White Wolf (16 page)

“No,” answered Druss. “Not my war. I came here looking for an old friend.”

“Is he a warrior like you?”

Druss laughed. “No. He is a fat, friendly fellow with a fear of violence. A good man, though.”

“Did you find him?”

“Not yet. I don’t even know why he came here. He’s a long way from home. He may have returned to Mellicane. I’ll find out in a day or two.” A tiny trickle of blood was still seeping from the gash in the old man’s temple. Rabalyn watched as he wiped it away.

“That should be stitched or bandaged,” he said.

“Not deep enough for that. It will seal itself. And now I think I’ll get some sleep.”

“Shall I keep watch?”

“Aye, laddie. You do that.”

“You think the beast might come back?”

“I doubt it. That was a deep cut you gave it. He’s probably hurting too much to think of feeding. But if he does then two great heroes like us should be able to deal with him. Don’t worry overmuch, Rabalyn. I am a light sleeper.”

With that the axman stretched himself out and closed his eyes.

With Braygan clinging on behind him, Skilgannon urged the tired horse down the slope toward the refugees. The steeldust was almost at the end of its strength and stumbled twice.

As he rode Skilgannon scanned the land. He could see no sign of the beasts. Transferring his gaze to the refugees he saw two swordsmen walking at the head of the column. Both were tall, with close-cropped black hair, and both were heavily bearded. They paused as he rode up. Leaping from the saddle Skilgannon approached them. “Are you in charge here?” he asked the first warrior. The man cocked his head and looked confused, then swung to the other swordsman.

“Are we in charge, Jared?”

“No, Nian. Don’t worry about it. What is it you want?” he asked Skilgannon. People were milling around now, anxious to hear whatever news the newcomers had brought.

“There is great danger here,” Skilgannon told Jared. “It will be upon us at any moment.” Turning away from him Skilgannon pulled Braygan from the saddle, and slapped the rump of the horse. Surprised, it began to run toward the reeds. It had traveled no more than a hundred yards before it swerved to the right. A Joining reared up from the long grass and leapt at it. The horse bolted. Screams of shock came from some of the refugees.

“Be silent!” roared Skilgannon, his voice booming out. The power in his voice cowed the crowd. They stood silently awaiting instructions. “Gather together. Get into as tight a circle as you can. Now! Your lives depend upon it!” As the crowd began to move Skilgannon shouted again. “Every man here with a weapon come to me.” Men began to shuffle forward. Some had swords, others knives. Several had wooden clubs or scythes. Turning to the swordsman, Jared, he said: “Move to the other side of the circle. Stay on the outside of it. Do it now!” Skilgannon turned his attention to the gathering men. “There are beasts abroad—Joinings who have escaped from the Arena in Mellicane. Already they have killed many refugees. Spread yourselves around the circle, facing outward. When the beasts come make as much noise as you can. Scream, shout, clash your weapons. Do not be drawn away from the circle.”

There were less than twenty armed men. Not enough to form a protective ring around the refugees. Skilgannon called out to the women. “We need more for the fighting circle,” he said. “Do any women here carry weapons?” Around a dozen women moved forward. Most had long knives, but one had a small hatchet. “Move alongside the men,” Skilgannon told them. “Everyone else sit down. When the attack comes, take hold of the person closest to you. Keep low to the ground. Do not let any children panic or run. And do not break the circle.”

Braygan stood where he was, staring anxiously toward the reeds, no more than four hundred yards distant. Skilgannon grabbed him by the arm. “Go and sit with the women and children,” he said. “You can do nothing here.”

The little priest did as he was bid, easing his way into the huddled refugees and sitting down. He gazed around the circle. It was some thirty feet in diameter. All around it stood the warriors, both men and women, Skilgannon had gathered. Braygan was still in shock. He had seen Brother Lantern fight, but this was a man he had never seen. He watched as Skilgannon moved around the outer edge of the circle, issuing orders. People were hanging on his every word. He radiated power and authority.

The light was beginning to fail. A weird howling arose from all around them. Children screamed in panic and some people began to rise, ready to run.

“Be still!” bellowed Skilgannon. Braygan saw him draw his swords.

A huge Joining reared up and ran at the circle. Skilgannon leapt to meet it. The beast sprang at him. The golden sword in Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out, slicing across the Joining’s belly. Ducking under a sweep of its taloned arm, Skilgannon spun. The silver blade in his left hand clove deep into the beast’s neck. It fell to all fours, blood gouting from its wounds. The swordsman, Nian, charged in, bringing his long, two-handed broadsword down onto the Joining’s skull. The creature slumped dead to the ground.

“Do not break the circle!” shouted Skilgannon. “Hold your line.”

All around them now the beasts were gathering.

“Stand firm!” he heard Skilgannon shout. His voice was all but drowned out by a dreadful howling that chilled the blood.

Braygan squeezed shut his eyes and began to pray.

8

Sitting by the fire, the soft scent of woodsmoke hanging in the night air, Rabalyn felt suddenly free of fear. In its place came a sweet melancholy. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and softer, safer days when she would mix stale bread with milk, dried fruit, and honey and bake a pudding. They would sit in the evenings by the fire and cut deep slices, savoring each mouthful. In those days Rabalyn dreamed of being a great hero, of striding across the world carrying a magical sword. Of freeing maidens in distress and earning their undying love.

Now he had fought a beast, alongside a
truly
great warrior. He gazed down at the sleeping man. Druss had come seeking a friend. A kind of quest. Just like Old Labbers had spoken of. Warriors were always on quests, according to Labbers. Mostly they were hunting for magical jewels, or other items of sorcery. Or they were really kings in disguise. Rabalyn had loved the stories—even the stupid ones. He could never understand why a succession of otherwise sensible rulers would always send their eldest son on a quest. Surely they knew the eldest son always died or got captured. The second eldest would go. He’d fall down a pit, or get eaten by wolves, or seduced by witches. Finally the king would send his youngest, most inexperienced son. He would finish the quest, find the princess, and live happily ever after. If Rabalyn were a king he would send the youngest son first. He had often giggled during story time. Labbers had grown frustrated. “What is so funny, child?”

Rabalyn could never explain. He would just say: “Nothing, sir.”

Sometimes the king had no sons. Only daughters. These stories were great favorites among the other children. Rabalyn didn’t like them. The king would be looking for a suitor for his prettiest daughter. Every handsome, rich nobleman would ride in. Of course, they were doomed to failure. The man who would win the hand of the princess would be a kitchen lad, or a stable boy, or a young thief. He would naturally have to prove himself by slaying a dragon, or somesuch, and he would do it in a sneaky way that the children loved. Rabalyn’s dislike for them centered on the endings. It always turned out that the stable lad was the secret son of a great king, or a wizard. Princesses, it seemed, just didn’t fall in love with common folk.

Beside him the axman was snoring softly. “You are not really a light sleeper,” whispered Rabalyn.

“Don’t let appearances fool you,” answered the man. Rabalyn laughed, and added a chunk of wood to the fire. The axman sat up and yawned.

“Were you the youngest son?” asked Rabalyn.

The old warrior shook his head and scratched at his black and silver beard.

“I was the only son.”

“Did you ever fall in love with a princess?”

“No. My friend Sieben was the man for loving princesses. Well, princesses, duchesses, maids, courtesans. Anyone, really. He ended up marrying a Nadir warrior woman. That’s when he started to lose his hair.”

“Did she put a spell on him?”

The axman laughed. “No, boy, she just wore him out.” For a while they talked. The fire was warm, the night peaceful. Rabalyn told the axman about his Aunt Athyla and their little house, and how he had always dreamed of being a great warrior.

“All boys want to be warriors,” muttered Druss. “That’s why so many of them die young. We don’t achieve anything, you know, Rabalyn. At best we fight so that other men
can
achieve something. We’re not even important.”

“I think you are important,” objected Rabalyn.

The axman laughed. “Of course you do. You’re young. A farmer plows the land and grows crops. The crops feed the cities. In the cities men make laws, so that youngsters like you can grow in peace and learn. People marry and have children, and they teach them to respect the land and their fellow citizens. Philosophers and poets spread knowledge. The world grows. Then along comes a warrior, with a shining sword and a burning brand. He burns the farm and kills the farmer. He marches into cities and rapes the wives and maidens. He plants hate like a seed. When he comes there are only two choices. Run away—or send for men like me.”

“But you are not like the killers and the rapers.”

“I am what I am, boy. I try to make no excuses for my life. I wasn’t strong enough to be a farmer.”

This confused Rabalyn, who had never seen a stronger man. No farmer could have stood against the beasts as this man had. Rabalyn threw some sticks on the fire and watched them blaze.

“How did the Immortals lose at Skeln?” he asked.

“They faced better fighters on the day.”

“Better fighters than you?”

“You are a bottomless pit of questions.”

“There’s so much I don’t know.”

“Ah well, we are not so unalike then, Rabalyn. There is so much I don’t know.”

“But you are old and wise.”

The axman stared hard at the boy. “I’d be happier if you stopped talking about my age. Bad enough living this long, without there being constant reminders.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m not wise, Rabalyn. Had I been wise I would have stayed home with the woman I loved. I’d have farmed and planted trees. I’d have raised cattle and sold them at market. Instead I found wars and battles to fight. Old and wise? I’ve met wise men who were young, and stupid men who were old. I’ve met good men who did evil things, and evil men who tried to do good. It’s all beyond my understanding.”

“Did you have children?”

“No. I regret that. Though I have to say that I get tense around the very young. The screaming and the squalling grates on me. I’m not a great lover of noise. Or people, come to that. They irritate me.”

“Do you want me to stop talking?”

“Laddie, you came down that tree and probably saved my life. You can talk as much as you like. Sing and dance if you want to. I may be cantankerous, but I’m never ungrateful. I owe you.”

Rabalyn felt a surge of pride. He wished he could hold on to this moment forever. The silence grew. Rabalyn listened to the crackle of burning wood, and felt the night breeze blowing against his skin. He looked back at the axman. “If you truly are like those killers who attack cities then why did you help those people when the soldiers were killing them?”

“Had to, laddie. It’s the code.”

“I don’t understand,” said Rabalyn.

“That’s the only difference between me and the killers. They see what they want and they take it. They have become just like those beasts we slew tonight. Outwardly they look like the rest of us. Under the skin they are savage and cruel. They have no mercy. That beast is in me too, Rabalyn. I keep it chained. The code holds it.”

“What is the code?”

The axman gave a grim smile. “If I tell you, then you must swear to live by it. Do you really want to hear it? It could be the death of you.”

“Yes.”

The axman leaned back and closed his eyes. When he spoke it was as if he were reciting a prayer. The words hung in the air.
“Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat, or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.”

“Did your father teach you that?” asked Rabalyn.

“No. It was a friend. His name was Shadak. I have been lucky with my friends, Rabalyn. I hope you are too.”

“Is it Shadak you are looking for?”

Druss shook his head. “No, he died a long while back. He was more than seventy. He was knifed in an alleyway by three robbers.”

“Were they caught?”

“Two were caught and hanged. One escaped. He fled to a settlement in the high hills. A friend of Shadak’s tracked him down and killed him, and the gang that he had joined.”

“So who are you looking for?”

“The young Earl of Dros Purdol. He came to Mellicane two months ago, and then went missing.”

“Perhaps he’s dead,” said Rabalyn.

“Aye, the thought had occurred to me. I hope not. He’s a good man, and he has an eight-year-old daughter, Elanin, who is a constant joy. Whenever I see her she makes daisy chains I have to wear in my hair.”

Rabalyn laughed as he pictured the grim warrior with a crown of flowers. “I thought you said you got tense around the young?”

“I do. Elanin is an exception. Last year on my farm a wild dog ran at her. Most children would have panicked. The dog was large and it would have savaged her. Even as I ran to ward off the dog she picked up a stick and thumped it across the nose. It yelped and fled.”

“And you like her because she’s brave?”

“I admire courage, boy.” The old man sighed. “I expect she’s back in Dros Purdol now, worried sick about her father. To see the two of them together lifts the heart.”

“Can I travel with you to Mellicane?” asked Rabalyn.

“Of course. But your friends will come for you.”

“I don’t think so. We were scattered when the beasts attacked. I expect they’ll just go on without me.”

Druss shook his head. “As you get older you’ll learn to judge men better. The man with the swords would never leave a friend behind. He’ll keep looking until he finds you.”

“Unless the beasts killed him.”

“That
would
surprise me,” said the axman. “Trust me. He would be a hard man to kill. Now you should get some sleep. I’ll sit for a while and—with your leave—enjoy a little silence.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rabalyn, with a smile. Settling down by the fire he tried to stay awake. He wanted to savor this night, to fill his mind with it so that not even the smallest detail would ever be lost to him.

“Was your father a king?” he asked, sleepily.

“No. He was a common man, like me.”

“I’m glad.”

Rabalyn was almost asleep when the wind changed. He heard distant howling, and what sounded like a scream of pain.

“There’s others fighting tonight,” said Druss. “May the Source be with them.”

The sound of the old man’s voice comforted the youth.

And he slept.

Elanin was a bright child, and until recently, happy and contented. When her mother arrived for one of her infrequent visits to Dros Purdol she had been pleased to see her. When Mother said she was going to take her on a trip to sea, to meet her father in Mellicane, she had been delighted. She hoped, as children do, it meant that Mother and Father were getting back together, and would be friends again.

But it had all been a lie.

Father hadn’t been in Mellicane. Instead Mother had brought her to a huge palace, and there she had met the awful Shakusan Ironmask. The meeting had not, at first, been frightening. Ironmask was a big man, wide shouldered and powerful. He was not wearing the mask that gave him his name. His face was handsome, though strangely discolored from the bridge of his nose down to his chin. One of the servants back at Dros Purdol had a purple birthmark too, on the side of his face. But this was far worse.

Mother said that he was going to be her new father. This was just so silly, and Elanin had laughed. Why would she need a new father? She loved the one she had. Mother had said that Father didn’t want her anymore, and had instructed she was now to live with her mother. At this Elanin became angry. She knew in her heart this was yet another lie and she had told her mother so. It was then that Ironmask had struck her on the face with the flat of his hand. No one had ever hit her before, and Elanin had been more shocked than hurt. The force of the blow knocked her to the floor. Ironmask loomed over her. “In my home you will treat your mother with respect,” he said. “Or you will suffer for it.” Then he had left.

Mother had knelt by her, helping her to her feet, and stroking her blond hair. “There, you see,” she said. “You mustn’t make him angry. You must
never
make him angry.” It was then that Elanin saw her mother was frightened.

“He is a horrible man,” she said. “I don’t want to stay here.”

Mother looked suddenly terrified, and swung to see if the comment was overheard. “Don’t speak like that!” she said, her voice breaking. “Promise me you never will again.”

“I won’t promise you. I want my father.”

“Things will get better. Trust me they will. Oh please, Elanin. Just try to be nice to him. He can be charming and wonderful and generous. You’ll see. It is just that he has a . . . terrible temper. There is a war, you see, and he is under a great deal of strain.”

“I hate him,” said Elanin. “He hit me.”

“Listen to me,” said her mother, drawing her in close. “This is not Drenai land. The customs here are different. You must be polite to Shakusan. If not he will hurt you. Or me.” The fear in her mother’s voice reached through Elanin’s anger.

In the days that followed she was careful around Ironmask, avoiding contact where possible, and remaining quiet and softly spoken where not. Before long she began to notice how timid the servants were. They did not joke and laugh as her own servants did back in Purdol. They moved silently, bowing whenever they saw her or her mother. One of the serving girls brought her some breakfast on the fifth day. Elanin saw that the girl—who could have been no more than fifteen—had lost two fingers from her right hand. The stump of one was covered by a badly stitched flap of skin and there was dried blood around it. The girl was quiet and avoided eye contact, so Elanin did not ask her about her injury. The same day she noticed that several of the servants had lost fingers.

That night she was awoken by the sound of screaming coming from far below. Elanin scrambled from her bed and ran in to the room Mother shared with Ironmask. He was not there, and Mother was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and weeping.

“Someone is screaming, Mother!” cried Elanin. Mother had hugged her, and said nothing. Later, when they heard Ironmask approaching, Mother sent Elanin running back to her own room.

She had lain in her bed, dreaming of being rescued. Much as she loved father she knew that Orastes was not strong enough to take her and Mother from Ironmask. He was a wonderful man, but so much of his life was spent in fear. The officers at Dros Purdol bullied him, and treated him with contempt. Even Mother, when she visited, would talk disparagingly of him when others were present. This always hurt him, but he did nothing to stop her. None of this mattered to Elanin, who loved him more than she could express. No, when she dreamed of rescue in those early days, she thought of Uncle Druss. He was the strongest man in the world. Last year, when she and Father visited him on his farm in the mountains, he had straightened a horse shoe for her with his hands. It was like a magic trick, and when she returned to Purdol no one believed her. No one was that strong, she was assured.