White Wolf (29 page)

Scooping up the fallen knife Skilgannon turned back toward the first man, grabbing him by his long, dark hair and dragging him into the tavern. The tavern keeper, Skilgannon’s jug of ale in his hand, stood by anxiously. “Just put it on the table,” said Skilgannon, pleasantly.

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Probably.”

“Would you do it outside? Dead bodies tend to upset my customers.”

The man Skilgannon had hauled into the tavern was gasping for breath, his face crimson. Skilgannon hauled him by his hair into a sitting position. “Lean forward and breathe slowly,” said the warrior. “And while you are doing that think on this. I am going to ask some questions. I am going to ask each one once only. If you do not answer instantly I shall cut your throat. Say my name!”

Drawing back the man’s head he laid the blade of the knife on to the assassin’s jugular. “Skilgannon,” said the man, between gasps.

“Excellent. Then you know that what I have told you is no idle threat. So, here is the first question. How many are waiting for me at the stable?”

“Six. Don’t kill me.”

“How many bowmen?”

“Two. I have a wife and children . . .”

“Where are the bowmen hidden?”

“In the alley, I think. But I don’t know. Servaj will have positioned them. We were just told to follow and cut off your retreat. I swear it.”

Skilgannon released the man’s hair—then struck him sharply on the back of the neck. The Naashanite slumped forward, unconscious. Skilgannon sliced away the man’s money pouch and opened it. There were a few silver pieces inside. He tossed the pouch to the tavern keeper. “Something for your trouble,” he said.

“Very kind,” said the man, sourly.

Skilgannon rose and walked to the entrance. One of the other assassins was beginning to move. The man groaned. Skilgannon knelt beside him and hit him in the jaw. The moaning ceased. Checking the third man he saw that he was dead, his neck snapped.

The tavern keeper leaned over the body. “Oh, this is pleasant,” he said. “Another corpse.”

“At least he’s not bleeding,” observed Skilgannon.

“Not exactly a silver lining though, is it?” said the man. “Corpses are not considered good business for an eating establishment.”

“Neither is having no food.”

“You have a point. Does he have money in his pouch?”

“If he does it is yours,” said Skilgannon, rising and walking outside. A small crowd had gathered.

“What went on in there?” asked a round-shouldered, balding man.

Ignoring him Skilgannon walked to the end of the street and stood by the corner, scanning the buildings close by. Locating the stable he strolled toward it. The man in the red shirt was in the loft, watching from a hay gate. As soon as he saw Skilgannon approach he ducked back inside. Skilgannon broke into a run, cutting to the left and vaulting the fence around a small corral. As he landed he heard a thunk from behind him. Glancing back he saw a crossbow bolt jutting from a timber. Surging forward he sprinted across the corral, swerving left and right. Another bolt hit the ground and ricocheted past his leg. Then he was at the stable doors. Drawing the Swords of Night and Day, he dived through the open doorway, and rolled to his feet. Three men rushed forward.

And died.

A fourth remained sitting on a bale of hay. He was a thin man, dark-haired and balding, and he wore no weapon. “Good to see you again, General,” he said, affably.

“I know you. You were an infantryman.”

“Indeed so. I have a medal to prove it. The queen gave it to me herself.”

Skilgannon moved across the stable, eyes scanning the empty stalls. Then he paused with his back to a sturdy column. “To use such fools as these against me is most insulting.”

“You are not wrong. Speed, they said. It’s never a good idea. But do they ever listen? Do this, do that, do it now. Makes you wonder how they reach such high positions, doesn’t it? I take it you killed the others?”

“The three who were following? No. Only one. The others will be waking up soon.”

“Ah well, not entirely a bad day then.” Servaj levered himself upright. His saber was hanging from a hook on the wall. Strolling over to it, he drew the blade. “Shall we end this, General?”

“As you wish.” Skilgannon sheathed the Sword of Night. “You are remarkably calm for a man about to die. Is this because of some religious belief?”

“You fought Agasarsis with my sword. This sword here. I watched you. You’re not that good. Come on. Let me give you a lesson.”

Skilgannon smiled, took one step away from the column, then spun and dropped to one knee. The crossbowman hidden in the far stall reared up. Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out. The tiny circular blade sliced into the bowman’s throat just as he loosed his bolt. With a gurgling cry he fell back. The bolt flashed past Skilgannon, burying itself in the calf on Servaj, who swore loudly then dropped his saber. “A poor end to a bad day,” he said. Looking up he shouted: “Rikas, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Servaj,” came a muffled voice.

“Forget about your bow and go home.”

“Why? I can still get him.”

“You can still get yourself killed. Just do as I say. Remove the bolt, loose the string, and come down.” Skilgannon stood ready as a crossbowman descended the loft ladder steps. He was a young man, fair haired and slim. He glanced at his wounded leader, then at Skilgannon. “Just leave, Rikas.”

The young man walked past Skilgannon and left by the rear door.

“Why did you do that?” asked Skilgannon.

“Ah well, there are some tasks which are more onerous than others. To be honest I always liked you, General. And now that I’m dying I don’t feel much like completing my mission.”

“Men don’t usually die from a bolt in the lower leg.”

“They do if the bolt is poisoned.” The man’s speech was beginning to slur and he slumped back to the hay bale. “Damn. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so bloody tragic.” His body arched forward. He groaned, then he pitched to the ground. Skilgannon retrieved the circular throwing blade, cleaned it, and tucked it inside his belt. Then he moved back across the stable and knelt beside the assassin. “May your journey end in light,” he told the dying Servaj.

“I . . . wouldn’t . . . bet on that.”

Reaching down Skilgannon retrieved the man’s fallen saber. “It was a good weapon that day,” he said. Glancing down he saw that Servaj had died. Rising, Skilgannon lifted the scabbard from the hook on the wall and sheathed the saber, hooking the sword belt over his shoulder.

There were four horses in stalls at the rear of the stable. All were thin and undernourished.

Skilgannon saddled them all. Then, mounting a bay gelding, he took up the reins of the other mounts and led them out into the daylight.

As more supplies entered the city the mobs began to disperse. The Datians and their allies proved benevolent rulers, and there were few executions. Some prominent members of the old king’s family were hunted down, and a score of his advisers were held in the city prison for interrogation. For the common folk, life began to return to normal.

Diagoras took the horses Skilgannon had acquired into the Drenai compound, where they were fed grain and rested. “They need more time than we have,” said Diagoras, “but they’ll be in better condition when we leave.”

Skilgannon thanked him, but the officer’s response was cool. It was difficult for Diagoras. There was something about the former Naashanite general that pricked under his skin, leaving him angry and unsettled. Not normally a bitter or resentful man, he found himself uneasy around the Naashanite. What Druss had said about rivalry was partly true, but it was not the main reason for Diagoras’s behavior. He tried to rationalize his feelings, but it was not easy. In company Skilgannon was nonconfrontational and pleasant, and Druss liked him. Yet he was also the mass murderer who had ordered and supervised the slaughter of thousands in Perapolis. Stories of his battle triumphs were legion, as were tales of his ruthlessness in war. It was impossible to reconcile the man with the tales of the man. Diagoras knew that if had met him and been unaware of his past he would have liked him. As it was he could not hold a conversation with Skilgannon without a smoldering anger flaring in him.

“Why do you not like Brother Lantern?” asked Rabalyn, on the afternoon of the third day.

They were taking a break from sword practice on the open ground at the rear of the Crimson Stag. The lad had promise, but his arms needed strengthening. “Is it that obvious?” asked Diagoras.

“I don’t know. It is to me.”

“Then you have a sharp eye, for we have exchanged no angry words.”

“He has been kind to me, and I like him,” said Rabalyn.

“There is no reason, then, why you should not,” Diagoras told him.

“So why don’t you?”

“We’re here for you to learn swordplay, Rabalyn. Not to discuss my likes and dislikes. You are fast, which is good, but you need to think about your balance. Footwork is vital for a swordsman. The weight must shift from back foot to front foot. Come, let me show you why.”

Moving out onto the open ground Diagoras offered his blade. Rabalyn’s sword touched it. “Now attack me,” said the Drenai. Rabalyn moved forward, slashing his sword through the air. Diagoras blocked the cut, stepped inside, and hammered his shoulder into Rabalyn’s chest. The youngster tumbled back and fell heavily. Diagoras helped him up. “Why did you fall?” he asked the lad.

“You shoulder charged me.”

“You fell because your back foot had come forward alongside your front foot. When weight was thrown against you there was nothing to support you. Stand with your feet together.” Rabalyn did so. Extending his arm, Diagoras pushed hard on the youth’s chest. He staggered back. “Now, stand with your left foot pointing forward, knee slightly bent and your back foot at a right angle to the front.”

“What is a right angle?”

“Point your left foot toward me, twist the other foot to the right. That’s it.” Once more Diagoras pushed the youth. This time he hardly moved. “You see. The weight is pushed onto the back foot, so you remain balanced. When you lunge you extend the left foot first. When you move back it is the rear foot. They never cross over.”

“It is very complicated,” complained Rabalyn. “How am I supposed to remember this in a fight?”

“It is not about memory. It is about practicing until it is second nature to you. With luck you’ll develop into a fine swordsman. Of course it would help if you had a better blade.”

“Then this might be of use,” said Skilgannon. Diagoras spun round. He had not heard the man approach, and this unsettled him. The Naashanite walked past Diagoras and offered an infantry saber and scabbard to Rabalyn. “It is a good weapon, well balanced and finely made.”

“Thank you,” said Rabalyn, reaching for it.

“I was just explaining to the lad about the importance of footwork,” said Diagoras. “It would be most helpful if he could see it displayed. Would you object to a practice?” He found himself looking directly into Skilgannon’s sapphire eyes. The warrior held his gaze for a few moments, and Diagoras felt as if the man were reading his soul.

“Not at all, Diagoras,” he said, retrieving the saber from Rabalyn.

“Would you be more comfortable using one of your own blades?” asked Diagoras.

“It would not be safe for you if I did,” said Skilgannon, softly.

They touched blades as Rabalyn sat down on a bench. Then, in a whirl of flashing steel they began to fight. Diagoras was skilled. Eighteen months ago he had won the eastern final of the Silver Sabers at Dros Purdol. His assignment to Mellicane had meant missing the national final in Drenan. He was sure, however, that he would have won it. So it was with great confidence that he took on the Damned. The confidence, he soon realized, was misplaced. Skilgannon’s saber blocked every lunge and cut. Diagoras increased the pace, moving beyond that of a practice. He did not do this consciously. His mind was locked now in combat. Faster and faster they moved. Suddenly Diagoras saw his opportunity and leapt forward. Skilgannon parried, stepped inside, and slammed his shoulder into Diagoras’s chest. The Drenai officer hit the ground hard. He glanced up and saw Rabalyn staring at him, his expression one of shock and fear. Only then did Diagoras come to his senses and realize that he had been trying to kill Skilgannon. He took a deep breath. “You see what I meant about balance, Rabalyn,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “In my excitement I forgot all about footwork.” The youth relaxed.

“I have never seen anything like it,” he said. “You are both so fast. Sometimes I couldn’t even see the swords. They were just blurs.”

Skilgannon reversed the blade, offering the saber hilt to Rabalyn. The young man took it, then grinned at Skilgannon. “It is a wonderful gift. I can’t thank you enough. Where did you get it?”

“From a man who had no need of it. Use it well, Rabalyn.”

Diagoras pushed himself to his feet. “My apologies, Skilgannon,” he said. “I was so carried away by the contest I almost forgot we were merely practicing.”

“No apology is needed,” said Skilgannon. “There was no danger.”

Anger flared in the Drenai, but he swallowed it down. “Even so, the apology stands. I should have known better.”

Skilgannon met his gaze once more, then shrugged. “Then it is accepted. I shall leave you to your practice.”

“Garianne was looking for you,” said Rabalyn. “She is in the tavern with Druss. I think she’s a little bit . . . er, drunk,” he concluded, lamely.

Skilgannon nodded, then strolled away.

“He is very good, isn’t he?” said Rabalyn.

“Yes, he is.”

“You look angry.”

“You mistake embarrassment for anger,” lied Diagoras. “But at least you saw how important it is to retain balance.”

“Oh, I saw that,” said Rabalyn.

In the tavern Skilgannon found Druss sitting alone, and eating a double-sized meal. Two huge slabs of meat pie had been placed on an oversized banquet plate, with a huge portion of roasted vegetables. Skilgannon sat down.

“You could feed an army on that,” he said.

“I was feeling a little peckish,” said Druss. “Chopping logs always gives me an appetite.”