White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER NINE

SKILGANNON ORGANIZED THE EIGHTY OR SO REFUGEES INTO A TIGHT column, which moved slowly through the reeds. He took point and moved ahead of the column, while Druss and Garianne walked at either side of the centre. The two brothers brought up the rear. Other surviving fighters kept to the outsides of the column, and walked warily, swords and knives at the ready.

There was only one moment of anxiety during the morning, when an old bull pushed its head through the reeds, causing children to scream and scatter. Other than this they passed through the countryside without incident.

For a time Rabalyn walked with Braygan at the centre, then he dropped back to where the brothers travelled. They were an odd pair, he thought, noting how the bearded Nian constantly held on to the blue sash at Jared’s waist. Druss had said they were fighting men, and Rabalyn believed it, despite their odd appearance.

Towards afternoon the column halted at the base of a low hill. There was a stream close by, and many of the women gathered water and prepared their meagre rations. Druss had wandered off with Skilgannon, and the strange girl was sitting alone on the hillside, staring out towards the northwest.

Rabalyn hunkered down with the brothers. ‘Have you known Druss long?’ he asked.

‘A long time,’ said Nian. ‘More than a year. Chop chop. That’s Old Uncle. Then they all ran away.’

‘Who ran away?’

‘All the bad men. We killed some too, didn’t we, Jared?’

‘Aye, we did.’

‘And Garianne shot their leader through the head. Right through the head. He looked really silly. He tried to pull it out. Then he was dead. It was funny.’

The story made no sense to Rabalyn. He gave Jared a quizzical glance.

‘We were paid to guard a village,’ said Jared. ‘About a dozen of us. We were informed there were some twenty bandits. But it was a far bigger group, around sixty men, half of them Nadir outcasts. Vicious bastards.

They attacked just before dusk. We should have been overrun. No question about it.’

‘Chop chop,’ said Nian happily.

‘Druss just charged into the middle of them, his axe cleaving left and right. You’d have thought they’d have borne him down with weight of numbers. Nian and me rushed in. So did some of the others — and some of the villagers, armed with scythes and sticks. Garianne was coming down with the sickness then, but she staggered out and sent a bolt straight through the forehead of the outlaw leader. That finally broke them. At the end there wasn’t a scratch on Druss. Knives and swords had bounced off his gauntlets and his shoulder guards — even his helm. But nothing had touched him. Amazing,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘He was covered in blood. None of it his.’ Jared shook his head at the memory of it. ‘Thing is, in a fight, he’s always moving, never still. Always attacking. Having seen that I now know what happened at Skein.’

‘Skein?’ queried Rabalyn. ‘But we lost at Skein.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I don’t understand. How could we lose with Druss on our side?’

Jared laughed. ‘Are you mocking me, boy?’

‘No, sir. Brother Lantern told me Druss was at Skein, with the Immortals.’

‘I think you misheard, lad. Druss was with the Immortals once. At Skein he fought with the Drenai. It was Druss who broke the last charge and turned the battle. He broke the Immortals, by God. That’s not just a man we’re talking about. That’s Druss the Legend.’

‘Does that mean he’s our enemy?’ asked Rabalyn, concerned.

Jared shrugged. ‘Not mine. Neither Nian nor me would be here had it not been for Druss. And I certainly don’t want him for an enemy. I’m pretty good with this longsword, son. I’d fancy myself against just about anyone. Not against Druss, though. Nor that Skilgannon either, come to that. How did you come to be travelling with him, Rabalyn?’

Rabalyn told them the story of the riot at the church, and of how Brother Lantern had quelled it.

‘There’s no accounting for people,’ said Jared. ‘Who would have thought it? The Damned became a priest. There’s always something to surprise you in this life.’ Beside him Nian began to moan. Rabalyn glanced at the man. His face was grey, and sweat was gleaming on his skin.

‘Hurts, Jared,’ he whimpered. ‘Hurts bad.’

‘Lie down. Come on, just lie down for a while.’ He swung to Rabalyn.

‘Get some water.’

Rabalyn ran off and borrowed a small bucket from a family. He filled it at the stream, then made his way back to the twins. Jared dipped a cloth in the water and began to bathe his brother’s head. Then he opened a pouch at his side, took a pinch of pale grey powder, and sprinkled it into Nian’s mouth. Drenching the cloth, he squeezed drops of water onto Nian’s lips. After a while the groaning ceased and the man slept.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘He’s dying,’ said Jared. ‘Go tell Skilgannon we’ll have to wait here at least another hour.’

People had begun to gather around the unconscious Nian. Some women from the column enquired what was wrong, but Jared waved them away.

Garianne came over and sat beside Nian, gently stroking his cheek.

Rabalyn hesitated for a moment, watching her, but then he stood and walked away, up the hillside to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking.

The older warrior looked round as Rabalyn approached, and smiled at him. ‘Is it Nian? Don’t look so downcast, boy. He’ll come round.’

‘Jared says he’s dying.’

‘Aye, but not today.’

‘What is wrong with him?’

‘There is a sickness in his head,’ said Druss. ‘A surgeon told Jared there’s a cancer growing there. It is destroying Nian’s mind.’

‘Couldn’t they give him medicine, or something?’

‘That’s why they’re heading for Mellicane. There’s said to be a healer there.’

Rabalyn turned to Skilgannon. ‘Jared says we have to wait until Nian wakes up.’

‘Aye. He’ll sleep for an hour — maybe two,’ added Druss.

‘It will be dusk by then,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I have no idea how far the beasts have moved, or whether they’ll come back after nightfall.’

‘I was thinking that myself. We’re no more than two hours from Mellicane now. Give him an hour. If he hasn’t woken I’ll carry him. The boy can take my axe and walk beside me.’

Skilgannon offered no objection. ‘I’m going to make a sweep to the north and see how the land lies,’ he said. ‘If I am not back in an hour then lead them on towards the city. I’ll meet you on the way.’

With that he loped off down the hillside. Rabalyn watched him go.

‘What if there are any beasts out there?’ he asked Druss.

‘Well, Rabalyn, he’ll either kill them or die.’

As he approached the trees around a half-mile from the base of the hill Skilgannon slowed. The short run had warmed and loosened his muscles, but he had no wish to race headlong into a pack of the beasts. His eyes felt gritty, his body weary. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had last slept, and the previous night had been long and bloody.

The attacks by the beasts had been sustained and cunning. The creatures had darted in from different directions, as if operating to a plan.

Several times during the night he had seen the colossal grey one he had first spotted emerging from the reeds the previous afternoon. It seemed to Skilgannon that this one beast was directing the others. After a while he had watched for it. If he glimpsed it to the south of the circle, then it would be from that direction the next attack would come.

Looking back on the night of terror Skilgannon realized that the beasts had not set out to kill all of the refugees. They had been hunting food, and once they had gathered enough bodies they had withdrawn. Like a wolf pack.

He pushed on into the trees, and climbed towards a hilltop, scanning the ground as he moved. There were many deep paw prints, but all were heading away from the city. At the top of the hill were several tall oaks. He climbed one of them and scanned the land. To the far north he could just make out the spires of Mellicane, and the tents of the besieging armies of Datia and Dospilis. Out towards the east he saw riders. There was no sign of Joinings. A great weariness settled over him, and he wedged himself against two thick branches, rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

He was walking through a moonlit forest. The White Wolf was near.

He could hear its stealthy movements in the undergrowth. Skilgannon’s heart was beating fast. He clenched his fists to avoid reaching for his swords. A low snarl came from behind him. Spinning on his heel he swung to face the threat.

There was nothing there. Then he saw that — once again — he had unconsciously drawn the Swords of Night and Day, the blades glittering in the moonlight. Casting them from him he cried out: ‘Where are you?’

Then he awoke.

The sun had scarcely moved in the sky. He had not slept for more than a few minutes. Even so he felt refreshed, and considered rejoining the refugees. But it was peaceful here, high in the tree, and he realized how much he had missed his own company. There was a time he had enjoyed having people close by; the days when Greavas, Sperian, and Molaire had cared for him, when Malanek had taught him the dance of blades. Long painful years had flowed by since then. The days of Bokram and the terror.

The days of Jianna.

The horror had been ahead of him on the morning he set off to find Greavas. The sun had shone bright in a clear, cloudless sky, and the strength and arrogance of youth had filled him with confidence.

Skilgannon, at sixteen, had begun the day by walking to the Royal Park.

During the stroll through the lanes and shops of the city centre he had taken time to pause at the stalls and — while appearing to study merchandise — had identified the men following him. There were two, one tall, lean and sandy-haired, the other shorter, with a long, dark moustache that overran his chin. Skilgannon, upon reaching the park, had stretched his muscles and begun to run. The paths through the park were beautifully paved with white stone, angling through flower beds, and past artificial lakes and statue gardens. Many people were strolling, or sitting on the stone benches. Some had even spread blankets and were picnicking.

Skilgannon continued on at an even lope. As the path bent he had glanced back to see the two men toiling after him. There was no sense of danger. It was like an adventure for the young man. He took them through four miles of slow jogging, and then steadily increased the pace. At the last he came almost full circle, back to the marble gymnasium and bathhouse set beside the western gates of the park. Here he slowed and finally sat upon a wide bench. The two followers, sweat-drenched and weary, stumbled to where he sat.

‘Good morning,’ said Skilgannon.

The man with the drooping moustache nodded at him. The taller man forced a smile.

‘A hot day for a run,’ said the youth. ‘Are you in training?’

‘Always,’ said the sandy-haired man.

‘I am Olek Skilgannon.’ Rising, he offered his hand.

‘Morcha. This is Casensis.’ Both men seemed uneasy. Skilgannon guessed they had been told to follow at a distance and not be seen.

‘I am about to enjoy a bath and a massage,’ Skilgannon told them.

‘Nothing like it after a warming run.’

‘We’re not members,’ said the burly Casensis, his eyes narrowing. ‘These places are for the rich.’

‘And for the sons of soldiers who have served the nation,’ said Skilgannon smoothly. ‘My father was given honorary membership, which has passed to me. I am also allowed to bring guests. Will you join me?’

He led the surprised men inside. The marble hallway was cool and scented. Skilgannon signed the register and the three men were led through to a cedar-panelled changing room, where they were given soft white robes and towels. Then, having stripped off their clothing and donned their robes, they made their way through two archways and into a huge area with a vaulted ceiling. Enormous windows had been set into the walls, many with stained glass. Trees were growing here, and hot water gushed over rocks to fill a series of artificial pools that had been created on different levels. Rose petals floated on the water, and the air was rich with scent. Only two of the pools were being used. Skilgannon laid his robe and towels on a stone bench and walked down the marble steps, wading into the upper pool, close to the gushing water. Stretching out, he floated on the surface, closing his eyes. The two spies followed him.

Skilgannon swam across the centre of the pool, away from the waterfall, and sat back with his arms on the stone lip. The sandy-haired Morcha swam to join him, while Casensis waded across. Two serving women, bare-breasted but wearing long, clinging skirts, moved from the shadows bearing goblets of cold spring water. Both women had the traditional dyed yellow hair, streaked with red at the temples, that marked them as pleasure servants. They also sported gold torques upon their necks, signifying they were several ranks above the cheaper whores who worked the streets and the marketplaces.

Casensis stared up at them, unable to tear his gaze from their naked breasts. One of them smiled at him. Then they moved away.

‘Are they free also?’ asked Casensis.

‘For massage, yes,’ said Skilgannon. ‘All other services are negotiable.’

‘What do they charge?’

‘Ten silver pieces.’

That’s three months’ wages!’ said Casensis, outraged.

‘And for what do you earn these wages?’ Skilgannon asked.

‘We are soldiers of the King,’ said Morcha swiftly.

‘Ah, I see why you were running today. It is important to stay strong and able. I too am hoping to join the King’s army soon.’

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the cool drinks and the warm water. Morcha turned towards Skilgannon. ‘This has been good of you, sir.

It will be something to remember.’

‘My pleasure, my friend. But you must enjoy a massage before you go.

The girls here are highly skilled. They will soothe away all aches and pains, and you will doze and dream beautiful dreams. It is my favourite part of the day. Then perhaps you will join me for a meal in the dining area.’

‘That is most kind of you,’ said Morcha.

With the bath finished the three men climbed out. Immediately blonde women moved forward, leading each of them into a separate candlelit room.

Once Skilgannon was clear of the men he thanked the girl and declined a massage. ‘I shall leave a handsome tip for you,’ he told the surprised masseuse. ‘When my friends have been suitably relaxed tell them I was called away, but that I have arranged for them to dine at my expense.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

He dressed swiftly in the changing room and then left the building.

Leaving the park, he moved quickly through the streets, pausing once more at shops and stalls, just in case there were other followers. Satisfied at last that he was alone, Skilgannon followed the directions Sperian had given and headed into the north of the city.

The house he was seeking was new, built on the outskirts, and close to an army barracks. It was a small three-roomed property, with a roof of roughcast red tiles. There were some twenty similar buildings constructed for the wives and children of workers at the barracks: cooks, carpenters and blacksmiths. Sperian had described the house, saying that a bougainvillaea bush was growing on the western wall alongside the front door. There was something about the location that spoke of Greavas. Only a man with his keen sense of irony would hide the most wanted pair in the capital within a stone’s throw of one of the largest barracks. And yet even as the thought occurred Skilgannon realized there was also great intelligence in the decision. All the buildings in the city’s richest quarter had been searched, as well as outlying estates. No-one would dream of seeking the Empress and her daughter in a hastily built dwelling so close to a centre for the new King’s loyal troops.

Skilgannon tapped at the door, but there was no reply. Moving around to the back of the house he tried the small gate leading to the tiny patch of garden. This was locked. Glancing round to see if he was observed from any of the other houses, Skilgannon scaled the wall and leapt down into the garden.

As he landed he caught a glimpse of movement to his left. Something flashed for his head. Ducking, he hurled himself to his right, landed on his shoulder and rolled to his feet. Even as he came upright a sandal-shod foot thudded against his temple. He rolled with the blow, throwing up his arm to prevent a second high kick exploding against his head. His assailant was blonde and female, her dyed hair streaked red at the temples. She launched another attack, her left hand slashing towards his face. Grabbing her wrist he twisted it savagely, trying to turn her. Instead of resisting she threw herself forward, aiming a head butt at his face. It thudded painfully against his collar bone. Angry now, he threw her to the ground. She rolled expertly to her feet and advanced on him again, her pretty face masked by fury, her eyes narrowed.

‘Enough! Enough!’ yelled Greavas, running from the doorway, and grabbing the girl by the waist. ‘This is a friend — though a stupid one.

What are you doing here?’ he demanded of Skilgannon.

‘Not a subject I think we should discuss in the presence of a whore,’ he snapped.

‘A whore you cannot afford,’ she responded. ‘And if you could you still wouldn’t be man enough.’

The venom in her voice stunned him. Never had a pleasure girl spoken so to him. Always they were deferential, never making eye contact. Added to which this girl had used moves that Malanek had taught him. Unheard of for a woman. Skilgannon looked more closely at her, then back at Greavas. A middle-aged woman appeared in the rear doorway, her eyes fearful. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Everything is fine,’ said Greavas. ‘Unless of course you were followed here,’ he added, swinging to Skilgannon. ‘Then we are all dead.’

‘I was not followed — though two men were assigned to the task. I left them at the bathhouse.’

‘Let us hope there were no others.’

‘There were no others,’ said Skilgannon, his temper flaring. ‘I came to warn you not to return to the house. Boranius is seeking you.’

‘No more than I expected. I had not intended to return. If that is all you have to tell me, Olek, then you had best leave now.’

‘I thought you would need help.’

‘Aye, I do need help,’ said Greavas. ‘But this is not a boy’s game. This is not some schoolboy adventure. The stakes here are high. Torture and death await failure.’

Skilgannon said nothing for a moment, calming himself. He looked again at the yellow-haired girl he had taken for a prostitute, then back at the fearful woman in the doorway. ‘The disguise is a good one,’ he said. ‘It still leaves you with the problem of smuggling a mother and her daughter from the city, when soldiers have been given your description.’

‘I intend to cut my hair and dye it black,’ said Greavas, ‘but you are right. They are searching for a woman and her young daughter. Nothing I can do about that.’

‘Of course there is. You can separate them. As a whore the princess can travel anywhere without suspicion. Without her daughter the Empress can travel as your wife.’

‘All the gates are guarded,’ replied Greavas, ‘and there are faithless former retainers stationed at all of them, ready to betray the royal family for gold. There is no escape, Olek. Not yet.’

‘They should still separate,’ said Skilgannon. ‘And I do have a plan.’

‘ This I would love to hear,’ said the princess.

Ignoring the contempt in her voice he pressed on. ‘If I get back to the bathhouse swiftly the men who followed me will still be there. I shall do as I proposed and buy them a meal. If the princess is outside the bathhouse in three hours, and approaches me as a whore, they will see her. They will also see me engage her services and take her home. They will make their report. Olek Skilgannon is not linked with traitors. He is more interested in playing with whores. She will be invisible to them — well, invisible as a princess, anyway.’

Greavas sat down at a small wooden table and rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘It is a good plan,’ said the princess. ‘I like it.’

‘It has dangers,’ Greavas told her. ‘First you must get to the bathhouse.

The road there is packed with men. You will be accosted all the way.

Secondly there are already whores at the bathhouse. They will defend their territory — harshly. They will want no strangers coming in and stealing their trade. Thirdly you do not sound like a whore. Your voice is refined.

And lastly you might still be recognized, despite the disguise, and that will lead to your capture and death, and the death of Olek.’

‘The alternative is to sit in this appalling closet of a house until we are discovered, or we die of boredom,’ said the princess. ‘And do not concern yourself about my refined speech. I spent enough time with my father’s soldiers to know how to speak roughly. And Malanek trained me well enough. I can deal with angry whores. I assure you of that.’

Greavas looked uncertain, but he nodded. ‘Very well. Olek, you get back as swiftly as you can. And may the Source watch over you both. I will get a message to you when it is safe to move. Go now.’

Skilgannon sped back to the bathhouse. Less than an hour had passed, but he was still worried that Morcha and Casensis might have left. He located the girl he had spoken to and asked her if she had passed on his message. She said she had not, for they were still in the booths with the body maidens. Relieved, Skilgannon thanked her and settled down to wait.

Morcha emerged first, arm in arm with a buxom blonde girl. Leaning down he kissed her cheek. She smiled at him and walked away.

‘By the Source,’ said Morcha, ‘this is a day I shall remember fondly.’ He sat down and leaned back against the wall, fingering the thick, soft cloth of his robe. ‘How the rich live,’ he said.

‘I am ashamed to say I had not considered it,’ said Skilgannon, with sincerity.

‘Not your fault you are rich, lad. Gods, I don’t blame you for it.’

Casensis emerged from another booth. The girl curtsied to him, but did not smile as she left. He wandered out, looking sour and unhappy, and asked Morcha if he had bedded his girl. ‘Indeed I did,’ said Morcha happily. ‘And she did not charge me.’

Casensis swore. ‘Knew I should have chosen her,’ he said.

‘Some men have no luck,’ said Morcha, with a wink at Skilgannon.

‘Join me for a meal,’ Skilgannon offered. Both men accepted and, once they had donned their clothes, he led them up the stairs to the dining hall.

An hour later, having devoured several roast pheasants in a berry sauce, plus consuming a tankard of fine wine, the two soldiers were in good spirits. Even Casensis had a smile on his surly features.

As they left the building by the main entrance Skilgannon felt tense, and, for the first time that day, uncertain. The plan had seemed so good when he had thought of it. But Greavas was right. This was no schoolboy game. What if the princess was recognized by Morcha or Casensis? What if she could not play the role? Added to which he himself had now become a traitor to the new order. What future would there be for him as a result?

Be calm, he told himself, remembering his father’s advice. ‘A man should stand by his friends — unless they do evil — and hold always to what he believes in.’ Could Greavas’s actions in protecting two women from death be considered evil? Skilgannon doubted it. Therefore there was only one course of action.

There were around a dozen whores in the marble square. One of them was sitting down, nursing a cut lip and a swollen eye. Others were clustered together, staring malevolently at a slim, beautiful newcomer. As the three men emerged several of the whores moved towards them, smiling provocatively. Casensis stopped to chat to them, while Morcha stood back.

The slim girl approached Skilgannon. She walked with a subtle sway of the hips. Her head tilted and she smiled at him. It was as if he had been struck in the chest by a hammer. Gone was the violent, scornful girl in the garden. Here was the most devastat-ingly attractive woman he had ever seen. ‘You look like a man in need of a little company,’ she said, linking her arm in his. Her voice was rough and uncultured, and her smile full of dark promise. Skilgannon’s mouth was dry, and he could think of nothing to say. Morcha laughed good-naturedly.

‘I’d take her up on it, lad. I may not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but she looks like something special to me.’

Skilgannon was about to speak when the girl slipped her hand under his tunic, fondling him. He leapt backwards and almost fell. ‘Be careful with him, darling. He’s young and I’d reckon a little inexperienced,’ said Morcha.

‘My home is close by,’ was all Skilgannon could say. He felt like an idiot, and knew he was blushing.

‘Can you afford me? I don’t come cheap.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ he said, ‘but I’ll sell the house.’

‘That’s the way, boy,’ said Morcha, with a booming laugh. ‘Damn, but I wish I hadn’t sported in the bathhouse now. This is a girl I’d willingly fight you for. Go on, go off with you!’

The princess took his arm and led him away. He glanced back to see Morcha and Casensis watching him. Morcha waved. Casensis looked sour.

And so it was that Skilgannon met the love of his life, and took her home.

Sitting in the tree, overlooking the distant city of Mellicane, Skilgannon recalled the day. Despite the horror and death that had followed that meeting he found he could not regret it. Before that afternoon, it seemed to him, the sky had been always grey, and after it he had experienced the beauty of the rainbow.

Jianna shone like the sun, and sparkled like a jewel. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He still recalled the scent of her hair as they walked together arm in arm. He sighed at the memory. Then she had been a beautiful young woman, no older than he. Now she was the Witch Queen and wanted him dead.

Pushing such sombre thoughts from his mind, he climbed down from the tree.

Cadis Patralis had been a captain in the army of Dospilis for a mere four months. His father had purchased his commission, and he had taken part in only one action, the routing of a small group of Tantrian archers at a bridge some twenty miles from Mellicane. Now, it seemed, the war was over, and for young Cadis the prospect of glory and advancement was receding by the hour.

Instead of fighting the enemy, and earning respect, admiration and elevated rank, he now led his forty lancers across the hills, seeking escaped arena beasts. There was no glory to be had in hunting down these abominations, and Cadis was in a foul mood. It was not helped by the sergeant who had been foisted on him. The man was insufferable. The colonel had assured Cadis that the sergeant was a sound fighter and a veteran of three campaigns. ‘He will be invaluable to you, young man.

Learn from him.’

Learn from him? The man was a peasant. He had no understanding of philosophy or literature, and he swore constantly — always a sign of ill breeding.

At nineteen Cadis Patralis cut a handsome figure in his tailored cuirass and golden cloak. His chain mail glistened, and his padded helm fitted to perfection. His cavalry sabre had been made by the greatest swordsmith in Dospilis, and his thigh-length boots, reinforced around the knee, were of finest shimmering leather. By contrast Sergeant Shialis looked like a vagabond. His breastplate was dented, his cloak — once gold, but now a pale urine yellow — was tattered and much repaired. And his boots were beyond a joke. Even his sabre was standard issue, with a wooden hilt, strongly wrapped with leather strips. Cadis glanced at the man’s face.

Unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed, he looked ancient and worn out. How such a man could have fooled the colonel was beyond the understanding of Cadis Patralis.

Leaning forward in the saddle Cadis heeled his grey gelding up a slope, pausing at the crest and scanning the land. Some quarter of a mile to the south he saw a group of refugees struggling across a valley.

‘Rider coming, sir,’ said Sergeant Shialis. ‘It’s one of the scouts.’

Cadis swung in his saddle. A small man riding a pinto pony rode up the hill, drawing rein before the officer. ‘Found ‘em,’ he said. ‘Wish I hadn’t.’

Cadis fought to control his temper. The man was a private citizen, paid to scout, and therefore not obliged to salute or follow military protocol. Even so the lack of respect in his manner was infuriating.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked tightly.

‘Dead. I would have been too, if I hadn’t stopped to piss.’

‘Dead?’ echoed Cadis. ‘All three of them?’

‘Rode into a trap. They come from all sides. Tore down the horses, then butchered the men. I was behind, but they almost had me. I grabbed the pommel of me saddle and let the pinto drag me clear of them.’

‘How could beasts have sprung a trap?’ snapped Cadis. ‘It is preposterous.’

‘I agree with you, general. I wouldn’t have believed it myself unless I’d seen it.’

‘I am not a general, as you well know, and I will not tolerate insubordinate behaviour.’

Tolerate what you like,’ replied the man. ‘I’m quitting anyway. There’s no amount of money that would take me back to those creatures.’

‘How do you know it was a trap?’ asked Sergeant Shialis.

‘Trust me, Shialis. Four of them were crouched down in the long grass.

Didn’t emerge until the others had ridden by. It’s the grey one. I tell you, he’s smart, that one. When the others attacked he just stood back and watched. Gives me the shivers just to remember it.’

‘How many were there?’ asked the sergeant.

‘If you don’t mind I will conduct this interrogation,’ said Cadis, glaring at the soldier. A silence grew. He stared hard at the scout. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘How many were there?’

‘Fifteen — counting the grey one.’

‘And where was this?’

Twenty miles northeast, just where the land rises towards the mountains.’

There were more than twenty reported missing,’ said Cadis.

‘Aye. We found three of them dead back in the woods to the south.

Looked like they’d been struck by an axe — or a damn big sword. Don’t think there’s no live ones around here now.’

Twenty miles northeast, you say. That is out of our jurisdiction,’ said Cadis. ‘I’ll report this back to the colonel. You will make yourself available for his interrogation.’

At that moment the first of the refugees began to emerge onto the hill crest. Cadis stared at them. Many of the women and children were glancing nervously at him and his men. A child began to cry. The sound was shrill and spooked Cadis’s mount. ‘Shut that brat up!’ he snarled, jerking on the reins. The horse reared. Cadis fell back, his feet slipping from the stirrups. He landed on the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

Furious, he lurched to his feet, the sound of hastily curbed laughter from his soldiers adding fuel to the flames of his rage. ‘You stupid cow!’ he yelled at the frightened woman, who was trying to comfort the child.

A tall man stepped between them. ‘Control yourself,’ he said softly.

‘These people are frightened enough.’

Cadis blinked. The man was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, obviously well made and expensive, and good quality leggings and boots.

The officer looked into the man’s eyes. They were startlingly blue and piercing. Cadis stepped back a pace. The silence grew. Cadis became aware that his men were waiting for him to say something. He felt foolish now — and this brought back his anger.

‘Who do you think you are?’ he stormed. ‘You don’t tell me to control myself. I am an officer in the victorious army of Dospilis.’

‘You are a man who fell off your horse,’ said the newcomer, his voice even. ‘These people have been attacked by beasts, and also by men who behaved like beasts. They are weary, frightened and hungry. They seek only the shelter of the city.’ Without another word the man walked past Cadis and approached Sergeant Shialis. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You led a counter attack on a bridge in Pashturan five… six years ago. Took an arrow in the thigh.’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Shialis. ‘Though I don’t remember you being there.’

‘It was a brave move. Had you not held that bridge your flanks would have been turned and what was merely a defeat would have become a rout. What is it that you do here?’

‘We’re hunting beasts.’

‘We fought them last night. They moved off towards the north.’

Behind the two men Cadis Patralis had almost reached breaking point.

He had fallen from his horse, been laughed at, and now he was being ignored. Gripping the hilt of his cavalry sabre he made to move forward. A huge hand descended on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

‘Been a soldier long, laddie?’ Cadis turned and looked into eyes the colour of a winter sky. The face that framed them was old, deep lines carved on the features. The man had a black and silver beard, and wore a black helm, emblazoned with an axe, flanked by grinning silver skulls. ‘I’ve been a soldier most of my life,’ continued the man. ‘I’ve carried this axe across… well, I don’t rightly know how many lands.’ The warrior raised the weapon and Cadis found himself looking at his own reflection in the shining blades. ‘Never learned as much as I should. One truth, though, that I have found, is that it’s always best to leave anger at home. Angry men are stupid men, you see, laddie. And in wars it’s usually the stupid who die first. Not always, mind. Sometimes the stupid ensure that others die first. But the principle remains. So, how long have you been a soldier?’

Cadis felt a trembling begin in his stomach. There was something about the man that was leaching away his courage. He made one last attempt to regain control of the situation. ‘Unhand me,’ he said. ‘Do it now.’

‘Ah, laddie, if I do that,’ said the man amicably, his voice low, ‘then within a few heartbeats you’ll be dead. And we don’t want that, do we?

You’ll insult that fine young fellow talking to your sergeant, and he’ll kill you. Then matters will turn ugly and I’ll be obliged to use old Snaga on your troops. They seem like good boys, and it would be a shame to see so much unnecessary bloodshed.’

‘There are forty of us,’ said Cadis. ‘It would be insane.’

‘There won’t be forty at the close, laddie. However, I am now done talking. What happens now is up to you.’ The huge hand lifted from Cadis’s shoulder and the massive figure stepped away.

The young man stood for a moment, then took a deep breath. A cool breeze touched his skin and he shivered. He looked across at the woman and the child, saw the fear in her eyes, and felt the first heavy touch of shame. He walked over to them, offering a bow. ‘My apologies, lady,’ he said. ‘My behaviour was boorish. I am sorry if I frightened your child.’

Then he walked to his horse and stepped up into the saddle. Angling his mount he approached his sergeant. ‘Time to leave,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

Cadis led the troop back down the hill and off towards the northwest and the waiting city.

‘What did he say, sir?’ asked Shialis, riding alongside.

‘Who?’

‘Druss the Legend.’

Cadis felt suddenly light-headed. ‘ That was Druss? The Druss? Are you sure?’

‘I knew him, sir. Years ago. No mistaking him. What did he say? If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I don’t mind, sergeant. He gave me some advice about soldiering. Said to leave anger at home.’

‘Good advice. You mind if I say something else, sir?’

‘Why not?’

‘That was a noble gesture, when you apologized to the mother. A lesser man wouldn’t have done that.’ Shialis suddenly smiled. ‘Advice from Druss the Legend, eh? Something to tell the kids one day.’

There would be no children to tell.

Four months later Cadis Patralis would die fighting, back to back with Shialis, against the invading army of the Witch Queen.

Rabalyn missed the company of the twins. They had said goodbye at the city gates, and had left with Garianne, heading for the southern quarter.

He had enjoyed talking to them. Jared treated him like an adult, never speaking down to him. And Nian, though simple, was always warm and friendly.

His feeling of loss soon evaporated, replaced by a sense of wonder.

Having never before seen a city Rabalyn could scarce believe his eyes. The buildings were monstrously large, towering and immense. There were temples, topped by massive statues, and houses boasting scores of windows and balconies. Rabalyn had always believed that the three-storey home of Councillor Raseev had been the height of magnificence. Here it would look like a tiny hovel. Rabalyn stared at one palace as they passed, and counted the windows. Sixty-six. It was hard to believe that any family could have grown so large as to need a home like this.

Beyond these magnificent buildings they came to narrower streets, the houses close packed and tall, the roads of cobbled stone. Rabalyn stayed close to Skilgannon, Druss and Braygan, and wondered how so many people could live in such a place without becoming lost. Roads met and intersected, flowing around the buildings like rivers. There were people everywhere, and many soldiers with bandaged wounds. Most of the shops were empty of produce, and people gathered in crowds to barter or beg for what food there was to be had.

The axeman led them out along a broad avenue, and down through a long stretch of parkland. It must have been beautiful before the war, thought Rabalyn, for there were statues and pathways, and even a fountain at the centre of a lake. Now, however, tents had been pitched on the grassy areas and hundreds of downcast and weary people were milling around them.

‘They are so sad,’ said Rabalyn. Skilgannon glanced at him.

‘They’d have been sadder still if they’d had better leaders,’ he said.

‘How can that be true?’ asked the youth.

‘Think on it a while,’ replied the former priest.

They walked on for more than a mile, coming at last to a gated area, before which stood two tall guards, dressed in red cloaks and silver helms.

One of them saw Druss and smiled. He was tall and slim, and sporting a black trident chin beard. ‘Surprised to see no-one’s killed you yet, axeman,’ he said.

‘Heaven knows they’ve tried,’ answered Druss, with a grin. ‘They just don’t breed them tough any more. Milkmaids in armour now. Just like you, Diagoras.’

‘Aye, you ancients always say things were better in the old days,’ replied the man. ‘I don’t think it’s true, though. I reckon young warriors look at you and are reminded of their grandfathers. Then they can’t possibly fight you.’

‘Maybe so,’ agreed the axeman. ‘At my age I’ll take any advantage I can get. Any word on Orastes?’

The guard’s expression changed, the smile fading. ‘Not exactly. His servant has been found. He’s alive, but barely. He was in the arena dungeons. The Datians discovered him there when they opened the prisons.’

‘In the dungeons? That makes no sense. Where is he now?’

‘Being cared for at the White Palace,’ Diagoras told him. ‘I’ll arrange a pass for you tomorrow. Where are you heading?’

‘The Crimson Stag on the west quay. Do they still have food?’

‘Aye, but not the menu they had. Things will ease now the Datians have lifted the blockade. Six ships have already unloaded. Old Shivas will have been prowling the dock to restock his larders. I’ll come by after my Watch and help you down a flagon or ten.’

‘Ah, laddie,’ chuckled Druss, ‘in your dreams. One sniff of a wine cork and youngsters like you slide under the table. However, you buy the wine, and I’ll teach you how it should be drunk.’

‘Let’s say that the last person standing can forget the bill,’ offered Diagoras.

‘That’s what I did say.’

Rabalyn watched the exchange. As the two men spoke he saw the Drenai soldier’s eyes constantly flick towards Skilgannon, who was standing some distance away, chatting to Braygan.

‘Will your companions be travelling with you to the Crimson Stag?’

asked Diagoras.

‘Not all of us. The little priest is heading for the Street of Vines, and his church elders. Is there a problem?’

‘The warrior with him. I have seen him before, Druss. I was stationed in Perapolis for two years. We left just before the end. The Naashanites granted the embassy and its staff safe passage through their lines. I saw the Damned as we rode through. Not a man I’d soon forget.’ Druss glanced back at Skilgannon.

‘Maybe you are wrong.’

‘I don’t believe so. I’ll let him through if you vouch for him.’

‘Aye, I’ll do that. Best you report his presence to your superiors, though.’

Diagoras nodded, and pushed open the gates. ‘I’ll see you after dark.’

‘Bring enough coin to pay the bill.’

‘I’ll bring a pillow too, so that your old head can rest on it as you sleep under the table.’

Druss clapped the man on the shoulder and strolled through the gates.

Skilgannon and Braygan followed him, Rabalyn bringing up the rear.

The light was fading as they reached a second set of gates, blocking the way across an arched bridge over a river. Here there were more guards, powerful men with blond beards and pale blue eyes. They were wearing long mail-ring tunics and horned helms.

Druss spoke to them, and once more the gates were opened. ‘The Street of Vines is across the bridge and the first turning on the left,’ Druss told Braygan. ‘Your church building is a short way along.’ The little priest thanked him, then swung to Skilgannon, offering his hand. The warrior shook it.

‘Thank you for all you have done for me, Brother,’ said Braygan. ‘May the Source be with you on your travels.’

Skilgannon smiled wryly, but did not answer. ‘Will you take your vows?’

he asked after a moment.

‘I think that I will. Then I will return to Skepthia, and try to be of service.’ Braygan offered his hand to Rabalyn. ‘You are welcome to come with me,’ he said. ‘The elders may know the whereabouts of your parents.

If not they can give you shelter while you try to find them.’

Rabalyn shook his head. ‘I don’t want to find them.’

‘If you change your mind I shall be here for some days.’ With that the little priest walked through the gates. He paused once on the bridge to look back and wave. And then he was gone.