White Wolf (28 page)

“Going to war, young Rabalyn?” asked Diagoras. The youngster stood for a moment, looking self-conscious and embarrassed. Then he tried to sit down. The sword scabbard struck the chair, the hilt of the weapon rising and thudding into Rabalyn’s armpit. Adjusting the weapon, he slumped down into the chair, his face reddening.

“Let me see the weapons,” said Druss. Rabalyn drew the knife and laid it on the table. Druss hefted it and examined the blade. It was double-edged, the tip sharply curved like a crescent moon. “Good steel,” said the axman. “And the sword?” Rabalyn pulled it from its scabbard. The hilt was polished wood, the pommel of heavy brass. The blade itself was pitted and scarred. “Gothir infantry. Probably older than me,” said Druss. “But it will serve you well until you can afford better. How did you come by them?”

“Brother Lantern gave me money. I have decided not to stay in the city.”

“Where will you go?” asked Druss.

“I don’t know. Thought I might travel with you.” Rabalyn tried to sound confident and assured, but the effort failed.

“It would not be a wise choice, Rabalyn,” said the axman. “But I leave it to you.”

“Truly?”

“Go and get some rest. We’ll talk more this evening. For now I need to speak with Diagoras.”

“Thank you, Druss. Thank you!” said Rabalyn, happily. Sheathing his weapons he moved away toward the stairs.

“Oh that was nice,” said Diagoras. “Perhaps we should also bring a puppy and a troupe of minstrels.”

“This will soon be a city under siege,” said Druss. “The Naashanites will come. He’ll be no safer here. It could be another Perapolis.”

“That is unlikely,” snapped Diagoras. “They don’t have the Damned with them anymore.”

Druss’s pale eyes narrowed. “You are an intelligent man. You know that nothing that happened in that city could have taken place without the direct orders of the queen.”

“You think him innocent then?”

“Pah! Innocent? Are any of us innocent? I was here twenty-five years ago. I took part in attacks on cities. I killed men who were defending their lands and their loved ones. Warriors are never innocent, laddie. I’m not defending Skilgannon. What took place at Perapolis was evil, and every man who took part in the slaughter put a shadow on his soul. Rabalyn is a fine lad. He’ll be as safe with me as he will be here. He also has courage. I put him in a tree when the Joinings attacked. He climbed down and came to my aid. Given time he will be a fine man.”

Diagoras leaned back in his chair. “From what you have told me Ironmask has seventy men with him. From everything we learned of the man while he was here in Mellicane, he is hard and ruthless. His men likewise. The stronghold in Pelucid contains a hundred more, mostly Nadir. Ferocious fighters, as you know. They also take delight in torturing prisoners. One hundred and seventy enemies, Druss. How much
time
do you think Rabalyn will have, to become this fine man?”

Druss said nothing. Diagoras pushed himself to his feet. “Very well, Druss. I’ll make inquiries about a wagon and purchase some supplies. It will take a couple of days. We’ll need to wait until the situation in the city has calmed down. I’ll see you back here tomorrow evening.”

The young Drenai officer wandered out into the gathering dusk. The air was fresh and cool, a light breeze blowing in from the sea. Several whores were standing at the quayside, ready for the evening trade. Ignoring them he strolled to the edge of the quay and thought of the trip ahead. You could have been going home, he thought. Back to Drenan and a life of idle pleasure. Instead he was to journey into a perilous wilderness. Druss had called him an intelligent man. There was little intelligence involved in this adventure. But it
was
an adventure, and Diagoras had found little excitement in his life these last four years. Skeln Pass had been terrifying, and there was a large part of him that wished he had never been there. On the other hand it had been the most exciting time of his life. The prospect of death had loomed over him like a storm crow, bringing with it the intense knowledge of the sweetness of life. Every breath was joyful, every moment cherished. And when, in the end, they had won, and he had survived, he experienced a surge of elation and exhiliration unparalleled in his young life. Nothing since had even come close to such a feeling.

Just then, from a window above him, he heard a young woman cry out in ecstacy. Well, almost nothing, he thought, with a smile. The smile faded as he realized the woman was probably the lovely Garianne.

“I could make those sounds for you,” said a voice. Diagoras turned. One of the whores, a girl with long dark hair, had moved alongside him. Her face was pretty, though her eyes were tired and dull. “I have a room close by,” she said, giving a practiced smile.

Diagoras took her hand and kissed it. “I am sure you would, my sweet. And I am sure it would be a wonderful experience to treasure. Sadly, though, duty calls. Another time, perhaps.”

Her smile became more natural. “You are very gallant.”

“Only in the presence of beauty,” he said.

In the room above the woman cried out again. Diagoras suddenly chuckled and took the young whore by the arm. “Duty can wait,” he said. “I yearn for a little time in your company.”

“You’ll not regret it,” she promised him.

14

For an hour now Rabalyn had sat on a bench behind the Crimson Stag, watching Druss chop logs. Using a long-handled, single-bladed ax, Druss worked methodically, with an extraordinary economy of effort. There was no wasted movement. Every action was smooth. At no time did the ax blade become stuck in a round of wood. With each stroke the timber split and fell apart. Druss would then tap the chunks to the left, knocking them from the large round he used as a chopping block, and then thunk the ax blade lightly into a fresh round, lifting it to the block. With a flick of his wrist he would free the ax blade, raise it, and bring it down, splitting the new round. It was rhythmic and impressive to see. When the timbers to Druss’s left began to pile up, Rabalyn would leave his seat and carry them to the wood store by the tavern wall, stacking them carefully.

As the first hour ended Druss took a break. He was bare chested, and his body gleamed with sweat. Rabalyn had known strong men back at the village. Usually their bodies were sculpted, the muscles of their chest and belly in sharp relief. Not so with Druss. He was merely huge. His waist was thick, his shoulders bunched with muscle. There was nothing remotely aesthetic about the man. He just radiated power.

“Why are you doing this work?” asked Rabalyn, as the axman took a deep draught of water.

“I don’t like to be idle.”

“Is Shivas paying you?”

“No. I do it for pleasure.”

“I can’t see how chopping wood is pleasurable.”

“It relaxes me, laddie. And it keeps me strong. You’ll hear men talk about skill with sword or knife, ax or club. Most people believe it is that skill which makes a warrior great. It is not. Great warriors are men who know how to survive. And to survive a man needs to be strong. He needs stamina. There are many men out there who are faster than me. More skillful. There are few who can outlast me.” Rabalyn looked at the big man, seeing the old scars on his chest and arms.

“Have you always been a warrior?” he asked.

“Yes. It is my one great weakness,” said Druss, with a rueful grin.

“How can it be weak? That makes no sense.”

“Don’t ever be fooled by appearances, boy. Strong men build for the future: farms, schools, towns, and cities. They raise sons and daughters, and they work hard, day in day out. See that wood there? The tree it came from is around two hundred years old. It started out as a seed, and had to send roots into the hard earth. It struggled to survive—to live long enough to make its first leaf. Slugs and insects ate away at it, squirrels chewed on its soft bark. But it struggled on, making deep roots and a stronger heart. For two hundred years its falling leaves fed the earth. Its branches became the home of many birds. It gave shade to the land beneath it. Then a couple of men with ax and saw brought it down in less than an hour. Those men are like warriors. The tree is like the farmer. You understand?”

“No,” admitted Rabalyn.

Druss laughed. “Ah, well, one day maybe you will.”

Rising from the bench, he began to work again. Rabalyn helped him for another hour.

Skilgannon arrived, and Druss laid down the ax. He still did not seem tired. Skilgannon laid his swords on the ground and stripped off his shirt, exposing the ferocious panther tattoo on his chest. Taking up the ax he lifted a fresh round to the chopping block and split it expertly. Rabalyn sat back, fascinated by the difference in the way the two men worked. Druss was all power and economy. Skilgannon brought a touch of artistry to the labor. Every so often, as the ax swung up, he would twirl it, causing sunlight to flash from the blade. His movements were smooth and supple. Though less strong than Druss, he powered through the work with great speed. Where Druss would split a round, his ax blade occasionally biting into the chopping block below, and needing to be wrenched clear, Skilgannon would strike each blow with just the right amount of force. The rounds would split, the ax blade coming to rest almost gently on the block.

Both men made the work look easy, and yet when Rabalyn tried it, the swinging ax would bury itself into a round and need to be wrestled clear, or else he would miss with his swing, the blade bouncing from the block and jarring his shoulders. “Keep at it, laddie,” said Druss, encouragingly. “It’ll come.”

By the time Rabalyn had succesfully sliced around thirty rounds, his shoulders and arms were burning with fatigue. Druss called a halt and they moved to the well nearby. Druss drew up a bucket of water and drank.

“We should be ready to leave in a day or two,” he told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon donned his shirt and swung his swords to his back. “A man at the tavern told me that there are horses for sale in the northern quarter of the city. He said I should seek out a man named Borondel.”

Druss thought for a moment. “The northern quarter is mostly Naashanite. Will it be safe for you?”

Skilgannon shrugged. “Nowhere is safe. But we do need horses. Diagoras says the Drenai have none to spare.”

“Did you ask Shivas about this Borondel?”

“Yes. He is a horse trader.”

“But you are not convinced. I see it in your eyes, laddie.”

“No. It seems too . . . convenient that a man should seek me out and ask if I’m looking for mounts.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Skilgannon shook his head. “I’ll scout the area. If it is a trap I will seek to avoid it.”

That it was a trap was not in doubt. Skilgannon knew this even as he left the embassy area compound. So why are you going, he asked himself? The man at the tavern had been Naashanite—even though he had tried to disguise his accent. While talking to the man Skilgannon had noted the edge of a tattoo under the long cuffs of his red shirt. He saw enough to know it was the coiled cobra, sported by archers and spearmen of the Coastal Army.

As he walked he glanced to his left and right. Once he caught a glimpse of someone darting between two buildings. The man was wearing a red shirt.

This is foolishness, he told himself. Why walk into danger?

Why not, came the response? Suddenly Skilgannon smiled and his mood lifted. He saw again Malanek, in his training room back at the compound. “You look in a mirror and you think you see yourself. You do not. You see a body inhabited by many men. There is the happy Skilgannon, and the sorrowful. There is the proud, and the fearful. There is the child who was, and the man who is yet to be. This is an important lesson, because, when in danger, you need to know—and more importantly to control—which of these men is in charge at that time. There are moments when a warrior needs to be reckless, and others—far more others—where he needs to be cautious. There are times for acts of great bravery, and times for tactical withdrawals, to regroup and fight another day. Equally there are times when action is needed so swiftly there is little time for thought, and, worse sometimes, where there is too much time for thought. Understand yourself, Olek. Know how to find the right man within, for the right moment.”

“How do I do that?” the fourteen-year-old had asked.

“Firstly you must remove emotion from the arena. Each action is judged on its merits alone, and not from the heart. An example: A man stands before you and challenges you to fight him with your fists. What do you do?”

“I fight him.”

Malanek slapped him on the top of the head. “Will you think?” he demanded. “I have no sand-timer working here. You have time to consider my questions.”

“Is the man alone?”

“Yes.”

“Is he an enemy?”

“Good question. He might be a friend who is angry with you.”

“Then I would try to reason with him.”

“Excellent,” said Malanek. “But he is not a friend.”

“Is he bigger or stronger than I?”

“He is—for the sake of this discussion—the same as you. Young, strong, and confident.”

“Then I fight him. Reluctantly.”

“Yes, you do, for a man cannot remain a man if he refuses a challenge. He becomes lessened in his own eyes, and the eyes of his comrades. The important word here is
reluctantly
. You will fight coolly, using your skill to end the fight as swiftly as possible. Yes?”

“Of course.”

“Now picture this: A man—the same man—has just punched Molaire in the face and knocked her to the ground. He is kicking her as she lays unconscious.”

“I would kill him,” said the youth.

“Now this is what I am talking about, Olek. Who is in charge now? Where is the man who fought coolly and reluctantly, seeking to end the fight as swiftly as possible?”

“If I saw Molaire attacked I would react with anger.”

“Exactly—and this would lessen your effectiveness. Block from your mind all emotion. This will bring you to your true self. When you fight let your body relax, and your mind float clear. Then you will be at your best. I have fought many duels, Olek. Most of the men have lacked my skill. Some of them I managed not to slay. I disarmed them, or wounded them sufficently to end the fight. Others were almost as skilled. These I had to kill. But a few, Olek, were better than me. One was so far better I should not have survived for more than a few heartbeats. These men should have won. They did not. And why? One died for arrogance. So sure was he of his skill he fought complacently. Another died through stupidity. I managed to make him angry. The one who was infinitely better than I died because he feared my reputation. He was already trembling when we touched blades. Emotion has no place in combat, Olek. This is why I will teach you the
Illusion of Elsewhere
. You will learn to float clear.”

As he walked on through the city, Skilgannon began to breathe deeply and easily. No longer irritated, no longer tense, he considered the problem.

The assassins knew where he was staying, and therefore could find him. If he tried to hide from them they would continue to seek him, either in the city or on the open road. Better then to seek them. They would have the advantage of numbers, though they would also be expecting to surprise him. The man in the tavern had given directions to the stables owned by Borondel. Therefore the attack would either take place along the route or at the stables. The most likely place would be at the stables, where, once inside, the murder could be committed out of sight.

This was the strongest possibility, though they could have men stationed along the way. A knifeman, perhaps, or a bowman. Both? Probably. If he himself were planning an assassination—especially that of a known swordsman—he would have at least three units on call. The first would be armed with swords or knives, and would attempt to kill the man as he was on the move through a crowded area. The bowmen would be positioned further back along the route, in case the man escaped the first attempt and ran back the way he had come. The third unit would have been following the victim, some distance back, ready to cut off any line of retreat.

Skilgannon could no longer see the man in the red shirt, and guessed that he had sprinted on ahead to warn the attackers of his arrival.

He strolled on. How many would there be? This was more difficult to estimate. Ten seemed the most likely. Two bowmen, four in the first knife, or sword, attack. Another four following. Emerging from a broad avenue he crossed the road and entered a small park. There were scores of people here, sitting on the grass, or standing near the fountains. They were better dressed than those he had seen in the mob yesterday. Up ahead was a family, a man and a woman, walking with three children. Skilgannon scanned the area. The park was mostly open ground, with little screening of bushes or trees. There was nowhere for a bowman to hide. Added to this the men he could see were dressed in warm-weather clothing, tunics, shirts, and leggings. None carried weapons. Some way into the park Skilgannon paused on an ornate wooden bridge spanning a stream. He glanced back the way he had come. Three men were strolling some distance back. All wore heavy jerkins, beneath which knives could be hidden.

Three behind.

If the organizer of this attempt believed three could stop him fleeing it was possible that no more than three more would be waiting ahead.

According to the directions he had been given, the stables of Borondel were beyond the park exit. There was a long alleyway, he had been told, and this led on to an area of open ground.

Leaving the park he crossed another road, then cut to the left, avoiding the alleyway. Walking on swiftly he ducked down a second side street. Out of sight of the men following, he broke into a run. This second street was full of market stalls, though there were few goods displayed on them. Several contained clothing, but the food stalls were bare. Halfway along the street was a tavern, with tables set outside. Around a dozen men were sitting there, nursing jugs of black beer. Skilgannon moved past them and entered the building. The interior was dark, and no customers were inside. A thin man approached him. “There is no food today, sir,” he said. “We have ale and we have wine. The wine is not high quality.”

“A jug of ale then,” said Skilgannon, moving along the room and sitting by an open window. Moving back his chair to hide himself from view, he sat in the shadowed tavern and watched the sunlit marketplace. Within moments he saw the three followers moving past the stalls. They looked tense and angry. One of them approached the group of men sitting outside the tavern.

Skilgannon rose from his chair and moved swiftly back through the tavern, halting just beyond the doorway.

“What’s it worth?” he heard someone ask.

Skilgannon heard the rasping of metal, and guessed a weapon had been drawn. “You get to keep your eyes, you slug!”

“No need for that,” said the man, his voice suddenly fearful. “He just went inside there.”

Shadows flickered across the entrance. Skilgannon’s stiffened fingers slammed into the first man’s belly. He doubled over, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Before the second could react Skilgannon’s fist cracked against his chin, spinning him from his feet. The third man lunged with his knife. Skilgannon grabbed the knife wrist, stepped inside and hammered a head butt to the man’s nose, shattering it. Half blinded, the assassin dropped his knife and staggered back. Skilgannon followed in with a straight left and a right cross. The man hit the floor and did not move.