White Wolf (36 page)

The Nadir had sent one sentry at the entrance to the oasis. The man was sitting with his back to a tree, head down. Skilgannon knelt in the shadows watching the man for some minutes. The Nadir did not move. He had fallen asleep. Rising from his hiding place, Skilgannon crept forward. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth. The Sword of Night sliced across the Nadir’s throat. Blood spurted. The man jerked once—and died.

Moving through to the center of the campsite, Skilgannon stood for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Awake!” he bellowed. Men rolled from their blankets, scrambling to their feet, eyes bleary with sleep. Skilgannon stepped toward the first. The Sword of Day slashed through his neck, decapitating him. A second man was disemboweled as Skilgannon spun and sent the Sword of Night plunging into his belly. Nadir warriors dove for their weapons. Several grabbed swords and rushed at the newcomer. Skilgannon leapt to meet them, blocking and parrying. The Sword of Night sliced open a man’s jugular, and he fell back into his comrades. Then Skilgannon was among them, swords cutting into flesh and severing bone.

They fell back from his fury. Spinning on his heel, Skilgannon darted back toward where the Nadir had tethered their ponies. A warrior ran to head him off. Skilgannon dove below a ferocious cut, rolled on his shoulder, and came up running. The ponies were in two lines, each line held by a picketing rope. Slicing his blade through the first rope, he spun in time to parry a lunge. His riposte plunged the Sword of Day into the Nadir’s chest. The Nadir ponies whinnied and reared, breaking free. Moving back, Skilgannon slashed his sword through the second picket rope, then pushed himself in among the nervous mounts.

Sheathing one of his swords, he gave a high-pitched wolf howl. This was too much for the ponies. The sudden movement around them and the smell of blood had made them skittish. The bestial howl was enough to send them running. Nadir warriors, still trying to reach Skilgannon, made an effort to block the ponies’ escape. Skilgannon grabbed the mane of one mount as it passed and vaulted to its back. An arrow slashed past his face. Giving another howl, he slapped the flat of his sword against the pony’s rump and galloped through the camp. Two more arrows flashed past him. A third sliced into the pony’s shoulder, making it stagger. It did not go down, but followed the rest of the herd out onto the desert floor.

Skilgannon rode to where his own horse was tethered and jumped down from the pony. Mounting his gelding, he swung round to see Nadir warriors racing from the rocks.

“Come to me tomorrow, my children,” he called. “We will dance again!”

Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode away from the furious Nadir.

He had been lucky, but even so he was disappointed. He had hoped to kill at least seven of the enemy, reducing the odds for tomorrow. Instead he had slain five, maybe six. Several others were wounded, but their cuts could be stitched readily enough. He doubted the wounds would stop them. Riding southeast he came up behind a dozen or so of the Nadir ponies and continued to herd them away from the rocks, forcing them further and further from their riders. Several of them were still saddled, and hanging from the saddles were horn bows and quivers of arrows. Skilgannon rode alongside the mounts, lifting clear the weapons and hooking them over his saddle pommel. Then he left the ponies and set off up the snaking mountain road to where the others would be waiting.

The Nadir had been tough and fast. They had aroused from sleep more like animals than men, instantly alert. This had surprised him. He had hoped to be able to kill more of them as they blundered from sleep to awareness.

Skilgannon rode on, still scanning the land, and planning the next attack.

Only one important question remained. What sort of losses would the Nadir need to suffer before they pulled back from the fight? There were, at most, twenty-two fighting men left. How many would the companions need to kill? Another ten? Fifteen?

He saw Druss and the others waiting on a wide section of the road. Stepping from the saddle he approached the axman.

“You’re bleeding, laddie,” he said.

In the shelter of a concave depression in the cliff face, Diagoras knelt behind the standing Skilgannon, stitching the cut in his lower back. Moonlight shone down on the blue and gold tattoo of the eagle, its flaring wings rising across Skilgannon’s shoulder blades. There were old scars on the young man’s body, some jagged, some clean and straight. There were old puncture wounds from bolts or arrows. Diagoras pulled close the last stitch, knotted it, then sliced his dagger through the twine. Skilgannon thanked him and donned his shirt and sleeveless jerkin.

Diagoras placed the crescent needle and remaining twine in his pouch and sat back, listening as Skilgannon outlined his plan for the morning. He had said little of his fight with the Nadir, merely telling them that he had entered the camp and killed five. He made it sound undramatic, almost casual. Diagoras was impressed. He had not fought the Nadir himself, but he knew men who had. Ferocious and brutal, they were enemies to be feared. Skilgannon asked Druss if he had any idea how many men the Nadir would have to lose before they withdrew. The old warrior shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “If their leader is a bold one we might have to kill them all. If he is not . . . another ten, maybe twelve, dead will convince him to pull back. It is hard to say with Nadir fighters. Their chief back at the fortress may be the kind of man who will kill any survivors who have failed him.”

“Then we must plan to take them all,” said Skilgannon.

Diagoras swallowed back a sarcastic comment and remained silent. He glanced at the others. The twins were listening intently, though the simpleton had a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea what was really going on. Garianne seemed unconcerned at the prospect of defeating twenty Nadir warriors, but then she was a fey creature, and more than a little insane. The boy, Rabalyn, sitting with his back to the far wall, looked frightened but resolute.

Skilgannon outlined his strategy. It sounded, at first, breathtakingly simple, and yet Diagoras, who prided himself on his tactical skills, had not thought of it. Few men would have. Skilgannon called for questions. There were a few from Druss and one from Jared. They were all concerned with timing. Skilgannon glanced at Diagoras, who shook his head.

This was not the time to point out that there was no fallback plan and no line of escape. Which, of course, was the danger with a strategy of such stunning simplicity. It was win or die. No middle ground. No safety factors.

Skilgannon moved to where a water skin had been placed. Hefting it he drank deeply. Then he gestured to Diagoras and walked out on to the road. Diagoras joined him there.

“I thank you for your silence back there,” said Skilgannon.

“It is a good plan.” He gazed down over the sickening drop to the valley floor below, then stepped back. “But you know what General Egel once said of plans?”

“They survive only until the battle starts,” replied Skilgannon.

Diagoras smiled. “You are a student of Drenai history?”

“A student of war,” corrected Skilgannon. “Yes, there is much that could go wrong, and, even if it goes right, we are likely to take losses.”

Diagoras laughed suddenly. Skilgannon eyed him curiously. “What is amusing you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? A mad woman, a simpleton, and an unskilled boy make up half of our fighting force. And here we are talking of what
might
go wrong.” Skilgannon was about to answer, but then he too laughed.

Druss wandered out to join them. “What are you two discussing out here?” he asked.

“The stupidity that comes with war,” said Diagoras.

“Diagoras believes our force is not as good as it might be,” offered Skilgannon.

“That’s true,” said Druss, “but then you can only fight with what you have. I’ve seen Garianne and the twins in action. They’ll not let us down. And the boy has courage. Can’t ask for more than that.”

“This is all true,” said Diagoras, with a grin. “So we’re not worried about them. It’s you. Let’s be honest, Druss, you are a little too old and fat to be of much use to young and powerful warriors like us.”

Druss stepped in and Diagoras was hauled from his feet. Even as he began to struggle he was hoisted above the axman’s head. Druss grabbed his ankle, then swung him upside down. Diagoras found himself hanging head first over a six-hundred-foot drop. Twisting his head, he looked up. Druss was standing, arms outstretched, holding him by his ankles. “Now, now, Druss,” he said, “no need to get angry.”

“Oh, I’m not angry, laddie,” said Druss, amiably. “We old folk have difficulty hearing sometimes, and with you speaking out of your arse I couldn’t catch what you were saying. Now, with your arse where your mouth was, it should be much easier. Speak on.”

“I was telling Skilgannon what a privilege it was to be traveling with a man of your renown.”

Druss stepped back and lowered Diagoras to the rock. The Drenai breathed a sigh of relief, then stood. “I fear you don’t have much of a sense of humor, Old Horse,” he said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” offered Druss. “I laughed so much I nearly dropped you.”

Diagoras was about to say more when he looked into the axman’s face. In the moonlight there was a sheen of sweat upon his brow, and he was breathing heavily. “Are you all right, my friend?” he asked.

“Just tired,” said Druss. “You are heavier than you look.” With that he turned away from the two warriors and walked back to where the others waited. Diagoras saw him kneading his left forearm. Skilgannon moved alongside him.

“What is worrying you?” asked the Naashanite.

“Druss does not seem himself. At Skeln his complexion was ruddy. These last few days he has looked ten years older. His skin is gray.”

“He is an old man,” said Skilgannon. “He may be strong, but he is still a half a century old. Traveling these hills and fighting werebeasts would sap anyone’s strength.”

“You are probably right. No man can fight time. When do we need to get into position?”

“An hour. No more than that.” Druss had stretched himself out on the ledge and appeared to be sleeping. Diagoras and Skilgannon walked further along the road. Here and there were fissures in the rock wall, some shallow, others deep. At one point the road narrowed, then widened. To the left was the sheer red rock face, to the right an awesome drop. Diagoras scanned the area and shivered.

“I have always been nervous about heights,” he said.

“I don’t much like them myself,” said Skilgannon. “But in this situation the terrain is to our advantage. And we need all the advantages we can get.”

“The Nadir are said to be superb horsemen.”

“They will need to be,” observed Skilgannon, grimly.

For some time they discussed the plan, and then, as warriors will, they spoke of gentler days. Diagoras talked of an aunt who ran a brothel. “She was wonderful,” he said. “I liked nothing better as a child than to sneak off into the city and spend a day with her. My family never spoke of her—except my father. He went into the most terrible rage when he discovered I’d been seeing her. I don’t know what annoyed him the most, the fact that she was a whore, or that she was richer than all the rest of the family.”

“Why did she become a whore?” asked Skilgannon. “My guess is that you are from a highborn family.”

“I really don’t know. There was some scandal when she was young. She was sent to Drenan in disgrace, and then ran away. It was before I was born. It was some years later that she appeared. She had wealth then, and she bought a huge house on the outskirts of the city. It was beautiful. She hired architects and gardeners and turned it into a palace. The gardens were a sight to behold. Pools and fountains, and rooms there created from bushes and trees. And she had the most gorgeous girls.” Diagoras sighed. “They came from everywhere, Ventria, Mashrapur, Panthia. There were even two Chiatze girls, dark-eyed and with skin the color of ivory. I tell you that place was like paradise. Sometimes I still dream of it.”

“Does your aunt still own it?”

“No. She died of a fever a few years back. Just after Skeln. Even in death there was a scandal. My aunt’s closest friend was a woman named Magatha. She was Ventrian, and, like my aunt, had been a whore. She killed herself on the same day my aunt died. Sweet Heaven, that caused a ripple in polite society.”

“So, the whorehouse is closed now?”

“Oh no. She left it to me, along with all her wealth. I promoted one of the women there, and she manages it for me.”

“This must please your father.”

Diagoras laughed. “It pleases almost every other man in the community. It is—and I say this with great pride—the best whorehouse in the south.”

Dawn was not far off. “It is time,” said Skilgannon.

17

For Rabalyn the night was spent in a state of panic. He sat quietly as the others discussed the fight that would come tomorrow. His hands were trembling, and he clasped them together tightly, so that Druss would not see he was frightened. The attack by the beasts on the camp had been sudden, and he had reacted well. Druss had praised him for his courage. But now, sitting waiting to be attacked, he found his stomach churning. He saw Diagoras and Skilgannon joking together by the ledge, and then watched as Druss picked up the struggling Drenai officer and dangled him over the edge. These men had no fear.

Rabalyn had no understanding of military tactics, and he had listened to Brother Lantern outline the plan of attack and it seemed so perilous. Yet no one else had pointed this out, and he felt, perhaps, that his own lack of knowledge was preventing him from seeing just what a fine plan it was. So he said nothing.

The Nadir would ride up the mountain road, past where Diagoras and the brothers were hiding in a shallow fissure. Then Brother Lantern and Druss would attack them from the front. He and Garianne would shoot arrows at the riders from the shelter of a stand of boulders above the road. Once Brother Lantern and Druss were engaged, Diagoras and the twins would rush in from behind. Apparently these five fighters would then overpower twenty or so savage tribesmen. It made no sense to Rabalyn. Would the Nadir not ride over the men attacking them on foot? Would they not be trampled to death?

Rabalyn had been afraid to ask these questions.

All he knew now was that this might be his last night alive, and he found himself staring longingly at the beauty of the night sky, wishing that he could sprout wings and fly away from his fears.

Druss had walked back to the rock wall, stretched himself out, and fallen asleep. It was incomprehensible to Rabalyn that a man facing a battle could just sleep. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and the little house back in the village. He would willingly have given ten years of his life to be back at home, worrying about nothing more than a scolding from Old Labbers for not doing his homework. Instead he had a sword belted at his side and a curved bow with a quiver of black-feathered arrows.

Time drifted by, and the fear did not subside. It swelled in his belly, causing the trembling to worsen. Brother Lantern came back with Diagoras, and they woke Druss. The old man sat up and winced. Rabalyn saw him rubbing at his left arm. His face seemed sunken and gray. Then the brothers approached. Once again Nian was holding to the sash at Jared’s belt.

“Are we going to fight now?” asked Nian.

“Soon. But we must be quiet,” answered Jared, patting his brother on the shoulder.

Diagoras and the twins left the company then, walking back down the road and out of sight. Brother Lantern came and knelt beside Rabalyn. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Good,” lied Rabalyn, not wishing to shame himself by admitting his terror. Brother Lantern looked at him closely.

“Follow me. I’ll show you where I want you to shoot from.”

Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady. As he followed Brother Lantern Druss called out to him. “You’ve forgotten the bow, lad.” Blushing with embarrassment, Rabalyn swept up the bow and the quiver and ran to catch Brother Lantern. They walked to the site of a recent landslide. Several huge boulders had fallen across the road. Brother Lantern scrambled up the first, hauling Rabalyn up behind him. “There is good cover here, Rabalyn. Do not show yourself too often. Shoot when you can, then duck back.”

“Where will Garianne be?”

“She’ll be on the ground below you. She is a better shot.” He smiled. “And less likely to send an arrow through one of us. Keep your shafts aimed at the center of the riders.”

“The center. Yes.”

“Are you frightened?”

“No. I am fine.”

“It is not a crime to be frightened, Rabalyn. I am frightened. Diagoras is frightened. Anyone with any intelligence would be frightened. Fear is necessary. It is there to keep us alive, to warn us to avoid danger. The greatest instinct we have is for self-preservation. Every ounce of that instinct is telling us that it would be safer to run than to stay.”

“Then why don’t we run?” asked Rabalyn, with more feeling than he intended.

“Because it would only save us today. Tomorrow the enemy would still be coming, and the terrain would be more suitable for them than for us. So here we stand. Here we fight.”

“We could die here,” said Rabalyn, miserably.

“Yes, we could die. Some of us may anyway. Keep yourself safe here. Do not venture down for any reason. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Is Druss all right?”

Brother Lantern looked away. “I am worried about him. Something is troubling him. I cannot worry about that now. The Nadir will be here soon, and I must ride to meet them.”

“I thought you were going to stand with Druss.”

“I will. Try not to shoot me as I ride back.”

Brother Lantern climbed down the boulders, leaping the last few feet to the ground. Garianne was waiting at the bottom, her crossbow hanging from her belt, a Nadir bow in her hands. Rabalyn heard Brother Lantern speak to her. “Protect Old Uncle,” he said.

Then he was gone. Moments later he rode by them.

The dawn was breaking.

Skilgannon rode back along the rocky road, moving past the fissure in which Diagoras, Jared, and Nian were hidden. As he did so Nian called out. “There’s Skilgannon! Hello!” As he rode on Skilgannon heard Jared telling his brother to keep quiet. Anger flared fleetingly in his heart, and then the dark humor of the situation relaxed him. Diagoras was right. A simpleton, a mad woman, and a frightened boy made up half of Skilgannon’s army. Then there was Druss. Old and weary. Somewhere the old gods were laughing.

He slowed his horse on a steep downward stretch, then halted him where the road widened. Looking down over the edge, he could see the Nadir on a bend of the road far below. There were only nineteen of them. This was a small relief. The men he wounded must have been more badly hurt than he had guessed.

Lifitng the stolen Nadir bow from his saddle horn, he notched an arrow. It was unlikely that he would cause any damage from this range, but he wanted them to know he was there. Drawing back the string, he let fly. The arrow flew straight, but his aim was faulty. It struck the road just ahead of the lead rider. The Nadir drew rein and glanced up just as Skilgannon loosed a second shaft. This also missed. “Good morning, my children,” he called down. Several of the riders drew their own bows, sending black shafts hissing toward him. The elevation made the range too great, the arrows falling short. “You need to come closer,” he shouted. “Come up here.” He sent another arrow hissing through the air. This one sliced through a warrior’s forearm. The Nadir heeled their mounts and galloped toward the sharp bend in the road that would bring them to him.

He waited calmly, another arrow notched. He was getting used to the bow now. It was far more powerful than he had first supposed. As the Nadir rounded the bend he sent a shaft at the lead warrior. The man tried to swerve his mount, but only succeeded in making it rear. The arrow sliced into the pony’s throat and it fell.

Swinging the gelding, Skilgannon rode up the road, the Nadir close behind. Arrows flew by him. Up ahead he could see Druss standing, ax in hand. Then Garianne stepped into sight. She shot an arrow that flew past Skilgannon. Then another. Coming alongside Druss he threw himself from the saddle, slapping the gelding on the rump and sending him running back along the trail. Drawing both swords he turned and ran at the oncoming tribesmen. An arrow tore through the collar of his jerkin, slicing the skin. Druss bellowed a war cry and charged into the Nadir, his ax cleaving through a man’s chest, catapulting him from the saddle. Skilgannon plunged his sword through the belly of another. The Nadir threw aside their bows and grabbed for their swords. Skilgannon cut and thrust. A pony swung into him, hurling him from his feet, but he came up fast. Druss hammered his ax into another warrior. Skilgannon heard loud shouts coming from behind the milling Nadir horsemen and knew that Diagoras and the others had attacked from the rear. The Nadir tried to reform, but the new attack unnerved some of the ponies, which, in trying to escape, came too close to the edge. Four Nadir horsemen plunged over the side. Some of the tribesmen jumped from their saddles and began to fight on foot. Skilgannon killed one with a reverse cut across his throat. A second leapt in. An arrow appeared in his chest and he stopped in his tracks, before dropping to his knees. Three horsemen rode at Druss. Skilgannon saw the old warrior stagger as he waited to meet them. Then he fell to his knees. The riders thundered past him toward Garianne.

She shot the first. Then the other two were on her. One threw himself from his mount. He and Garianne went down together. Skilgannon wanted to go to her aid, but he was himself now being attacked. Blocking wild cuts and slashes from two tribesmen, he backed away—then leapt forward and to the right. The Sword of Day clove through the first Nadir’s breastbone, while the Sword of Night blocked an overhand cut from the second warrior. The first Nadir went down, his hands grabbing at the sword impaling him, trying to drag Skilgannon down with him. Releasing his grip on the hilt, Skilgannon parried a fresh attack from the second man, then killed him with a riposte that opened his throat. Druss had forced himself to his feet and was staggering back toward Garianne.

Skilgannon killed another warrior, then spun to follow the axman. Garianne was lying on the ground. Beside her was the still form of Rabalyn, his tunic covered in blood. Three dead Nadir were close by.

Skilgannon swore, then turned back to the fight.

Only there was no fight.

Diagoras and the brothers were walking toward him, past the bodies of twelve Nadir warriors. There was blood flowing from a cut on Diagoras’s brow. Jared was wounded in the arm. Nian was untouched.

Skilgannon ran back to where Druss was kneeling by the boy. The axman’s face was gray, his eyes sunken. He looked in pain and his breathing was ragged. “Couldn’t . . . get . . . to them,” he said. Skilgannon knelt by Garianne. She had a lump on her temple, but her pulse was strong. Rabalyn had been stabbed in the chest. Sheathing his sword, Skilgannon pulled open Rabalyn’s tunic. The wound was deep, and blood was bubbling from it. Diagoras came alongside.

“Pierced his lung,” he said. “Lets get him out of the sun.”

Jared and Diagoras lifted the boy, while Nian knelt down beside Garianne. Stroking her face, the simpleton called her name. “Is she sleeping?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Skilgannon. “Carry her back into the cave. We’ll wake her then.” But Nian saw his brother move away carrying Rabalyn. He cried out.

“Wait for me, Jared!” his voice panicky. Dropping his sword he ran to Jared and took hold of the sash at his brother’s belt. Skilgannon looked at Druss, who was now sitting on the roadside.

“What happened?” asked Skilgannon.

“Pain . . . in the chest. Like there’s a bull sitting on it. I’ll be all right. Just need to rest awhile.”

“Is there pain in your left arm?”

“Its been cramping lately. I’m feeling better already. Just give me a moment.”

Skilgannon lifted Garianne and carried her back to the shallow cave, laying her down in the shade. Despite the blood still flowing from the cut to his head, Diagoras was working on the wound to the boy’s chest. He and Jared had hauled Rabalyn into a sitting position. The lad was still unconscious, his face ashen gray. Jared was holding him upright.

Skilgannon walked back into the sunlight, retrieving the Sword of Day from the chest of the dead Nadir. Several of the ponies were still standing on the roadside. Two of them carried saddlebags. Skilgannon walked to the ponies, speaking softly. They were still skittish. Searching the saddlebags he found one contained an engraved silver flask. Uncorking it he sniffed the contents. Then he sipped it. It was fiery and hot. A spirit of some kind. He walked back to where Druss still sat. “This might help,” he said, offering the flask. Druss drank deeply.

“Long time since I’ve tasted this,” he said. “It’s called Lyrrd.” He drank again. “I couldn’t get to the boy in time,” he said. “I saw him jump down to help Garianne. He killed the first Nadir. Caught him by surprise. The second stabbed him. I got there too late. Will he live?”

“I don’t know. The wound is a bad one.” Druss winced and groaned. “Pain in the chest is getting worse.”

“It is a heart seizure,” said Skilgannon. “I have seen them before.”

“I
know
what it is!” snapped Druss. “It’s been coming on for weeks. I just didn’t want to accept it.”

“Let me help you into the cave.”

Druss shrugged off Skilgannon’s hand and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll rest awhile,” he said. He took two steps, then staggered. Skilgannon came alongside him. Reluctantly Druss accepted his help and together they entered the cave.

Diagoras approached Skilgannon. “I have sealed the boy’s wound, but he’s still bleeding inside. I don’t have the skill to heal him.”

“Let’s see to you,” said Skilgannon. Blood had drenched Diagoras’s tunic on the right side, and was still flowing from the deep cut on his head.

“It is not so bad,” Diagoras told him. “A little blood goes a long way. Most shallow wounds look worse than they are.”

Skilgannon smiled at him. Diagoras looked suddenly sheepish. “But then I suppose you already knew that, General.”

Diagoras opened his pouch and removed his crescent needle and a length of twine, handing them to Skilgannon. Then he sat down, allowing Skilgannon to examine the cut. “It extends into the hairline. That’s where most of the blood is coming from. I’ll need to shave the area around it.” Diagoras eased his hunting knife from its sheath.

Skilgannon took it. First he sliced away the long dark hair, leaving a stubbled area three inches long and two inches wide. The skin had split here, and there was some swelling. Skilgannon worked on the wound, needing to draw the skin tightly into place. It was not easy.