White Wolf (27 page)

Picking up the small piece of parchment, he again scanned the message. “Kill him. Swiftest. Recover Swords.”

He was not happy.

This was not some offending politican, soft, fat, and weak. Nor a merchant unused to violence. This was the Damned.

Servaj had been in the army during the time of the Insurrection. One of the moments he would never forget was when Skilgannon had fought the swordmaster, Agasarsis. As a common soldier Servaj had no intimate knowledge of the reasons for the duel, but gossip among the men claimed that Skilgannon’s closeness to the queen had enraged Prince Baliel. This jealousy came to the fore when Skilgannon was almost killed at the Battle of the Ford. Baliel’s forces had mysteriously drawn back, leaving Skilgannon and his horsemen exposed to an enemy counterattack. Baliel, it was said, maintained he had misinterpreted his battle orders. The queen replaced him as the marshal of the right flank. Enraged and embittered Baliel made it known that he believed Skilgannon had engineered the debacle to discredit him. The bitterness grew during the next few weeks, until finally the legedary swordsman, Agasarsis—a sworn servant of Baliel—found an excuse to challenge Skilgannon.

He was not the first. During the two years of the Insurrection seven others had crossed swords with the Damned. Only one had lived, and he had lost his right arm. But Agasarsis was different. The man had fought sixty duels in his thirty-one years. His skills were legendary and there was much excitement in the camp as the day dawned. There was also unrest. The queen’s army at this time had reached thirty thousand men, and not all could witness the epic confrontation. In the end lots were drawn. Servaj had been offered twenty silver pieces for his pass to the contest, and had refused. Duels like this one were rare indeed, and he had no wish to miss it.

There was rain in the morning, and the ground was soggy and treacherous, but the sun shone brightly by midday. The one thousand men privileged to witness the fight had formed a large circle some two hundred feet in diameter. Skilgannon was the first of the combatants to arrive. Striding through the ranks of the waiting men, he stripped off his battle jerkin and moved effortlessly through a series of exercises to loosen his muscles.

Even then Servaj was a keen student of human behavior. He looked for signs of nervousness in the general, but could detect none. Agasarsis arrived. He was more powerfully built than Skilgannon, and when he stripped off his shirt he looked awesome. Both men sported the crested plume of hair that signified their swordmaster status, but Agasarsis also had a neatly fashioned trident beard, which gave him a more menacing appearance.

He approached Skilgannon and bowed, and then both men continued their exercises, their movements fluid and synchronized, like two dancers, each mirroring the other. A sudden blaring of trumpets announced the arrival of the queen. She wore thigh-length silver chain mail, and knee-length cavalry boots, edged with silver rings. Two men carried a high-backed chair into the circle and she sat upon it, her raven hair gleaming in the sunshine.

Servaj was close enough to hear her words to the fighters.

“Are you determined upon this folly, Agasarsis?”

“I am, my queen.”

“Then let it begin.”

“Might I make a request, Majesty?” said Agasarsis.

“I am in no mood to grant you anything. But speak and I will consider it.”

“My swords are well made, but they hold no enchantment. Skilgannon’s blades, however, are known to be spell enhanced. I request that he uses no unfair advantage against me.”

The queen turned to Skilgannon. “What say you, General?”

“This fight is already folly, Majesty. But in this he is right. I shall use other blades.”

“So be it,” she said. Turning to the nearest soldiers, one of whom was Servaj, she called six of them forward. “Take out your swords,” she ordered them. Once they had done so she gestured to Skilgannon. “Choose one.” He hefted them all, then chose the saber carried by Servaj. “Now you,” snapped the queen, pointing a regal hand at Agasarsis.

“I already have swords, Majesty.”

“Indeed you do. And you have used them so often they are like a part of your body. Your own request was for no unfair advantage. So choose. And do it swiftly, for I am easily bored.”

After Agasarsis had chosen a blade the two men bowed to the queen and moved back toward the center of the circle. She gestured for them to begin.

The duel did not begin swiftly. Both men moved warily around each other, and the first clash of steel seemed more like an extension of the exercises they had undergone before the queen’s arrival. Servaj knew that the duelists were merely accustomising themselves to the feel of the weapons. Neither Skilgannon nor Agasarsis attempted a death strike. They were gauging each other’s strengths and weaknesses. The crowd was silent as the two masters continued to circle each other. Sunlight gleamed on the blades, and each sudden attack would see the swords create a glittering web of brightness around the combatants. The ground below their feet was slick and treacherous, and yet it seemed that they remained in perfect balance. Time passed, the action quickened, and the music of clashing steel increased in tempo. Servaj was transfixed, flicking his gaze between the fighting men. Both exuded confidence. Both expected to win. First blood went to Skilgannon, the tip of his saber scoring a cut to Agasarsis’s shoulder. Almost immediately the champion countered, and blood appeared on Skilgannon’s torso. It seemed to Servaj that the blood was dripping from the fangs of the panther head tattoed upon his chest.

The speed and skill of the fighters was dazzling. Bets had been placed by the soldiers, but no one in the crowd cheered or shouted for their favorite. The watchers were all fighting men, and they knew they were observing a classic encounter. Not a whisker separated the talents of the duelists, and Servaj began to believe they would be fighting all day. He half hoped it would be true. Such a brilliantly balanced contest was rare, and Servaj wanted to savor it for as long as possible.

Yet he knew it could not last. The blades were razor sharp, and they flashed and lunged, parried and countered, within a hair’s breadth of yielding flesh.

They had been fighting for some twenty minutes when Agasarsis stumbled in the mud. Skilgannon’s saber lanced into Agasarsis’s left shoulder as he fell, then slid clear. The champion hit the ground and rolled, coming up in time to block a vicious cut that would have beheaded him. He threw himself at Skilgannon, hammering his shoulder into Skilgannon’s chest, hurling him backward. Both men fell heavily.

At a command from the queen the herald beside her blew a single blast upon his curved horn.

Two soldiers ran forward, bearing towels. The combatants plunged their swords into the earth and took the towels. Agasarsis wiped sweat from his face, then pressed the towel into the deep wound in his left shoulder. Skilgannon approached him. Servaj did not hear what was said, but saw Agasarsis shake his head angrily, and guessed that Skilgannon was inquiring as to whether honor had been satisfied.

After a few moments the queen ordered the horn sounded, and the two fighters took up their swords. Once again they circled. Now the duel entered into its last phase. Servaj found it fascinating. Both men were tired, but he could see desperation in the eyes of Agasarsis. Doubt had entered the champion’s mind, and was leeching away his confidence. To counter this he launched a series of reckless attacks. Skilgannon defended smoothly for a while. When the death blow came it was so sudden that many in the crowd missed it. Agasarsis lunged. Skilgannon met the attack, blocking the lunge and rolling his blade around the saber of Agasarsis. The two men leapt back. Blood suddenly gushed from Agasarsis’s severed jugular. The champion tried to steady himself, but his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees before his killer. Servaj realized then that, even as he parried, Skilgannon had flicked the point of his saber across the throat of his opponent.

Agasarsis pitched face forward to the earth.

Skilgannon dropped his saber and walked back to the queen. He bowed, and Servaj saw that his face was set, his eyes angry. “Agasarsis was the best cavalry commander we had, Majesty,” he said. “This was madness.”

“Indeed it was,” she agreed. “Behold the man responsible.” She gestured to the herald, who sounded the horn twice in succession.

Two of the queen’s trusted bodyguards, Askelus and Malanek, came into sight, leading a bound man. His eyes had been torn out, and his face was a mask of blood. Even so Servaj recognized Prince Baliel. The man was sobbing piteously.

Askelus dragged him out to stand alongside the fallen Agasarsis. The queen rose from her chair and walked out to the center of the circle. “Our war is almost won,” she said, her voice ringing out over the seated men. “And why? Because of your bravery and your loyalty. Jianna does not forget those who serve her faithfully. But this creature,” she cried, pointing to the pitiful Baliel, “put all your courage at risk. My gratitude to my friends is infinite. My enemies will always find that my vengeance is swift and deadly.” Askelus drew his sword and plunged it into the belly of the blinded man. His scream was hideous. Servaj saw Askelus twist the blade, then wrench it clear. Disemboweled, Baliel fell to the ground, and began to writhe in fresh agony. The queen let the sounds go on for a while, then signaled Askelus. The soldier drove his sword through Baliel’s neck. The silence that followed was total. “So die all traitors,” said the queen. Someone began to chant: “Jianna! Jianna!” Servaj saw it was the former swordmaster Malanek. Other men began to follow his lead, but the cheering was not enthusiastic. Jianna raised her hands for silence. “When we have taken Perapolis every man in my army will receive three gold pieces, as a sign of my love and gratitude.”

Now the cheering began in earnest. Servaj shouted in jubilation, along with the others. Three gold coins was a fortune. Even as he cheered, however, he glanced at Skilgannon. The general looked troubled.

Shaking himself from his memories, Servaj returned to the problem at hand. The Damned had been sentenced to death, and it was left to Servaj to determine the manner of his execution.

He had under his command a number of good swordsmen, but none with the skill of Agasarsis. Skilgannon was staying at the Crimson Stag. There would be no opportunity to poison his food.

Servaj thought the problem through. There would need to be an attack on the general. Five, maybe six men. And two men with crossbows, hidden close by. Even this was fraught with risk. He would have to visit the alchemist. If the crossbow bolts were tipped with poison, then even if Skilgannon escaped the ambush he would die later.

How, though, could he ensure Skilgannon came to the place of his execution?

13

Back at the Crimson Stag, Skilgannon was delighted to find that two merchants had vacated a room overlooking the harbor. He paid Shivas an extortionate four silver pieces for two nights, then went upstairs to the room and closed the door. He had not been aware that his need for solitude was so great. Even the muted noise from the tavern below was welcome, for it emphasized that he was alone now. Lifting the Swords of Night and Day from his shoulders he dropped them to the bed, then pushed open the window and gazed out over the ocean.

The visit to the Old Woman had been hard—bringing back memories he preferred to forget. Something in him had died that night, along with Molaire and Sperian. In truth he did not know what it was. Childhood perhaps. Or innocence. Whatever the answer his heart had withered like a flower in the frost.

The planning of the escape from the city had taken days and nights, as each idea he put forward was discussed and dismissed. The Old Woman offered to take them through the gates in the back of a loaded wagon, hidden beneath sacks of grain. Skilgannon disliked this idea. Were he the captain of the Gates he would search all conveyances. They talked of separating, and meeting later in the forests of Delian, but this was too fraught with the possibilities of becoming lost. Eventually they decided on simple deception. The Old Woman fashioned a harness that Jianna wore below a torn and colorless knee-length dress. The leather straps of the harness hung down her back. Lifting Jianna’s left leg, the Old Woman secured a strap to her foot, then bound the ankle tightly to the thigh. Jianna complained of the discomfort. The thigh and calf were then bandaged leaving the knee exposed. With great skill the Old Woman added to the disguise, using small strips of shaved pig skin, and partly congealed blood, which she pasted to the skin of the knee. Skilgannon watched it all, amazed. By the finish the knee looked like a stump covered in weeping, bleeding sores. This deception was repeated on Skilgannon, this time twisting his left arm up between his shoulder blades. She also added, using a mixture of white candle wax and a foul-smelling balm, three long scars to his left cheek and eyebrow. Once she had fashioned an eye patch for him, Skilgannon gazed into a cracked mirror. The face he saw looking back at him seemed to have been raked by the talons of a bear.

Lastly the Old Woman cut away the dyed parts of Jianna’s hair, leaving her with a short, boyish hairstyle.

She allowed them an hour to become used to their acquired deformities. Jianna spent it practicing with a pair of old crutches. Skilgannon merely waited, his crooked and tied arm pulsing painfully.

Finally they set out in the Old Woman’s wagon. She stopped some three hundred paces from the east gate. Already lines of supplicants were queuing there, waiting to be allowed on the two-hour walk to the Maphistan Temple, and the yearly opening of the Chest of Relics. As far as Skilgannon knew there had been no reported miracles for years, but it didn’t stop the diseased and the lame from making the annual trip, to kneel before the bones of the Blessed Dardalion, and the faded gloves of the Revered Lady. The richest of the supplicants were allowed to kiss the hem of the robe said to have been worn by the immortal Silverhand, whose death two thousand years ago had caused a dead tree to bloom into life.

It was almost dusk as Skilgannon leapt down from the wagon, then clumsily helped Jianna. She half fell against him and swore. The Old Woman passed down her crutches. Jianna took them and slowly made her way to join the line. Skilgannon fell in behind her, and waited.

Guards were stopping everyone at the gate and questioning all young women. In the shadows by the gatehouse Skilgannon saw three men standing, watching the crowd intently. He moved alongside Jianna and tapped her arm. “I see them,” she whispered.

“Do you know them?”

“One of them. Keep moving.”

As Skilgannon approached the guards he longed to have his hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not. Head bowed, he shuffled forward with the others. A guard stepped in front of him and looked hard at Jianna. Leaning forward he lifted her skirt, then let it go. “What happened to you?” he asked, sympathetically.

“Wine wagon ran over it,” she said, her voice coarse.

“I don’t think the relics will grow you a new one, lass.”

“I just want it to stop turning green and stinking,” she said. He stepped back, trying to mask an expression of distaste.

“Keep moving then. And may the gods bless you,” he said.

Jianna leaned on her crutches and followed the people in front. As Skilgannon moved to follow he saw Boranius walk from the gatehouse. A terrible rage flared in him, but he fought it down. Now is not the time, he told himself. Gritting his teeth he walked beneath the gate arch and out into the countryside beyond, keeping his eyes fixed on the distant tree line of the forest of Delian.

Laughter from the tavern below jerked him back to the present. Music had started, and men were clapping their hands, establishing a rhythm. Obviously there was some entertainment going on, but Skilgannon had no wish to observe it.

Stripping off his jerkin, shirt, and leggings, he stretched himself out on the bed. Only then did he notice the huge mirror fastened to the ceiling. He stared up at the tattooed figure reflected there, meeting the cold stare of his double’s bright blue eyes. There was no trace of the idealistic youngster who had fled into the forest with the rebel princess. Idly he wondered what he might have become had he not met Sashan. Would he have been more content? Would Greavas, Sperian, and Molaire still be alive? Would Perapolis now be a thriving city, full of happy people?

A great cheer sounded from the tavern below. Then a woman’s voice began to sing, the sound high and clear and beautiful. It was an old ballad about a warrior’s return to his homeland, in search of his first love. Skilgannon listened. The song was overly sentimental, the lyrics maudlin, and yet the woman’s voice imbued it with a sense of splendor that overcame the mawkish sentiments. It seemed to offer fresh insights into love and its power, giving a magnificence to the man’s ultimate life-giving sacrifice.

When the song ended there was a moment of silence, then a thunderous burst of applause.

Skilgannon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

For if love is the ocean, on which sail the brave,
we should welcome the storm winds,
and the wind driven waves.

Even now he did not truly know what love was. Jianna had filled his heart. She still did. Was this the love the poets sang of? Or merely a mixture of desire and adoration? Memories of the times of tranquil harmony with Dayan both lifted his spirit and deepened his sorrow. Was this love? If so it was a different beast entirely to what he felt about Jianna. There were never answers to these questions. He had tormented himself with them every day back at the monastery.

Swinging his legs from the bed, he stood up and walked to the basin stand beside the harbor window. Pouring himself a cup of water, he sipped it, seeking to free his mind of thoughts of the past.

He heard a board creak outside his room and turned. Someone tapped at the door.

Skilgannon felt his irritation mount. The tap was too light to be Druss, who would have hammered upon the frame and called out. It was probably the youth, Rabalyn. Skilgannon hoped he would not again request to travel with him.

Walking to the door he pulled it open.

Garianne was standing there. She was holding a flagon of wine and two empty goblets. Her eyes were bright, her face flushed. As he opened the door she eased past him and walked into the room. Placing the goblets on the bedside table, she filled them with red wine. Lifting one she drank deeply, then wandered to the window.

“I love the sea,” she said. “One day I will board a ship and leave them all behind. They can argue amongst themselves. I will be free of them.”

He stood quietly, watching her. She had removed her jerkin and was wearing a thin, figure-hugging shirt. Her leather leggings were also form fitting, leaving little to the imagination. Skilgannon turned away.

Garianne swung toward him, then brought him a goblet of wine. “I do not drink,” he said.

“I drink to be alone,” she told him, her voice slightly slurred. “It is a wonderful feeling to be alone. No voices. No demands. No shrill screeching and pleading. Just silence.”

“I too like to be alone, Garianne. Now I would like to ask what you want of me, but I know that you do not like questions.”

“Oh I don’t mind questions. Not when it is me. Not when I am alone. When
they
are with me, questions make them all speak at once. I cannot think. Then my head swells with pain. It is uncomfortable. You understand?”

“I cannot say that I do. Who is with you?”

She walked to the bed and slumped down. Wine spilled from the goblets in her hands. Carefully she placed them on the bedside table. “I don’t want to speak of them. I just want to enjoy these moments of peace.”

She pushed herself to her feet, swayed slightly, then began untying the waistband of her leggings. Pushing them down over her hips, she sat back on the bed and struggled to tug them over her ankles. Skilgannon moved across the room and sat down beside her. “You are drunk,” he said. “You do not want to be doing this. Get into bed and sleep it off. I’ll take a walk and leave you to . . . enjoy your privacy.”

Reaching up she curled an arm around his neck. “Don’t go,” she said, softly. “I want to be alone inside my head. But not out here. Here I need to touch, to hold. To be held. Just for a while. Then I will sleep. Then I will be Garianne again, and I will carry them all with me. I am not drunk, Skilgannon. Or at least not much.” Tilting her head she kissed him lightly on the lips. He did not draw away. She kissed him again, more deeply.

The walls he had built during three years of abstinence crumbled away in an instant. The scent of her golden hair, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her skin overwhelmed him.

All cares and regrets vanished. The world shrank, until all that existed for Skilgannon was this one room, and this one woman. The first lovemaking was intense and swift, the second slower, the pleasure extended. The afternoon faded into evening, and then into night. Finally, all passion exhausted he lay back, Garianne’s head on his shoulder, her left leg resting on his thigh. She fell asleep. Skilgannon stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. She murmured, then rolled away from him. Rising silently from the bed, he covered her with a sheet, then dressed. Looping the Swords of Night and Day over his shoulder, he walked from the room.

Earlier late afternoon Diagoras was sitting opposite Druss in the tavern, planning the route to Pelucid and discussing the supplies they would need. One of the difficulties was that Druss did not ride horses. On foot it would take half as long again to make the journey and, logistically, would require the travelers to carry more food. Diagoras patiently explained this to the warrior, who just shrugged and smiled. “When I ride it is painful both for me and the horse. In the saddle I can make a sack of grain look graceful. I walk, laddie.”

It was at that moment that Garianne, who had been sitting quietly with them, her expression serene, put down her wine goblet and walked to the dais on the eastern side of the tavern.

“I think she is going to sing,” said Druss, with a wide smile.

“No one will hear her in here,” replied Diagoras, glancing around at the packed tavern, full of men talking and laughing, or arguing, or pitching dice on several long tables.

“Would you like a small wager?” asked the older warrior.

“No. I always lose when I bet with you.”

Garianne carried a chair onto the dais then stood upon it silently, her arms outstretched toward the rafters. Diagoras gazed at her longingly. The Drenai officer had always been attracted to long-legged women—and Garianne was also strikingly attractive. Several other men noticed her standing there, and nudged their companions. A hush settled on the room.

And Garianne began to sing.

It was one of Diagoras’s favorite ballads, and always brought a lump to his throat. But this girl’s rendition made it heartbreaking. Every man in the tavern sat entranced. As she finished the song she lowered her arms and bowed her head. For a moment there was silence. Then rapturous applause. Garianne moved back to the table, swept up a flagon of wine and two goblets and walked from the room, the applause following her.

“Where is she going?” asked Diagoras.

Druss shrugged and looked uncomfortable. Raising his hand he summoned a serving girl and asked for another flagon of Lentrian Red. “What does she need two goblets for?” continued Diagoras.

“She’s an unusual lass,” said Druss. “I like her.”

“I like her too. But why don’t you answer my questions?”

“Because I don’t care to, laddie. Her life is for her to live, as she sees fit.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. And now I’m getting confused.” Realization dawned. “Oh,” he said. “I see. She has an assignation. Lucky man.” Then his mood darkened as he guessed the identity of said lucky man. He swore softly. “Tell me she is not seeking Skilgannon,” he said.

“Don’t let it irritate you,” Druss told him. “If it had been you up in that room, and him down here, she’d have gone to you. It’s not about the man. If neither of you had been here, she’d have picked someone from the tavern.”

“You?” asked Diagoras.

“No,” answered Druss, with a wry chuckle. “Damn it, laddie, my boots are older than her. And she’s not so drunk that she’d want someone old and ugly. Now what were you saying about supplies?”

Diagoras took a deep breath and tried—without success—to force Garianne from his mind. “What about a wagon? A two-wheeler. It would travel fast. You could drive it.”

“Aye. A wagon sounds fine,” agreed the axman.

Diagoras was about to speak when he glanced beyond Druss, and grinned. “Look what we have here, my friend. A new warrior joins the throng.” The axman swung in his chair. The youth Rabalyn was moving across the tavern floor toward them. He was wearing a new green tunic of thick wool, and buckskin leggings. Shining leather strips had been added to the shoulders of the tunic. By his side hung a bone-handled hunting knife and an old short sword in a ragged leather scabbard.