White Wolf (40 page)

He knew she did not hate him for his own sake. Her true target was Ironmask. Nygor was merely an obstacle in her way. It was a thorny problem. If he left Ironmask she would likely leave him alone. However, if he did quit the service of the warrior he would have no wealth, and no way to pursue his dreams. He could not return to the steppes. Ulric’s shaman, Nosta Khan, would have him killed the instant he set foot on Nadir lands.

So he remained—for the moment—trapped between the hammer of her hatred and the anvil of Ironmask’s ambition. Not for much longer, though. Ironmask had hoped to build the Tantrian nation into a force strong enough to oppose the Witch Queen. He had dreamed of leading an army back into Naashan. Those dreams had withered now. They had begun to fail the moment the Old Woman gave the Tantrian king that cursed sword. It had corrupted his mind, filling him with delusions of greatness. Nygor could see now that this had been her intention all along. When Tantria declared war on Datia and Dospilis it served only the Witch Queen. Ironmask had been ruined. Nygor sighed. He should have quit him when the war went bad, and the Datians were at the gates of Mellicane. But Ironmask had escaped with a large portion of Mellicane’s treasury, and that wealth might still serve Nygor—if he could find a way to steal it.

The shaman moved to the next level and revived the spell on the windows there. His right hand was aching now.

He stood at the murder hole and stared out at the stars. In that moment he sighed, as he thought of his bond woman, Raesha. It was not until she was dead that he realized how great an affection he had for her. Ironmask had demanded the death of the Witch Queen, and Nygor had summoned a demon to slay her. Not a great feat. Not even a difficult one. He had used Raesha as a vessel of summoning. This enhanced Nygor’s power. The demon had sped off in search of its prey. All had been well. What they could not know was that the Old Woman had placed powerful ward spells around the queen. Rebuffed, the demon had returned, seeking blood. Raesha’s heart had been torn from her body. Nygor shuddered at the memory.

There were also ward spells around Druss the Axman and his companions. They made it impossible for Nygor to track them. Now the more traditional attempt on Druss’s life had also failed. Nygor had an ill feeling about Druss. It was surely impossible for the aging axman to assault a fortress manned by ferocious warriors. And yet . . . There was something indomitable about the man, a force that was not entirely human.

Nygor climbed the stairs to the circular battlements and added fresh ward spells to both doors. They would last three days, but he would revive them after two.

Returning to the main building, he almost trod on a large black rat, which scurried past him. Nygor cursed, then made his way down to his own rooms.

The black rat vanished into a hole and emerged out onto the battlements. From here it ran along the edge of the crenellated wall and through another hole that brought it onto one of the domed roof timbers. Its sleek black form scuttled along the timber, coming at last to a torn section of tarred felt. The rat began to gnaw at the felt, creating enough of an opening to squirm beneath. Here there were interlocking planks, and several dead rats.

Tugging aside one of the bodies, the rat began to gnaw at the splintered end of one of the joints, its sharp incisors nibbling at edges of the wood, pulling them clear.

Tirelessly it worked, ripping and gnawing, until its heart gave out and it slumped dead beside the timber. Minutes later another black rat appeared. It too began to bite at the wood.

Finally a sliver of light from below pierced the darkness beneath the roof felt. The rat blinked and shook its head.

It sniffed around for a while, confused. Edging back from the light it scurried away.

Jared returned to the antechamber where the others waited. He sank to a chair, ignoring them. Garianne moved to him, putting her arm around him and kissing his cheek. Diagoras scratched at his trident beard and shivered.

“What is wrong with you, laddie?” asked Druss.

“I am fine, Axman. Never better.”

“You look like a man with a scorpion in his boot.”

“Well, that’s a surprise,” said Diagoras. “I am sitting in a mystic temple, which, it transpires, is entirely manned by Joinings. How curious of me to find this unsettling.”

Druss laughed. “They have done us no harm. Far from it.”

“Up to now,” said Diagoras. “They are animals, Druss. They have no souls.”

“I never was much of a debater,” said Druss. “So I won’t argue with you.”

“Please argue!” insisted Diagoras. “I would love to have my mind put at ease.”

“Far too complex a question for a single debate,” said Skilgannon. “If men have souls then it follows that Ironmask has one. His life has been spent torturing and maiming innocent people. I had a friend once who had a dog. When his house caught fire the dog ran up the stairs, through the smoke and flame, and awoke my friend and his family. They all escaped. The door downstairs was open. The dog could have fled to the safety of the street. It did not. So if the dog was heroic and selfless without a soul, and Ironmask is vile and evil with one, then what use is it?”

Druss laughed. “I like that,” he said. “In my view Heaven would be a better place if only dogs dwelt there.”

“They cannot cure him,” said Jared, suddenly. “They can relieve the pressure on his brain. He will be as he once was. They cannot even say for how long. Hours. Days. And he is dying still. Ustarte says he has less than a month.”

“I am sorry, lad,” said Druss.

“You’ll understand, Axman, why we won’t be coming with you to the citadel. I want to spend some time with my brother. We’ll stay here. When the time comes they will have medicines to ease the pain.”

“Ah, it wasn’t your fight anyway, Jared. Don’t concern yourself.”

“We would like to come with you, Uncle,” said Garianne. “We want to see the little girl safe.” Skilgannon saw that Garianne was looking directly at him as she spoke, her gray eyes unflinching. Druss saw it too, and said nothing.

“You desire my company on this journey, I think,” said Skilgannon.

“You must come now,” she said. “You must face Boranius. It is your destiny.”

Skilgannon felt anger stirring in him, but swallowed it down. “The Old Woman does not know my destiny, Garianne. Any more than she knows yours. However, I will travel with you, for my own reasons.”

“Glad to have you, laddie,” put in Druss. “Is there something between the two of you that you’d like to share?” he went on.

Skilgannon shook his head. The door opened and the servant Weldi entered. “I have come to bring you to your rooms,” he said. “You will find clean beds, a little food and water, and a fresh breeze through your windows.”

Later, as Skilgannon lay in his bed staring up at the stars outside his window, the door to the bedroom whispered open, and Garianne entered. She walked to the foot of the bed without a word. In her hand was the crossbow, a single bolt notched.

“You would like to do it now,” he said.

Extending her arm she pointed the weapon at him. “We would like to do it now,” she agreed. With a sharp twang the bolt hammered into the bedhead less than an inch from his skull. She lowered the bow and set it down upon a night stand. “We cannot yet,” she said. “Uncle needs you.”

Lifting her shirt over her head she tossed it to the floor, then slid out of her leggings. Pulling back the sheet she snuggled into bed alongside Skilgannon, her head upon his shoulder. He felt her fingers stroke the side of his face, then her lips sought his.

Boranius sat upon a wicker chair, watching as the Nadir woman bathed the child, Elanin. The little girl was sitting in the copper bathtub, staring ahead, expressionless as the Nadir scrubbed the dirt from her pale skin. There were sores upon her shoulders and back, but she did not flinch when the harsh cloth scraped across them.

“You know who is coming to get you, little princess?” said Boranius. “Old Druss. Uncle Druss. He is coming here for you. We must make you clean and pretty for when he gets here.”

There was no change of expression. Irritation flickered in Boranius. The spectacle would be of little merit if the child did not react. “Slap her,” he ordered the Nadir woman. Her hand cracked against the child’s face. Elanin did not cry out. Her head drooped a little, then she stared ahead again. “Why does she feel no pain?” he asked.

“She is not here,” said the Nadir woman.

“Bring her back then.”

The woman laughed. “I do not know where she is.”

Boranius rose from the chair and left the room in search of Nygor. The little shaman would know what to do with the child. It would be such a waste if she couldn’t scream for Uncle Druss. He strode through the armory, and up to the Roof Hall. Here he found Nygor, sitting in a window seat, scanning some old scrolls. “The child’s mind has snapped,” said Boranius.

“You give her the mother’s fingers to play with,” said Nygor. “What else you expect?”

“I thought it amusing. How can we bring the child back?”

Nygor shrugged. “Opiates, maybe. We’ll find a way when the time comes.”

“The girl is soft like her father. His wife told me he was one of the heroes of Skeln. You saw him, Nygor, blubbing away about his little girl. How could such a man have taken part in the defeat of the Immortals?”

The shaman sighed and put aside his scroll. “I knew a warrior once who tackled a lion with a knife. Yet he was afraid of rats. All men have their fears, their strong points and their weaknesses. Orastes was terrified of the dark. The dungeon was dark. You told him you were going to kill his daughter, cut her into little pieces. The girl was everything to him. He loved her.”

“I have no weaknesses, shaman,” said Boranius, moving to a chair and sitting down.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. You wish to disagree?”

“I need my fingers, Ironmask, so, no, I will not disagree. You are a strong man. Cursed by the stars, though.”

“That is true enough,” said Boranius, with feeling. “I never met a man with such ill luck. Bokram should have won, you know. We did everything right. He panicked in that last battle. Had he not been a coward he would now have ruled all of Naashan. And as for the Tantrian king . . . his stupidity was beyond reason. I wish I had taken longer to kill him.”

“As I recall he screamed for several hours.”

“It should have been days. I warned him not to invade Datia. We weren’t ready. If he had but waited.”

“The Old Woman got to him with that cursed sword. We could not have predicted that. It corrupted his mind.”

Boranius swore. “Why does that hag haunt me? What did I ever do to her?”

“My guess would be that you killed someone she had some use for.”

“Ah, well, it matters not. If the best she can do is to send an old man with an ax, then I see little to fear.”

Nygor’s face darkened. “I feel her presence at all times. She constantly tests my defenses. Do not take her lightly, Ironmask. She has the power to kill us all.”

A cold breeze rippled through the Roof Hall. Two of the lanterns went out. Boranius leapt from his seat. Nygor cried out and sprang toward the open door. It slammed shut in his face.

A hooded, translucent figure appeared in the shadows by the doorway. “So pleasing to be appreciated,” said the Old Woman. Boranius drew a dagger from his belt and threw it across the hall. It passed through the figure and clattered against the wall.

“How did you breach my spells?” asked Nygor, his voice echoing his despair.

“I found another opening, Nadir. Up there in the roof. And now it is time for you to join your friend, Raesha. Burn, little man.” The hooded figure pointed at Nygor. The shaman tried to run to the window, to hurl himself to the stones far below, but a holding spell closed around him. Flames leapt up from his leggings, igniting his shirt. He screamed and screamed. Boranius watched as Nygor’s hair flared away, his scalp and face turning black, the skin bubbling. Still the screams filled the hall. Men began pounding on the door. Finally the screams ended. Nygor’s blackened corpse fell to the floor. It continued to burn, filling the hall with acrid black smoke. At the last there was nothing left upon the floor that was remotely human.

The pounding continued. “Be silent,” said the Old Woman, flicking her hand toward the entrance. The pounding ceased.

“You want to see me burn, whore?” shouted Boranius. “Come then! Work your magic! I spit on you!”

“Oh I shall watch you die, Boranius. I shall take great pleasure in it. First, however, you will do me a service.”

“Never!”

“Oh I think you will. Druss the Legend is coming for you. And with him a man you have not seen for some time. An old friend. What a merry meeting that will be. You remember Skilgannon? How could you not? He cut your face off, as I recall.”

“I’ll kill them both and piss on their corpses.”

The Old Woman’s laughter rang out. “Ah, but I could like you, Boranius. Truly I could. Such a shame we are enemies.”

“We do not need to be.”

“Ah, but we do. I was not always as you see me now. A few centuries ago I was young and men considered me comely. In that heady time of youth I had a child. I left it to be raised by others. I have never been maternal. As time passed I watched over that child, and the children she had. There were not many. Easy to keep track of. At first it was an amusement for me. My gift to the future. The fruit of my loins. Quietly—so quietly—I maneuverd their lives, bringing them a little luck when they needed it. I could not watch them all the time, however. They got old and died. Despite my best efforts the line ran thin. Until there was only one. A girl. Sweet child. She married the Emperor of Naashan after I slipped him a love potion. There was no way he would ever betray her. She then had a daughter. The last of my line. And you, Boranius, killed the mother and hunted the daughter. In your wildest imaginings can you believe I will forgive you?”

“I care nothing for your forgiveness. I’ll kill Skilgannon for the pleasure of it. I’ll kill Druss to avenge the Immortals. If I live long enough I’ll kill Jianna—and rid the world of your get.”