White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Extending her arm she pointed the weapon at him. “We would like to do it now,” she agreed. With a sharp twang the bolt hammered into the bedhead less than an inch from his skull. She lowered the bow and set it down upon a night stand. “We cannot yet,” she said. “Uncle needs you.”

  Lifting her shirt over her head she tossed it to the floor, then slid out of her leggings. Pulling back the sheet she snuggled into bed alongside Skilgannon, her head upon his shoulder. He felt her fingers stroke the side of his face, then her lips sought his.

  Boranius sat upon a wicker chair, watching as the Nadir woman bathed the child, Elanin. The little girl was sitting in the copper bathtub, staring ahead, expressionless as the Nadir scrubbed the dirt from her pale skin. There were sores upon her shoulders and back, but she did not flinch when the harsh cloth scraped across them.

  “You know who is coming to get you, little princess?” said Boranius. “Old Druss. Uncle Druss. He is coming here for you. We must make you clean and pretty for when he gets here.”

  There was no change of expression. Irritation flickered in Boranius. The spectacle would be of little merit if the child did not react. “Slap her,” he ordered the Nadir woman. Her hand cracked against the child’s face. Elanin did not cry out. Her head drooped a little, then she stared ahead again. “Why does she feel no pain?” he asked.

  “She is not here,” said the Nadir woman.

  “Bring her back then.”

  The woman laughed. “I do not know where she is.”

  Boranius rose from the chair and left the room in search of Nygor. The little shaman would know what to do with the child. It would be such a waste if she couldn’t scream for Uncle Druss. He strode through the armory, and up to the Roof Hall. Here he found Nygor, sitting in a window seat, scanning some old scrolls. “The child’s mind has snapped,” said Boranius.

  “You give her the mother’s fingers to play with,” said Nygor. “What else you expect?”

  “I thought it amusing. How can we bring the child back?”

  Nygor shrugged. “Opiates, maybe. We’ll find a way when the time comes.”

  “The girl is soft like her father. His wife told me he was one of the heroes of Skeln. You saw him, Nygor, blubbing away about his little girl. How could such a man have taken part in the defeat of the Immortals?”

  The shaman sighed and put aside his scroll. “I knew a warrior once who tackled a lion with a knife. Yet he was afraid of rats. All men have their fears, their strong points and their weaknesses. Orastes was terrified of the dark. The dungeon was dark. You told him you were going to kill his daughter, cut her into little pieces. The girl was everything to him. He loved her.”

  “I have no weaknesses, shaman,” said Boranius, moving to a chair and sitting down.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. You wish to disagree?”

  “I need my fingers, Ironmask, so, no, I will not disagree. You are a strong man. Cursed by the stars, though.”

  “That is true enough,” said Boranius, with feeling. “I never met a man with such ill luck. Bokram should have won, you know. We did everything right. He panicked in that last battle. Had he not been a coward he would now have ruled all of Naashan. And as for the Tantrian king . . . his stupidity was beyond reason. I wish I had taken longer to kill him.”

  “As I recall he screamed for several hours.”

  “It should have been days. I warned him not to invade Datia. We weren’t ready. If he had but waited.”

  “The Old Woman got to him with that cursed sword. We could not have predicted that. It corrupted his mind.”

  Boranius swore. “Why does that hag haunt me? What did I ever do to her?”

  “My guess would be that you killed someone she had some use for.”

  “Ah, well, it matters not. If the best she can do is to send an old man with an ax, then I see little to fear.”

  Nygor’s face darkened. “I feel her presence at all times. She constantly tests my defenses. Do not take her lightly, Ironmask. She has the power to kill us all.”

  A cold breeze rippled through the Roof Hall. Two of the lanterns went out. Boranius leapt from his seat. Nygor cried out and sprang toward the open door. It slammed shut in his face.

  A hooded, translucent figure appeared in the shadows by the doorway. “So pleasing to be appreciated,” said the Old Woman. Boranius drew a dagger from his belt and threw it across the hall. It passed through the figure and clattered against the wall.

  “How did you breach my spells?” asked Nygor, his voice echoing his despair.

  “I found another opening, Nadir. Up there in the roof. And now it is time for you to join your friend, Raesha. Burn, little man.” The hooded figure pointed at Nygor. The shaman tried to run to the window, to hurl himself to the stones far below, but a holding spell closed around him. Flames leapt up from his leggings, igniting his shirt. He screamed and screamed. Boranius watched as Nygor’s hair flared away, his scalp and face turning black, the skin bubbling. Still the screams filled the hall. Men began pounding on the door. Finally the screams ended. Nygor’s blackened corpse fell to the floor. It continued to burn, filling the hall with acrid black smoke. At the last there was nothing left upon the floor that was remotely human.

  The pounding continued. “Be silent,” said the Old Woman, flicking her hand toward the entrance. The pounding ceased.

  “You want to see me burn, whore?” shouted Boranius. “Come then! Work your magic! I spit on you!”

  “Oh I shall watch you die, Boranius. I shall take great pleasure in it. First, however, you will do me a service.”

  “Never!”

  “Oh I think you will. Druss the Legend is coming for you. And with him a man you have not seen for some time. An old friend. What a merry meeting that will be. You remember Skilgannon? How could you not? He cut your face off, as I recall.”

  “I’ll kill them both and piss on their corpses.”

  The Old Woman’s laughter rang out. “Ah, but I could like you, Boranius. Truly I could. Such a shame we are enemies.”

  “We do not need to be.”

  “Ah, but we do. I was not always as you see me now. A few centuries ago I was young and men considered me comely. In that heady time of youth I had a child. I left it to be raised by others. I have never been maternal. As time passed I watched over that child, and the children she had. There were not many. Easy to keep track of. At first it was an amusement for me. My gift to the future. The fruit of my loins. Quietly—so quietly—I maneuverd their lives, bringing them a little luck when they needed it. I could not watch them all the time, however. They got old and died. Despite my best efforts the line ran thin. Until there was only one. A girl. Sweet child. She married the Emperor of Naashan after I slipped him a love potion. There was no way he would ever betray her. She then had a daughter. The last of my line. And you, Boranius, killed the mother and hunted the daughter. In your wildest imaginings can you believe I will forgive you?”

  “I care nothing for your forgiveness. I’ll kill Skilgannon for the pleasure of it. I’ll kill Druss to avenge the Immortals. If I live long enough I’ll kill Jianna—and rid the world of your get.”

  “But you will not live long enough, Boranius. And I will be here, in the flesh, to see your soul torn screaming from your body. Until then, something to remember me by.”

  Fire swept across Boranius’s face, searing lips and nose and cheeks. With a strangled cry he fell back.

  “A man with a soul as ugly as yours has no right to a second face,” said the Old Woman. “So let us remove the flesh Ustarte gave you.”

  When Skilgannon awoke he was alone. He yawned and stretched. His arm brushed against the splintered wood of the bedhead. The bolt had gone—as had Garianne. Rising from the bed he pulled on his leggings and boots, and then his cream-colored shirt and fringed jerkin. Lastly he hooked the ebony scabbard over his shoulder. The dawn was breaking, the land outside the window bathed in gold.

  Moving to th
e door he stepped out into the corridor beyond, making his way back toward the antechamber. He passed a yellow-robed priest and stopped him, asking where he might find the boy, Rabalyn. The shaven-headed priest said nothing, but indicated that Skilgannon should follow him. They moved through a bewildering series of tunnels, down circular stairs, and along corridors, until, at last, they came to a wider hall. At the end of the hall the priest opened a door and gestured for Skilgannon to enter.

  Druss was sitting at Rabalyn’s bedside. The lad was asleep. Skilgannon leaned over him. Rabalyn’s face was pale, but he was breathing well. Pulling up a chair, Skilgannon sat alongside the axman.

  “He is deeply asleep,” said Druss. “It does my heart good to see him well.”

  “He is a fine lad.”

  “He is that. Too many shirkers and cowards in this world,” said Druss. “Too many people who live life selfishly and care nothing for their fellows. It grieved me greatly when I thought the boy was dead. Did I tell you that he leapt from a tree and took up my ax to fight a Joining?”

  “Only ten or twelve times.”

  “That kind of courage is rare. I think this boy will achieve something in his life. Damn, but I hope so.”

  “Let us hope he achieves more than we have,” said Skilgannon.

  “Amen to that.” The axman glanced at Skilgannon, his piercing gray eyes holding to the sapphire blue gaze of the Naashanite warrior. “So why are you coming with me, laddie?”

  “Perhaps I just enjoy your company.”

  “Who wouldn’t? Now tell me the truth.”

  “Boranius killed my friends. He threatened the life of the woman I love.”

  “And what else?”

  “Why does there need to be something else? You are going after Boranius because he . . .” Skilgannon struggled to find an adequate description of the horror that had befallen Orastes “. . . because he destroyed your friend. He also killed all who loved me.”

  “Aye, they are good enough reasons. I don’t quibble with them. There’s something else, though. Something deeper, I think.”

  Skilgannon fell silent. Then he took a deep breath. “Why do you play the simple man, Druss? You are far more subtle and intuitive than you generally show. Very well then. The full truth. He frightens me, Druss. There, it is said. Skilgannon the Damned is afraid.”

  “You are not afraid of dying,” said Druss. “I have seen that. So what is it about this . . . this Boranius that causes such terror?”

  Quietly Skilgannon told the axman about the mutilations suffered by Sperian and Molaire, the dismemberments and the blindings. “The strongest of men would be unmanned and mewling like a babe under his ministrations, Druss. He would end his life as a wretched, broken, bleeding piece of flesh. Everything in me screams to run away. To leave Boranius to his own fate.”

  “Every man has a breaking point. I don’t doubt that,” said Druss. “With luck you’ll get to meet him blade to blade. You are perhaps the best swordsman I ever saw.”

  “Boranius is better. Stronger and faster—or at least he was when last we met. He would have killed me, but one of my men threw a spear at him. It did not pierce his armor, but it broke his concentration. Even then he managed to avoid the first death blow.”

  “Maybe you should just let me have him, laddie. Snaga will cut him down to size.”

  Skilgannon nodded. “Perhaps I will.”

  They sat with Rabalyn for a little while, but the boy did not wake. The door opened and Weldi entered, bowing low. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well.” Before they could answer he spoke again, this time to Skilgannon. “The priestess, Ustarte, has requested your presence, sir. Come, I shall take you to her.”

  Druss looked up as Skilgannon rose. “I’ll stay awhile with the boy. He might wake.”

  Skilgannon reached out his hand. “Thank you, Druss. You know, you would have made a fine father.”

  “I doubt that, laddie,” answered Druss, taking the offered hand in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “The most important thing for a father is to be there when his child needs him. I am never anywhere for long.”

  Skilgannon followed Weldi to the upper chamber of greenery, where Ustarte was waiting upon the ledge. In the bright morning sunshine Skilgannon could see beyond her beauty, to the weariness and age she carried. The tiniest of fine lines etched her fragile Chiatze features. She smiled at him as he walked out on to the ledge.

  “You sent for me, lady?”

  “I thought you might like to travel with me, warrior. To the citadel.”

  “Now?”

  “If you wish.”

  “You will travel with us?”

  “No. Just you and I, Olek. It will take but a matter of moments.”

  Skilgannon was uneasy. “And how are we to do this?”

  “Merely sit in the chair there, and relax. I will lead your spirit there.”

  Nonplussed he removed his scabbard and sat down, leaning his head back against a cushion. He heard the rustle of her robes, then felt the warmth of her hand upon his brow. Instantly he was asleep.

  He rose from the welcoming darkness, toward a bright and shining light. He became aware that someone was holding his hand. For some reason he thought it was Molaire, and he wondered where they were going. Then he recalled that Molaire was dead. Momentary panic touched him as the light neared.

  “Do not be afraid,” the voice of Ustarte whispered inside his head. “Do not struggle or you will wake too early. Trust me.”

  Suddenly he was above the clouds, and the bright light was that of the sun, shining in a sky of unbelievable blue. Below him were the red mountains through which he had traveled, and a long, winding river that glittered brilliantly as it snaked toward the distant sea. He felt his hand tugged and his spirit soared toward the northwest, away from the rising sun. Far below he saw villages and farming communities, and two small towns, the largest of which had grown up around the crossing point of four major roads. Just beyond this was an ancient fort. A crumbling, rectangular outer wall covered an area of around a mile. Within it were warehouses and tall buildings. At the center of the fortress stood a circular keep, four stories high. A domed wooden roof had been added.

  “It was built hundreds of years ago to guard the trade roads,” said Ustarte. “But when the kingdom of Pelucid fell the fortress became derelict for decades. Lately it has been used by robber bands, who control the trade routes. They levy taxes upon the land caravans passing through from the coastal cities. The silks of Gothir, the spices of Namib, gold and silver from the mines to the west. All these fall under the sway of those who control the citadel. Ironmask captured it over a year ago, ostensibly to allow free trade to flow into Tantria.

  The citadel loomed closer. “As you can see it is still a formidable castle. It could withstand a besieging enemy for some time. A few willing fighters, however, could enter the outer wall largely unnoticed.”

  “What of the Nadir shaman? Would he not see us coming?”

  “The Old Woman killed him last night. Burned him alive. He tried to jump to his death to avoid the pain, but she fixed him with a spell of holding. She is like Boranius. She lives to enjoy the suffering of others. Now let us see the inside.”

  For some while their spirits flowed through the citadel, and Skilgannon mentally noted the rooms and halls, the corridors and exits. Finally they came to an upper room, small and cramped. “What is here?” he asked, seeing only a shabby bed, and an old wooden closet.

  “Here is sadness and pain of the worst kind,” she told him. They passed through the thin door of the closet and Skilgannon saw a small, blond-haired child, sitting against the closet wall. She was hugging her knees and swaying back and forth. “This is the child Druss seeks to rescue.”

  Pulling back from the gloom of the closet, they floated within the room beyond. “Look there,” said Ustarte, “by the bed.”

  He saw the blackened, rotting fingers, and the insects crawling across them. “Her mother’s f
ingers,” said Ustarte. “Boranius cut them away before killing the woman. He gave them to the child as playthings.”

  “She will never recover from this,” said Skilgannon. “He has destroyed her future.”

  “You may be right, but it is best not to be hasty in these judgments. The child has fled in her terror. She needs to be found and comforted before the rescue. She needs to know that help is coming. She needs to feel that she is loved.”

  “How would that be possible?”

  “I can take you to her, Olek.”

  “I am not much of a comforter, Ustarte. It would be better if you went.”

  “If I did, do you know what she would see? A wolf-woman, with bright golden eyes and sharp claws. She needs someone of her own species, Olek.”

  “She knows Druss. Let us go back. You can bring Druss to her.”

  “I wish that I could. What you say is true. The mere sight of Druss would lift her. It is not possible. Druss cannot be reached in this way. Last night as you all slept I flowed into your dreams. Jared is full of grief, and though warmhearted, could not bring the child what she needs. Druss’s mind is like a castle. He guards his inner privacy with great resolution. When I reached out to communicate I was met by a sudden wall of anger. I retreated instantly. Diagoras would have been my next choice. He is too fearful of me, and what he sees as my kind. He would not have trusted me as you did. At some point he would have panicked and tried to flee. He might even have succeeded, and his soul would have been lost. Then there was Garianne. I would not even try to enter the scream-filled labyrinths of her mind. In there I could have been lost. So there is only you.”

  “What must I do?”

  “I will take you to her. She will have built a world around herself that is familiar. You must reach her, and find a way through the elaborate—and perhaps dangerous—place she inhabits.”

  “Dangerous for her—or for me?”

  “For both of you. Do not give her false hope. It will seem helpful at the time, but will make the return impossible. Do not tell her that Orastes is alive. Be honest, but loving with her. That is all I can advise.”