White Wolf (14 page)

“Defending myself, sir.”

“And the best method of defense is?”

“Attack. But you are wearing . . .”

“Understand me, boy,” snapped Malanek. “This session will end with blood. Either mine or yours. Now raise your blade, or place it on the floor and leave.”

Skilgannon looked at the man, then placed his saber on the floor, and swung toward the stairs.

“Are you frightened?” hissed Malanek. Skilgannon turned.

“Only of hurting you, sir,” he said.

“Come here.” Skilgannon walked back to the swordmaster. “Look at my body. See the scars. This one,” he said, tapping his chest, “was a lance I thought had killed me. And this was a dagger thrust. And this,” he went on, pointing to a jagged cut alongside the snake head on his shoulder, “was given to me by your friend Boranius during a practice. I bleed and I survive. We can play in this room with our blades for an eternity and you will never be a warrior. Because until you face a genuine threat you cannot know how you will cope with it. Follow me.” The swordmaster walked to the far wall. There was a shelf there. Upon it he had laid bandages, a curved needle and a length of thread, a jug of wine and a jar of honey. “One of us will bleed today. The likelihood is that it will be you, Olek. Pain and suffering. If you are skilled when we fight, the wound will be small. If not, it may be serious. You might even die.”

“This makes no sense,” said Skilgannon.

“And war does?” countered Malanek. “Make your choice. Leave or fight. If you leave I never want to see you again in my training hall.”

Skilgannon wanted to leave, but, at fifteen, he could not have borne the shame of such a withdrawal. “I shall fight,” he said.

“Then let us do it.”

Sitting now in the woods Skilgannon remembered the pain of the stitches. The cut on his chest was some seven inches long. He had bled like a stuck pig. The wound had pained him for weeks. The fight had been intense, and somewhere within it, he had forgotten that Malanek was his teacher. As the blades whirled and clashed Skilgannon had fought as if life depended on the outcome. At the last he had risked death to send a deadly lunge at Malanek’s throat. Only the speed and innate skill of the swordmaster had allowed him to duck and sway away from the death stroke. Even so the point had opened his cheek, spraying blood into the air.

Only in that moment did Skilgannon realize that—even as he avoided the death thrust—Malanek’s blade had sliced across his chest. He stepped back as the blood began to flow. Malanek had turned his own blade at the last possible second, merely scoring the skin. Had he wished he could have plunged the saber through Skilgannon’s heart.

The two combatants had looked at one another. “I hope one day to have half your skill,” the boy had said.

“You will be better, Olek. One more year and I will have nothing more to teach you. You will be a fine swordsman. One of the best.”

“As good as Boranius?”

“Hard to say, boy. Men like Boranius are rare. He is a natural killer, with faster hands than any man I’ve ever known.”

“Could you beat him?”

“Not anymore. His skills surpass mine. Already he is as good as Agasarsis, and they don’t come much better than that.”

By midmorning the travelers had made some eleven miles, emerging from thick forests and out onto rolling farmland. They rode along the column of refugees, hundreds of weary people trudging toward a place they hoped would offer at least transient security.

Heavy clouds masked the sun, and the day was gray and cool. Braygan had at last managed to find his rhythm in the saddle—at least for the trot. The canter saw him bounce awkwardly and grip the saddle pommel. Skilgannon took to riding ahead, scanning the land for signs of hostile riders. He saw several cavalry patrols, but none approached the refugees.

As afternoon faded toward dusk, the clouds cleared and bright sunshine shone on the column. It lifted the spirits of the fleeing people. Far ahead Skilgannon saw that the refugees had stopped walking. They were milling around. The news that had halted the column flowed back faster than a brushfire.

Mellicane had fallen. No one knew what had become of the Tantrian king or the remnants of his army. All they knew was that their journey to safety now had no purpose. There were no walls to shelter behind. People sat down on the ground. Some wept. Others merely stared vacantly over the landscape. They had left their homes in terror. They feared to go back, and yet now there was no going forward.

Skilgannon galloped his horse toward the northwest, dismounting where the largest group of refugees had gathered. Here he saw several armored Lancers, wearing the yellow cloaks of the Tantrian army, trying to answer a host of shouted questions, most of which they could not answer. Sitting atop his gelding Skilgannon gleaned what information there was. The king had killed himself—or been killed by those he believed loyal. The gates had been thrown open. The Datians had ridden in uncontested. There had been some looting and stories of attacks on the populace, but the city was now under martial law. The worst incidents had occurred when the Arena beasts had been set free. The creatures had moved out into the populated areas, killing indiscriminately until hunted down. Skilgannon rode back to where Braygan and Rabalyn were waiting. “What are we to do?” asked the little priest.

“Go on to the city. That is why we came.”

“Is the war over then?”

“No,” Skilgannon told him. “Only the first stage. Now the Naashanite army will invade.”

“I don’t understand,” said Braygan. “The Naashanites were our allies. Why did they not come earlier?”

“The sheep made an alliance with the wolf, Braygan. The queen desires to rule these lands. And those of Datia and Dospilis. The Tantrian king is dead. Now the queen will come as an avenging liberator, and accept the grateful thanks of a frightened people.”

“Does she have no honor then?” asked Rabalyn.

“Honor?” answered Skilgannon, with a harsh laugh. “She is a ruler, boy. Honor is a cloak she wears when it suits her. You remember the old adage: “The louder they spoke of their honor, the faster we counted the spoons”? Do not look for ordinary virtues among rulers.”

“Will it be safe in the city?” inquired Braygan.

Skilgannon shrugged. “I cannot answer that. It will be safer than it was yesterday, though we will have to release horses and walk in.”

“Why?” put in Rabalyn.

Skilgannon saw the hurt on the youth’s face. “We have no choice. They are branded, Rabalyn. We took them from dead Datian Lancers. You think it wise to ride in to a conquered city on stolen horses? We will keep them until the far hills above the city. Then we will let them go. No harm will come to them. Now let us be moving on.”

Swinging his horse Skilgannon skirted the refugees and cut across the fields. The fall of the city was—at least for Skilgannon—a blessing. With this phase of the war over, entry to—and exit from—Mellicane should prove somewhat simpler. Supplies would be more accessible, and the journey north toward Sherak and the deserts of Namib should be less troublesome. The armies of Naashan would be entering from the south. The armies of Datia and Dospilis would be forced to march in that direction to oppose them. There would be little military activity, therefore, in the north.

They rode on in silence for several hours. The land here was deceptive, apparently flat, and yet filled with concealed gulleys and dips. Skilgannon rode slowly and carefully. His trained eyes scanned the area. This would be one place to ambush an invading army. A large force could be hidden in these gulleys, or in the reeds alongside the streams. Skilgannon had planned many such surprise attacks during the early days of the Naashanite uprising.

Once more they came upon refugees, ever more weary as they plodded on toward an uncertain future. They were wading through a sea of reeds, trying to create a shortcut to the hills. The ground below the horses’ hooves was waterlogged and spongy, and, with the mass of people heading northwest, the going was slow. On horseback Skilgannon could just see over the tops of the reeds. They went on for close to another half mile. Swarms of midges rose up, clustering around the faces of the riders and their mounts. The horses tossed their heads and flicked their ears. The heat rose, and Skilgannon felt sweat trickling down his back.

From somewhere ahead came a scream of pure terror. Skilgannon reined his mount. Across the top of the reeds he saw a body fly up, and twist in the air. Then came another scream—harshly cut off in midcry.

People began streaming back past Skilgannon, running for their lives. This sudden movement startled the horses. Skilgannon’s mount reared and he fought for control. Braygan was dumped from the saddle, his horse turning and galloping back toward the south. Rabalyn’s horse bolted past Skilgannon, the boy wrestling with the reins.

A slight breeze began to blow through the reeds. Skilgannon’s horse caught the scent. Despite the skill of the rider the gelding suddenly trembled, reared again and swung away, bolting after Braygan’s riderless mount.

Skilgannon had little choice but to let his horse run for a while, keeping a light but constant pressure on the reins. As it reached firmer ground Skilgannon spoke to it in a gentle voice, and sat back in the saddle. “Whoa now, boy!” he said. Clear of what it perceived as the initial danger the gelding heeded the commands, dropped back into a lope, and finally halted. Skilgannon patted its long neck, and swung it back toward the north.

He scanned the reeds, now some quarter of a mile distant. People were still running in every direction.

Then he saw the beast.

It was around seven feet high, covered in black fur. For a moment Skilgannon thought it to be a bear, but then it turned. The body tapered down from powerful shoulders, and long arms, to a slimmer waist and long legs. The head was huge and hunched forward on a massive neck, the jaws elongated like a wolf. Blood stained its teeth and throat. The great head swung from side to side, then the beast darted forward, the speed impressive for something so large. Bearing down on a fleeing woman it leapt to her back, its fangs crunching down on her skull. The woman collapsed, instantly dead. Another beast, its fur a mottled gray, emerged from the reeds, and ran at the first. Rearing up they struck at each each other. The black beast gave way, moving back, and the gray newcomer moved in to feed.

Skilgannon had heard of the Arena beasts, but never seen one. It was said they were created by renegade Nadir shamen in the pay of the Tantrian king. He had heard talk of bizarre rites, where prisoners were dragged from their dungeons and magically melded with wolves, bears, or dogs.

At that moment he saw Braygan stumble from the reeds, some two hundred yards from the feeding beast.

Skilgannon swore—and heeled the gelding into a run. The feeding creature looked up, but ignored both the horseman and the staggering man. Not so the black-furred beast, who had been robbed of his feed. Dropping to all fours he charged at Braygan.

The gelding, at full run, bore down on the priest. Skilgannon glanced back. There would be no room for error now. Braygan had seen the wolf creature and was trying to run away. Skilgannon leaned over in his saddle and guided the gelding alongside the fleeing man. Grabbing his robe he hauled him from his feet, throwing him over the pommel. Braygan landed with a grunt. The gelding continued to run. Skilgannon turned him, heading back toward the hills. He glanced over his shoulder. The beast was gaining.

The gelding thundered on. Braygan, the pommel horn digging into his ribs, tried to wriggle clear of it.

“Keep still, idiot!” yelled Skilgannon.

The gelding jerked and whinnied. Skilgannon looked back. The beast had dropped to its haunches and given up the chase. But there was blood on the gelding’s hind quarters, and the bloody marks of talons upon its back.

It had been close.

Skilgannon rode on. The terrified, gelding struggled up the slope. At the top Skilgannon unceremoniously dumped Braygan from its back. Then he dismounted and checked the wound to his horse. There were three parallel slashes, but they were not deep.

The black creature watched them from some three hundred yards distant, then turned and ambled back toward the reeds.

Braygan came to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer. “I thank thee, Great Lord in Heaven,” he said, his voice breaking. “I thank thee for this life, and for sparing me upon this day.”

“The day is not over,” observed Skilgannon.

They sat upon the hillside for almost an hour, until the light began to fail. Then Skilgannon saw movement to the south. Another large group of refugees came into sight, emerging from a fold in the land. They were walking toward the reeds.

“Sweet Heaven!” said Braygan. “They will be torn to pieces.”

Rabalyn became aware of pain in his head. It began as a soft thumping, then grew alarmingly. A feeling of nausea swept through him and he groaned and opened his eyes. He was lying on the grass, a little way from a line of trees. With another groan he sat up and looked around. Some distance away he could see the edge of the reed marsh. Beside him there was a splash of blood on the surface of a flat rock. He stared at it for a moment, then reached up to his head. His hand came away sticky. He wiped his fingers on the grass, leaving a red smear.

Then he remembered the horse bolting, racing along the line of reeds. He had clung to the pommel horn, fighting to stay in the saddle. That was when the horror had surged from the reeds. Rabalyn had caught only a glance as the horse raced by, but what he saw was enough to chill his heart. The beast was massive, with slavering jaws. It stood upright like a bear, but its head was that of a wolf. The beast lunged at the horse and struck it. Rabalyn was hurled to his left, but clung on as the horse stumbled. Then it righted itself and sped away. It had galloped for some minutes, then had stumbled twice. At the last its head dipped and Rabalyn was hurled through the air. His head had obviously struck the rock.

The youth struggled to his feet and turned. The dead horse lay some fifteen feet distant. Rabalyn cried out in anguish, and ran to it. There was a deep and bloody wound in its flank. Flesh and sinew hung from it, trailing down into a deep, congealing pool of blood.