White Wolf (41 page)

“But you will not live long enough, Boranius. And I will be here, in the flesh, to see your soul torn screaming from your body. Until then, something to remember me by.”

Fire swept across Boranius’s face, searing lips and nose and cheeks. With a strangled cry he fell back.

“A man with a soul as ugly as yours has no right to a second face,” said the Old Woman. “So let us remove the flesh Ustarte gave you.”

When Skilgannon awoke he was alone. He yawned and stretched. His arm brushed against the splintered wood of the bedhead. The bolt had gone—as had Garianne. Rising from the bed he pulled on his leggings and boots, and then his cream-colored shirt and fringed jerkin. Lastly he hooked the ebony scabbard over his shoulder. The dawn was breaking, the land outside the window bathed in gold.

Moving to the door he stepped out into the corridor beyond, making his way back toward the antechamber. He passed a yellow-robed priest and stopped him, asking where he might find the boy, Rabalyn. The shaven-headed priest said nothing, but indicated that Skilgannon should follow him. They moved through a bewildering series of tunnels, down circular stairs, and along corridors, until, at last, they came to a wider hall. At the end of the hall the priest opened a door and gestured for Skilgannon to enter.

Druss was sitting at Rabalyn’s bedside. The lad was asleep. Skilgannon leaned over him. Rabalyn’s face was pale, but he was breathing well. Pulling up a chair, Skilgannon sat alongside the axman.

“He is deeply asleep,” said Druss. “It does my heart good to see him well.”

“He is a fine lad.”

“He is that. Too many shirkers and cowards in this world,” said Druss. “Too many people who live life selfishly and care nothing for their fellows. It grieved me greatly when I thought the boy was dead. Did I tell you that he leapt from a tree and took up my ax to fight a Joining?”

“Only ten or twelve times.”

“That kind of courage is rare. I think this boy will achieve something in his life. Damn, but I hope so.”

“Let us hope he achieves more than we have,” said Skilgannon.

“Amen to that.” The axman glanced at Skilgannon, his piercing gray eyes holding to the sapphire blue gaze of the Naashanite warrior. “So why are you coming with me, laddie?”

“Perhaps I just enjoy your company.”

“Who wouldn’t? Now tell me the truth.”

“Boranius killed my friends. He threatened the life of the woman I love.”

“And what else?”

“Why does there need to be something else? You are going after Boranius because he . . .” Skilgannon struggled to find an adequate description of the horror that had befallen Orastes “. . . because he destroyed your friend. He also killed all who loved me.”

“Aye, they are good enough reasons. I don’t quibble with them. There’s something else, though. Something deeper, I think.”

Skilgannon fell silent. Then he took a deep breath. “Why do you play the simple man, Druss? You are far more subtle and intuitive than you generally show. Very well then. The full truth. He frightens me, Druss. There, it is said. Skilgannon the Damned is afraid.”

“You are not afraid of dying,” said Druss. “I have seen that. So what is it about this . . . this Boranius that causes such terror?”

Quietly Skilgannon told the axman about the mutilations suffered by Sperian and Molaire, the dismemberments and the blindings. “The strongest of men would be unmanned and mewling like a babe under his ministrations, Druss. He would end his life as a wretched, broken, bleeding piece of flesh. Everything in me screams to run away. To leave Boranius to his own fate.”

“Every man has a breaking point. I don’t doubt that,” said Druss. “With luck you’ll get to meet him blade to blade. You are perhaps the best swordsman I ever saw.”

“Boranius is better. Stronger and faster—or at least he was when last we met. He would have killed me, but one of my men threw a spear at him. It did not pierce his armor, but it broke his concentration. Even then he managed to avoid the first death blow.”

“Maybe you should just let me have him, laddie. Snaga will cut him down to size.”

Skilgannon nodded. “Perhaps I will.”

They sat with Rabalyn for a little while, but the boy did not wake. The door opened and Weldi entered, bowing low. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well.” Before they could answer he spoke again, this time to Skilgannon. “The priestess, Ustarte, has requested your presence, sir. Come, I shall take you to her.”

Druss looked up as Skilgannon rose. “I’ll stay awhile with the boy. He might wake.”

Skilgannon reached out his hand. “Thank you, Druss. You know, you would have made a fine father.”

“I doubt that, laddie,” answered Druss, taking the offered hand in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “The most important thing for a father is to be there when his child needs him. I am never anywhere for long.”

Skilgannon followed Weldi to the upper chamber of greenery, where Ustarte was waiting upon the ledge. In the bright morning sunshine Skilgannon could see beyond her beauty, to the weariness and age she carried. The tiniest of fine lines etched her fragile Chiatze features. She smiled at him as he walked out on to the ledge.

“You sent for me, lady?”

“I thought you might like to travel with me, warrior. To the citadel.”

“Now?”

“If you wish.”

“You will travel with us?”

“No. Just you and I, Olek. It will take but a matter of moments.”

Skilgannon was uneasy. “And how are we to do this?”

“Merely sit in the chair there, and relax. I will lead your spirit there.”

Nonplussed he removed his scabbard and sat down, leaning his head back against a cushion. He heard the rustle of her robes, then felt the warmth of her hand upon his brow. Instantly he was asleep.

He rose from the welcoming darkness, toward a bright and shining light. He became aware that someone was holding his hand. For some reason he thought it was Molaire, and he wondered where they were going. Then he recalled that Molaire was dead. Momentary panic touched him as the light neared.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice of Ustarte whispered inside his head. “Do not struggle or you will wake too early. Trust me.”

Suddenly he was above the clouds, and the bright light was that of the sun, shining in a sky of unbelievable blue. Below him were the red mountains through which he had traveled, and a long, winding river that glittered brilliantly as it snaked toward the distant sea. He felt his hand tugged and his spirit soared toward the northwest, away from the rising sun. Far below he saw villages and farming communities, and two small towns, the largest of which had grown up around the crossing point of four major roads. Just beyond this was an ancient fort. A crumbling, rectangular outer wall covered an area of around a mile. Within it were warehouses and tall buildings. At the center of the fortress stood a circular keep, four stories high. A domed wooden roof had been added.

“It was built hundreds of years ago to guard the trade roads,” said Ustarte. “But when the kingdom of Pelucid fell the fortress became derelict for decades. Lately it has been used by robber bands, who control the trade routes. They levy taxes upon the land caravans passing through from the coastal cities. The silks of Gothir, the spices of Namib, gold and silver from the mines to the west. All these fall under the sway of those who control the citadel. Ironmask captured it over a year ago, ostensibly to allow free trade to flow into Tantria.

The citadel loomed closer. “As you can see it is still a formidable castle. It could withstand a besieging enemy for some time. A few willing fighters, however, could enter the outer wall largely unnoticed.”

“What of the Nadir shaman? Would he not see us coming?”

“The Old Woman killed him last night. Burned him alive. He tried to jump to his death to avoid the pain, but she fixed him with a spell of holding. She is like Boranius. She lives to enjoy the suffering of others. Now let us see the inside.”

For some while their spirits flowed through the citadel, and Skilgannon mentally noted the rooms and halls, the corridors and exits. Finally they came to an upper room, small and cramped. “What is here?” he asked, seeing only a shabby bed, and an old wooden closet.

“Here is sadness and pain of the worst kind,” she told him. They passed through the thin door of the closet and Skilgannon saw a small, blond-haired child, sitting against the closet wall. She was hugging her knees and swaying back and forth. “This is the child Druss seeks to rescue.”

Pulling back from the gloom of the closet, they floated within the room beyond. “Look there,” said Ustarte, “by the bed.”

He saw the blackened, rotting fingers, and the insects crawling across them. “Her mother’s fingers,” said Ustarte. “Boranius cut them away before killing the woman. He gave them to the child as playthings.”

“She will never recover from this,” said Skilgannon. “He has destroyed her future.”

“You may be right, but it is best not to be hasty in these judgments. The child has fled in her terror. She needs to be found and comforted
before
the rescue. She needs to know that help is coming. She needs to feel that she is loved.”

“How would that be possible?”

“I can take you to her, Olek.”

“I am not much of a comforter, Ustarte. It would be better if you went.”

“If I did, do you know what she would see? A wolf-woman, with bright golden eyes and sharp claws. She needs someone of her own species, Olek.”

“She knows Druss. Let us go back. You can bring Druss to her.”

“I wish that I could. What you say is true. The mere sight of Druss would lift her. It is not possible. Druss cannot be
reached
in this way. Last night as you all slept I flowed into your dreams. Jared is full of grief, and though warmhearted, could not bring the child what she needs. Druss’s mind is like a castle. He guards his inner privacy with great resolution. When I reached out to communicate I was met by a sudden wall of anger. I retreated instantly. Diagoras would have been my next choice. He is too fearful of me, and what he sees as my kind. He would not have trusted me as you did. At some point he would have panicked and tried to flee. He might even have succeeded, and his soul would have been lost. Then there was Garianne. I would not even try to enter the scream-filled labyrinths of her mind. In there I could have been lost. So there is only you.”

“What must I do?”

“I will take you to her. She will have built a world around herself that is familiar. You must reach her, and find a way through the elaborate—and perhaps dangerous—place she inhabits.”

“Dangerous for her—or for me?”

“For both of you. Do not give her false hope. It will seem helpful at the time, but will make the return impossible. Do not tell her that Orastes is alive. Be honest, but loving with her. That is all I can advise.”

“I am not the man for this task, Ustarte.”

“No, you are not. And you may fail, Olek. But you are the only one I can use.”

“Take me to her,” he said.

S
kilgannon found himself standing before an immense thicket of thorns. He felt disoriented. The sky above shifted and swam with swirling colors, clouds of purple and green, shot with lightning streaks of yellow and crimson. The ground below his feet writhed with long roots, squirming up from the earth like questing snakes.

Moving back from the thorns he sought out firmer ground. Ustarte had told him that the world he now inhabited was entirely the creation of the eight-year-old Elanin. It existed only in the depths of her subconscious. “It is her last defense against the horrors of the real world,” the priestess had said.

“What can I do there?”

“You have no ability to change her world. Everything you do must be consistent with the world she has created. If there is a stream you can drink from it or bathe in it. If there is a lion you can run from it or battle it. I cannot help you there, Olek. If you cannot find her, or you are in danger, merely speak my name and I will draw you clear.”

Moving back from the writhing roots, he stared at the forest of thorns. He felt the weight of his swords upon his back and considered cutting his way through. It seemed the most logical course. Yet, he did not.

Instead he looked around, and saw an area of flat stone. He walked to this and sat down, staring at the thorns. Some of the limbs of the forest were as thick as a man’s thigh, the thorns sprouting from them long and curved like Panthian daggers. He looked more closely. In fact, they
were
daggers.

This was a quandary. The child had created the thorn barrier as a defense. Were he to slash and cut at them he would be attacking her, causing her even more fear. She needed to believe in her strength. Swinging the scabbard from his back, he laid it down on the stone. Then he removed his fringed jerkin and his shirt. Leaving the weapons behind, he carefully picked his way through the writhing roots until he reached the first of the thorn limbs. These too were moving.

“I am a friend, Elanin,” he said, aloud. “I need to speak with you.”

A wind picked up. The thorns swayed and slashed. “I am coming through the thorns,” he said.

With great care he eased himself past the first of the limbs. A thorn dagger slashed across the top of his shoulder, the wound burning like fire. “You are hurting me, Elanin,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “My name is Brother Lantern. I am priest from Skepthia. I mean you no harm.”

Pushing further into the thorns he struggled to stay calm. A dagger sliced across his thigh. Another embedded itself in his forearm. “I have come to help you. Please do not hurt me.”

Gripping the dagger thorn in his arm, he pried it loose and moved on. Pain roared through him, igniting his anger. Fighting to hold it back, he stepped over a low limb. Searing agony shot through his back. Looking down he saw a long dagger thorn protruding from his belly. Panic touched him. This was a death wound. He was about to utter the name of Ustarte when he saw that the deep gouge on his arm had disappeared now. “Please take this thorn from me, Elanin,” he said. “It hurts greatly.”