White Wolf (23 page)

Askelus and Malanek waited silently. At last she glanced up at them. “Well?” she said. “Speak your minds.” Neither man said a word. Jianna’s heart sank. “Am I so terrifying, even to old friends?” she asked. “Come, Malanek, speak.”

The old swordsman sighed, then took a deep breath. “You are rather hard on those who speak their minds, Majesty.”

“Peshel Bar was a traitor. I did not have him killed because he spoke his mind. I had him killed because he tried to turn others against me.”

“Aye, by speaking his mind,” said Malanek. “He thought you were wrong, and he said so to your face. Now no one with any sense will tell you what they really think. They will just mouth the words they think you want to hear. But maybe I’m too old to care. So I
will
answer you, Majesty. I liked Skilgannon. Still do. That man—more than any other—fought to win you this throne. I say leave him alone. Let him be.”

“He murdered Damalon. Have you forgotten that?”

Malanek glanced at Askelus. The tall warrior said nothing. Malanek gave a wry laugh and shook his head. “I had not forgotten, Majesty. Forgive me if I do not grieve for him. I never liked him.”

Jianna rose from her couch, her expression tense, her gray eyes angry. When she spoke, however, her voice was controlled, almost soft. “Skilgannon betrayed me. He left without the permission of the queen. He deserted my army. He stole a priceless artefact. You believe he should escape punishment for those crimes?”

“I have said my piece, Majesty,” said Malanek.

“And what of you, Askelus?” she asked.

“You are the queen, Majesty. Those who obey your orders are loyal, those who do not are traitors. It is simple. Skilgannon did not obey your orders. It is for you to judge him—or forgive him. It is not for me to offer advice. I am merely a soldier.”

“You would kill him if I ordered it?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Would it sadden you?”

“Yes, Majesty. It would sadden me greatly.”

Dismissing both men Jianna saw the councillors who had been waiting, listened to their advice, made judgments, signed royal decrees, then called for Empora, the blind harpist.

He was an old man, but if she closed her eyes and listened to his music, and his soft, singing voice, she could imagine what he must have been in his youth, golden-haired and sweetly handsome. She wished he could be young now, and that she could take him to her bed, and banish for a while all thoughts of the man whose face filled her mind, and whose form walked through her dreams.

Lying back on her couch, the sweet music filling the room, she remembered Skilgannon’s face as she left the house that day to walk to the market. He had been so young then—a few weeks from sixteen. His handsome face was serious, his expression stern. She had wanted to lean in close and plant a kiss on that grim mouth.

Instead she had walked away down the avenue, knowing that his eyes would not leave her until she turned the corner.

Jianna sighed. Tomorrow she would order him killed. Perhaps when he was dead she would stop dreaming of him.

11

It was after midnight when Skilgannon returned to the Crimson Stag. The tavern was almost empty. Druss was still sitting at his table, Diagoras stretched out on the floor beside him, fast asleep. Two Vagrian officers, with braided blond hair, were drinking quietly some distance away, and an old wolfhound was nosing around beneath the empty tables, looking for scraps.

“Hello, laddie,” said Druss, his speech slurring mildly.

Skilgannon looked down at the unconscious Diagoras. “The curse of the young,” said Druss. “Can’t hold their liquor. Damn, but I need some air.” Resting his massive hands on the table he half pushed himself upright, then slumped back to his seat. “On the other hand, it is pleasant sitting here,” he concluded.

“Let me give you a hand,” said Skilgannon. The older man’s pale gaze locked with his own.

“I’ll manage,” muttered Druss, heaving himself upright, and swaying. Easing himself from behind the table, he walked to the front door and out into the night air. Skilgannon followed him. Druss rubbed at his eyes and groaned.

“Are you all right?”

“I am as long as I don’t blink,” replied the axman. “I need something to clear my head.” There was a water trough close by the wharf’s edge. Druss staggered toward it—colliding with one of the Vagrian officers as he was leaving the tavern. The man fell heavily. “Apologies,” muttered Druss, moving past them. The Vagrian pushed himself to his feet and glanced down at his cloak. It was smeared with horse droppings.

He rushed after Druss, swearing at him. The axman turned and raised his hands. “Whoa, there!” he said. “This noise is splitting my head. Speak quietly.”

“Speak quietly?” echoed the Vagrian. “You drunken old Drenai fool.”

“Drunk I may be, laddie—but at least I don’t smell of horse shit. Is that some new Vagrian fashion?”

The officer swore, then punched Druss full in the face with a straight left. The Vagrian was a big man, with wide shoulders, and Skilgannon winced as the blow thudded home. A second punch, a right cross followed it. It never landed. Druss caught the man’s fist, and spun him, hurling the Vagrian into the horse trough. “That should get the stains out,” said Druss. The second Vagrian ran at the old man. Druss blocked the punch, and grabbed the man by his throat and crotch. With one heave he lifted the Vagrian above his head and staggered toward the edge of the wharf.

“Druss!” yelled Skilgannon. “He’s wearing a mailshirt. He might drown.”

The axman hesitated, then lowered the man to the ground. “True,” he said. “And we don’t want to be drowning our allies, do we, laddie.” The first officer had dragged himself from the trough. He was reaching for the hilt of his knife when the skinny form of Shivas, the tavern owner, emerged from the Crimson Stag.

“What is going on here?” he asked. “Are you fighting in my establishment?”

“You couldn’t call it a fight, Shivas,” said Druss, with a smile. “A little gentle horseplay.”

“Well take it elsewhere—or take your business elsewhere. I’ll have no troublemakers at the Crimson Stag. And I make no exceptions. Not even for you, Druss. And what do you expect me to do with that officer sleeping on my floor? If he stays the night he’ll pay lodging like everyone else.”

“Put it on my bill, Shivas,” said Druss.

“Don’t think I won’t,” muttered the tavern owner, casting a malevolent gaze at the four men before returning inside.

The two Vagrians left without a word to Druss. The axman walked over to Skilgannon. “Strange race, the Vagrians,” he said. “They’d fight to the death on the smallest matter of principle. No threat of pain or injury would stop them. Yet the thought of missing out on Shivas’s cooking has them scuttling away like frightened children.”

Skilgannon smiled. “And how is your head?”

“Clearing, laddie. Just what I needed. A little gentle exercise.” Druss yawned and stretched. “
Now
what I need is a little sleep.”

A figure moved from the shadows. Skilgannon saw it was the strange woman, Garianne. “You’re a little late for that meal, lass,” said Druss. “But you are welcome to share my room and I’ll buy you a fine breakfast.”

“We are very tired, Uncle,” she said. “But we cannot sleep yet.” She turned to Skilgannon. “The Old Woman would like to see you both. We can take you to her.”

“I have no wish to see her,” said Skilgannon.

“She said you would say that. She knows the temple you seek. And something else which is very important to you. She told me to tell you this.” She looked at Druss, then half stumbled, righting herself by grabbing the jetty rail. Druss moved in. Garianne took one step and fell. Druss caught her, sweeping her up into his arms. Her head sagged against his chest.

The axman walked back to the Crimson Stag. Skilgannon moved ahead, opening the door. Moving past the snoring Diagoras, Druss carried Garianne to the rear stairs and up to the room he had rented. There were three beds in it. Rabalyn was asleep in the one beneath the window. Druss laid Garianne on a second narrow bed. She groaned, and tried to rise. “Rest, lassie,” said Druss. “The Old Woman can wait for an hour or two.” He stroked the golden hair back from her brow. “Rest. Old Uncle is here. Sleep.” Lifting a blanket he covered her. She smiled and closed her eyes.

Druss sat by the bedside for several minutes, then rose and gestured to Skilgannon to follow him. The two men returned to the tavern dining hall.

“What is wrong with her?” asked Skilgannon.

“She’ll be fine when she’s rested. What do you know of the Old Woman?”

“Too much and too little,” answered Skilgannon. “I have never believed that evil is linked to ugliness. I have known handsome men who are utterly without souls. But the Old Woman is as evil as she is ugly.”

Druss sat silently for a moment. “Aye, I expect that she is. But she also once helped me bring my wife back from the dead.”

“I’ll wager she wanted something from you.”

Druss nodded. “She wanted a demon that had been imprisoned in my ax. I later found out she had plans to transfer it into a sword she was making for Gorben.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“I would have. But the demon was cast from Snaga when I walked in the Void.”

“So, will you go to her?”

“I owe her. I always pay my debts.”

They sat in silence for a while. “How did she bring your wife back from the dead?” asked Skilgannon, at last.

“Another time, laddie. Just thinking of Rowena makes my heart heavy. Tell me, did the Old Woman forge those swords you carry?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Be wary of them. There is more to her work than simple steel. Do you feel them calling to you?”

“No,” said Skilgannon, sharply. “They are just swords.” Druss sat quietly, holding to Skilgannon’s gaze. Finally it was the swordsman who looked away. “Yes, they call to me,” he admitted. “They desire blood. But I can control them. I did so tonight.”

“You are a strong man. It’ll take them time to eat into your soul. It was one of the Old Woman’s swords which drove Gorben mad. The recently deceased Tantrian king had another of them.”

“Are you advising me to be rid of them?” asked Skilgannon.

“You don’t need my advice, laddie. You said it yourself. The Old Woman is evil. Her blades mirror her heart. Did she make a weapon for the Witch Queen?”

“Yes. A knife. Jianna said it gave her discernment.”

“It will give her more than that.” Druss pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to sit in that chair by the fire and doze for a while. Why don’t you go up and get some rest?”

“And deprive you of your bed?”

“I am an old soldier, laddie. I can sleep anywhere. Youngsters like you need pillows and blankets and mattresses. You go and lie down. If you can’t sleep I’ll bring you a goblet of hot milk and tell you a story.”

Skilgannon laughed and felt all tension ease from him. He strode to the stairs and glanced back. “Put a little honey in the milk. And I want the story to have a happy ending.”

“Not all my stories have happy endings,” said Druss, settling down into a deep leather chair. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Skilgannon returned to Druss’s room and stepped inside. Garianne and Rabalyn were still sleeping. Moving to the third bed he stretched himself out. The pillow was soft, the mattress firm.

Within moments he had drifted into a shallow sleep.

He was walking through a shadow-haunted forest, and furtive sounds were coming from the undergrowth. Spinning on his heel, he caught a glimpse of white fur. His hands reached for his swords. . . .

Skilgannon awoke in the predawn and rose from the bed. His eyes felt gritty, and he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Stripping off his shirt, he moved to the rear of the room, where there was a jug of water and an enameled bowl. Filling the bowl he splashed water to his face, then opened a small flap in his belt and removed a folded razor knife. Flipping it open he shaved slowly and carefully. Back home in Naashan he would have had a servant prepare heated towels to lay upon his face. Then the man would rub warm oils into the stubble before shaving him. Here he had no mirror, and shaved slowly by feel. At last satisfied he cleaned and dried the razor, before folding it and returning it to the hidden pouch in his belt.

As dawn broke he saw smoke in the east of the city. Pushing open the window, he leaned out. He could just make out the distant sounds of uproar. He guessed the cause. Food riots among the poor.

Turning away from the window, he saw that Garianne was still sleeping. He gazed down at her face. She looked much younger asleep, no more than a girl. Donning his shirt and jerkin and looping the Swords of Night and Day over his shoulder, he left the room and walked downstairs.

Servants were already busy in the kitchens and Skilgannon smelled fresh-baked bread. Druss was nowhere to be seen. Skilgannon sat at a table by a harbor window and stared out over the sea. He felt a yearning to be aboard a ship, traveling toward distant horizons, to step ashore where no one had ever heard of the Damned. Even as the thought came to him he recognized how stupid it was. You cannot run from what you are.

His thoughts swung to the Old Woman, and he felt the familiar surge of distaste and fear. Jianna had used the hag more and more during the civil war. Several enemies had been slain using demonic spells. It was actions such as these that had led to her being known as the Witch Queen.

Shivas strolled toward him, wiping flour from his hands. “You are too early for breakfast,” he said. “I can get you a drink, though.”

Skilgannon looked up at the wiry tavern owner. “Just some water.”

“I am making some herbal tisane. A local apothecary prepares the ingredients for me. Most refreshing. Chamomile and elderflower I can recognize, but there are other subtle flavors I cannot place. I recommend it.”

Skilgannon accepted the offer. The concoction was delicious, and he felt fresh energy flow through his tired body. Shivas returned. “Now you look better, young man. Good, is it not?”

“Wonderful. Could I have another?”

“You could—if you want to find yourself singing sweet songs and dancing on my table. Trust me, one is enough. I have some smoked fish for breakfast, with a side order of onion bread. Both are delicious. Especially with three eggs, whisked with butter and seasoned with a little pepper.”

Smoke from the riots was now drifting across the water. “You’d think the city would have seen enough bloodshed,” muttered Shivas.

“Starvation brings out the worst in people,” said Skilgannon.

“I suppose it would. I shall fetch you some breakfast.”

After Shivas had gone Skilgannon’s thoughts returned to the Old Woman. If she truly knew the location of the Resurrectionists, he would be foolish to ignore her request. Idly he fondled the locket around his neck. Do you really believe, he asked himself, that Dayan can be returned to life through a fragment of bone and a lock of hair? And supposing that she can, what will you do? Settle down with her on some smallholding and raise sheep? She is . . . was . . . a Naashanite aristocrat, raised in a palace, with a hundred servants to furnish all her needs. Would she live happily on a dirt farm?

Would you?

You were a general. The most powerful man in Naashan. Would you be content as a farmer, a tiller of soil?

Skilgannon drained the last of his tisane.

Shivas returned with his breakfast and Skilgannon ate mechanically, the exquisite flavors wasted on him, as his mood darkened.

Druss wandered in to the tavern and sat opposite him. “Sleep well, laddie?” he asked.

“Well enough,” answered Skilgannon, sharply, feeling his irritation mount.

“Not a morning person, I see.”

“What does that mean?” he snapped.

“Beware of the tone, boy,” said Druss, softly. “I like you. But treat me with disrespect and I’ll bounce you off these walls.”

“You’ll trip over your guts the moment you try,” hissed Skilgannon. Druss’s eyes blazed. Then he saw the empty tankard. Lifting it to his nose he drew in a deep breath.

“Drinking makes you disagreeable, you said. How do narcotics affect you?”

“I don’t take them.”

“You just did. Most men who sip Shivas’s tisanes merely sit around with happy grins on their faces. You, it seems, slide in the opposite direction. I’ll have some water brought out for you. Drink it. We’ll talk when the opiates have worn off.”

Druss left the table and walked into the kitchen. A serving girl brought a jug of water and a large blue cup. Skilgannon drank deeply. A mild headache began at his temples. He saw Druss leave the kitchen and climb the stairs.

Suddenly tired Skilgannon leaned forward, resting his head on his arms.

Colors swirled before his eyes. He found himself staring at the blue cup. Light from the window was gleaming upon its glazed surface. Skilgannon closed his eyes. The bright shimmering blue remained in his mind, swirling like the ocean. His thoughts drifted free, skimming across the blue like a seabird—flowing back to the day when blood and horror tore into his life, changing it forever.

It had begun so well, so innocently. Sashan was holding his hand as they walked in the park at dusk. They had strolled together to the market, and eaten a meal at a riverside tavern. It had been a good day. Spies no longer watched the house, and Skilgannon had begun to believe that his plan had succeeded. The festival was only a week away now, and soon he would take Sashan from the city to seek her destiny among the mountain tribes. This thought was disturbing, and caused his stomach to tighten.