fighting werebeasts would sap anyone’s strength.”

  “You are probably right. No man can fight time. When do we need to get into position?”

  “An hour. No more than that.” Druss had stretched himself out on the ledge and appeared to be sleeping. Diagoras and Skilgannon walked further along the road. Here and there were fissures in the rock wall, some shallow, others deep. At one point the road narrowed, then widened. To the left was the sheer red rock face, to the right an awesome drop. Diagoras scanned the area and shivered.

  “I have always been nervous about heights,” he said.

  “I don’t much like them myself,” said Skilgannon. “But in this situation the terrain is to our advantage. And we need all the advantages we can get.”

  “The Nadir are said to be superb horsemen.”

  “They will need to be,” observed Skilgannon, grimly.

  For some time they discussed the plan, and then, as warriors will, they spoke of gentler days. Diagoras talked of an aunt who ran a brothel. “She was wonderful,” he said. “I liked nothing better as a child than to sneak off into the city and spend a day with her. My family never spoke of her—except my father. He went into the most terrible rage when he discovered I’d been seeing her. I don’t know what annoyed him the most, the fact that she was a whore, or that she was richer than all the rest of the family.”

  “Why did she become a whore?” asked Skilgannon. “My guess is that you are from a highborn family.”

  “I really don’t know. There was some scandal when she was young. She was sent to Drenan in disgrace, and then ran away. It was before I was born. It was some years later that she appeared. She had wealth then, and she bought a huge house on the outskirts of the city.
It was beautiful. She hired architects and gardeners and turned it into a palace. The gardens were a sight to behold. Pools and fountains, and rooms there created from bushes and trees. And she had the most gorgeous girls.” Diagoras sighed. “They came from everywhere, Ventria, Mashrapur, Panthia. There were even two Chiatze girls, dark-eyed and with skin the color of ivory. I tell you that place was like paradise. Sometimes I still dream of it.”

  “Does your aunt still own it?”

  “No. She died of a fever a few years back. Just after Skeln. Even in death there was a scandal. My aunt’s closest friend was a woman named Magatha. She was Ventrian, and, like my aunt, had been a whore. She killed herself on the same day my aunt died. Sweet Heaven, that caused a ripple in polite society.”

  “So, the whorehouse is closed now?”

  “Oh no. She left it to me, along with all her wealth. I promoted one of the women there, and she manages it for me.”

  “This must please your father.”

  Diagoras laughed. “It pleases almost every other man in the community. It is—and I say this with great pride—the best whorehouse in the south.”

  Dawn was not far off. “It is time,” said Skilgannon.