White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER TWELVE

Skilgannon’s head was pounding, and his mouth was dry as he walked beside Druss and Garianne. As they moved along the dock-side he heard someone running behind them, and swung back. It was Rabalyn. The youth came up to him. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘To see a sorceress,’ said Druss. ‘Be careful what you say, boy. I don’t want to be carrying you back as a frog.’

‘You were right,’ replied Rabalyn, ‘you are not good at jokes.’

‘A man cannot be good at everything,’ said Druss amiably.

They walked on. Skilgannon paused at a well, drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply. Bright colours were dancing before his eyes and his stomach felt queasy. He could not shake the memory of that dreadful night back in the capital. Images of the dead Sperian and the mutilated Molaire would not leave him.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Rabalyn, as they moved on.

‘I am fine.’

‘Your face looks grey.’

They came at last to the Drenai Gate. Today there were six soldiers there, in bright helms and red cloaks. The guards greeted Druss warmly, and warned the travellers of the riots that had spread through the city in the night. ‘You should have brought your axe, Druss,’ said one man.

Druss shook his head. ‘Not today, laddie. Today is just a quiet stroll.’

The men glanced at one another and said nothing more.

Once into the city Garianne guided them through a series of streets and alleyways. The smell of burning hung in the air, and the people they saw looked at them with undisguised hatred. Some turned their backs and moved indoors, others just glared. Rabalyn stayed close to Skilgannon.

After a while they came to an area of older buildings and narrow streets. The people here wore shabby clothes. Children with filthy faces were playing outside derelict houses, and scrawny dogs delved among piles of discarded garbage, seeking scraps of food.

Garianne led the way, moving across an old market square and down a set of cracked and broken steps, coming at last to an abandoned tavern.

The windows were boarded, but the main door had been hastily repaired and rehung with leather hinges. Garianne opened it and stepped inside.

Part of the roof had given way, and sunlight filled the interior. Several rats scurried across the rubble inside. One ran over Rabalyn’s foot. He kicked at it and missed. Garianne climbed over the fallen roof and made her way to the rear of the building, where she tapped her knuckles on the door that once led to the tavern kitchens.

‘Come in, child,’ came a familiar voice. Skilgannon felt his stomach tighten, and his flesh crawl.

‘Is she really a sorceress?’ whispered Rabalyn.

Skilgannon ignored him, and followed Druss across the rubble.

The old kitchen area was gloomy, the windows boarded. The only light came from two lanterns, one set on the warped worktop, the other hanging from a hook on the far wall. The Old Woman was sitting in a wide chair by the rusting ovens, a filthy blanket covering her knees. Her face was partly hidden by a veil of black gauze. Her head came up as the men entered. ‘Welcome, Druss the Legend,’ she said, with a dry laugh. ‘I see the years are beginning to tell on you.’

‘They tell on everyone,’ he answered. Garianne moved alongside the Old Woman, and crouched down at her feet.

‘Indeed they do.’ She shook her head and the gauze veil trembled. Then she transferred her gaze to Rabalyn. ‘You remember when you were that young, axeman? The world was enormous and filled with mystery. Life was enchanting, and immortality beckoned. The passing of the years meant nothing. We stared at the old with undisguised contempt. How could they have allowed themselves to become so decrepit? How could they choose to be so repulsive? Time is the great evil, the slavemaster who strips us of our youth, then discards us.’

‘I can live with it,’ said the axeman.

‘Of course you can. You are a man. It is different for a woman, Druss.

The first grey hair is like a betrayal. You can read that betrayal in the eyes of your lover. Tell me, are you a different man now that you have grey hairs?’

‘I am the same. Hopefully a little wiser.’

‘I too am the same,’ she told him. ‘I no longer look in mirrors, but I cannot avoid seeing the dried, wrinkled skin on my hands and arms. I cannot ignore the pains in my swollen joints. Yet in my heart I am still the young Hewla, who dazzled the men of her village, and the noblemen who came riding through.’

‘Why did you summon us here?’ put in Skilgannon. ‘I have no time for such maudlin conversations.’

‘No time? You are young yet, Olek. You have all the time in the world. I am the one who is dying.’

‘Then die,’ he said. ‘As it is you have lived too long.’

‘I always liked a man who would speak his mind. Lived too long? Aye, I have. Twenty times your lifetime, child. And I have paid for my longevity with blood and pain.’

‘Most of that was not yours, I’ll warrant,’ said Skilgannon, his voice angry.

‘I paid my share, Olek. But, yes, I have killed. I have taken innocent life.

I have poisoned, I have stabbed, I have throttled. I have summoned demons to rip the hearts from men. I did this for wealth, or for vengeance.

I have not, however, taken an army into a city and slaughtered all the inhabitants. I have not killed children. I have not cut the hands and eyes from a helpless man. So save your indignation. I am Hewla, the Old Woman. You are the Damned. You have no right to judge me.’

‘And yet I do,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘So speak your piece, and let me be free of your foul company.’

She sat silently for a moment, then returned her attention to Druss.

‘The man you seek is no longer in the city, axeman. He left some days ago.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ asked Druss.

‘To feed, Druss. Simply that.’

‘This makes no sense.’

‘It will. He came to Mellicane in search of his former wife. She had earlier travelled to Dros Purdol, ostensibly to see her daughter, Elanin.

You remember Elanin, Druss. Orastes brought her to see you at your farm.

You carried her on your shoulders, and sat beside a stream. She made a crown of daisies, and placed them on your head.’

‘I remember,’ said Druss. ‘A sweet child. And a gentle father. So where is Orastes?’

‘Be patient,’ she said. ‘While Orastes was away from the city his former wife snatched the child and fled from Dros Purdol. She came to Mellicane where she joined her lover. Orastes followed them as soon as he could.

Once in the city he sought news of her. He did not know the identity of her lover, and the search proved fruitless. News of the search, however, reached the wife. One afternoon, Orastes and his servant were arrested as they sought information. They were taken to the Rikar cells below the arena. The Rikar cells held prisoners who would be melded into Joinings.

That was the fate of Orastes. He was merged with a timber wolf, and the beast that he became fled with the others when the city fell.’

‘No!’ roared Druss. Skilgannon saw the axeman’s face twist into a mask of pain and grief. ‘This cannot be!’

‘It can and it is,’ said the Old Woman. Skilgannon detected something in her voice, a note of malicious glee. In his grief this was lost on the axeman. Skilgannon’s anger swelled, but he stood quietly, watching the scene. The huge Drenai warrior turned away, and stood, head bowed, his fists clenching and unclenching.

‘How could his wife wield such power in Mellicane?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Through her lover,’ answered the Old Woman, still facing Druss. ‘You met him, axeman, after you arrived in Mellicane. At the banquet held in your honour. Shakusan Ironmask, the Lord of the Arbiters, the Captain of the King’s Warhounds. While you drank with him your friend was in chains in the dungeons below.’

For a few moments there was silence. Then Druss took a deep breath. ‘If we could find Orastes could he become human again?’

‘No, axeman. When the Nadir cast the melding spell they first cut the throats of the human victims, then lay them alongside dogs or captured wolves. Even if the meld could be reversed — which the Nadir say is impossible — I would imagine that only the wolf or dog would survive. The man was, after all, already dead when the meld took place.’

‘Then Orastes is lost.’

‘He may already be dead. Did you not slay several of the beasts yourself?

Perhaps you have already killed your friend.’

‘Oh, how you are enjoying this, you hag!’ said Skilgannon. ‘Does your malice have no ending?’ The atmosphere in the room chilled. Garianne looked shocked, and even Druss seemed uneasy. For a moment no-one moved, then the Old Woman spoke.

‘The facts are what they are,’ she said softly. ‘My enjoyment of them changes nothing. I never liked fat Orastes. So stiff and pompous. One of the heroes of Skein! Pah! The man almost wet himself with fear throughout the battle. You know this, Druss.’

‘Aye, I know it. He stood though. He did not run. Yes, he was pompous.

We all have our faults. But he never harmed anyone. Why would you hate him?’

There are very few men I do not hate in this world of violence and pain.

So, yes, I laughed when Orastes was melded. As I will laugh when you meet your doom, Druss. At this moment, however, it is not your death I seek.

We now share a common enemy. Shakusan Ironmask destroyed your friend. He also caused the death of someone close to me.’

Druss’s face was set, and his eyes blazed with cold fire. ‘Where do I find this Ironmask now?’ he asked.

‘Ah, this is better,’ said the Old Woman. ‘Rage and revenge are such sweet siblings. It does my heart good to feel such purity of emotion.

Ironmask is heading into the Pelucid mountains. There is a stronghold there. Be warned, though, axeman. Ironmask has seventy riders with him, hard men and ruthless. At the stronghold there will be a hundred more Nadir warriors.’

‘The numbers do not interest me. How far is this place?’

‘Two hundred miles northwest. I shall furnish you with maps. Pelucid is an ancient realm, containing many mysteries, and many perils. There are places where all the natural laws are bent and twisted. Your journey will not be without incident.’

‘Just give me the maps. I will find Ironmask.’

The Old Woman rose from her chair, and slowly straightened. Taking a long staff she leaned upon it. Her breathing was harsh, and caused the black veil to billow gently. ‘You also need to travel northwest, Olek Skilgannon. The temple you seek is in Pelucid, and close to the stronghold.

It is not easily found. You will not see it by daylight. Look for the deepest fork in the western mountains, and wait until the moon floats between the crags. By its light you will find what you seek.’

‘Can they accomplish what I desire?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘I have been there only once. I do not know all they are capable of. The priestess you will need to convince is called Ustarte. If she cannot help you, then there is no-one I know of who can.’

‘Why are you doing this for me?’ he asked. ‘What trick is there? What evil lurks behind this apparent goodwill?’

‘My reasons are my own,’ said the Old Woman. ‘You will travel with Garianne and the twins.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because it would be kind of you,’ she snapped. ‘Jared also needs to find the temple. His brother has a cancer inside his head. I have held it at bay with herbs and potions, and even a spell or two. It is now beyond my skills.’

‘And why Garianne?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Because I ask it. You have reason to both hate and fear me, Olek Skilgannon. But you also owe me the life of the woman you love. If you succeed in Pelucid you will also owe me the life of the woman who loved you.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘There is truth in that. Although I doubt you wish me to succeed. Be that as it may, I shall take Garianne.’

‘I think she will surprise you,’ said the Old Woman. ‘And now let me fetch you the maps.’ Leaning heavily on her staff she made several steps towards an open door. Then her head turned and she stared at the silent Rabalyn. ‘What a handsome young man,’ she said. ‘Can you recite the code, Rabalyn?’

‘Yes, mistress,’ he answered. ‘I think so.’

‘Say it.’

Rabalyn glanced at Druss, then drew himself up. He licked his lips and took a deep breath. ‘Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak… I don’t remember the rest exactly, but it’s something like don’t allow money to make you evil?

The Old Woman nodded. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil. The iron code of Shadak. The simplistic philosophy of Druss the Legend. And now it is yours, Rabalyn. Do you intend to live by it?’

‘I do,’ said Rabalyn.

‘We will see.’ Then she moved away.

At first Rabalyn was pleased to be outside the ruined tavern, and back on open streets under a clear sky. The atmosphere inside had been sinister and more than a little frightening. When the ghastly face under the gauze veil had turned towards him Rabalyn had felt sick with dread.

Now, however, as the small group moved through the crowded streets, Rabalyn was less happy to be outside. He cast nervous glances at the hostile faces of the citizens as they passed. Skilgannon and Druss seemed unconcerned, and chatted quietly. The youth looked at Garianne. She was muttering to herself, and nodding and shaking her head.

They moved on, more slowly now through the mass of people, coming at last to a wider square. Here several men were standing on the back of a wagon and addressing the crowd. The words were angry, and, every so often, the crowd would cheer loudly. The speaker was railing against the iniquities suffered by the populace, and demonstrating how the rich were to blame for the shortage of food, and the anguish of the citizens.

No-one accosted the group, and they eased their way through, and out onto a wider avenue. Rabalyn moved alongside Skilgannon. ‘There is so much anger,’ said the youth.

‘Hunger and fear,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is a potent mix.’

‘That man back there was saying the rights of the citizens had been taken away.’

‘I heard him. A few weeks ago that same man would have been blaming foreigners for their plight. In a few months’ time it might be people with green eyes, or red hats. It is all a nonsense. They suffer because they are sheep in a world ruled by wolves. That is the truth of it.’

Skilgannon sounded angry, and Rabalyn fell silent. They walked on, coming at last to the gates of the embassy quarter. Crowds had gathered here too, and they had to force their way through to the front. The gates were locked, and beyond them stood around forty soldiers, some in the red cloaks of the Drenai, others in the thigh-length chain mail and horned helms of Vagria. Beyond the soldiers were bowmen, arrows notched. The gates were tall, and tipped with iron points. On each side were high walls, but already some in the crowd had scaled them and were sitting on the top, shouting down at the soldiers.

Skilgannon tapped Druss on the shoulder. They won’t open the gates for us,’ he said. ‘If they did the crowd would storm them.’ Druss nodded agreement, and the small group eased their way back through the mob, moving off to the side to a jetty overlooking a canal. Stone steps led down to the water’s edge. Skilgannon led them down to the waterside. The angry shouting from above was more muted here, and Rabalyn sat down with his back to the stone wall, and stared out over the water. In the distance he could see more ships anchored in the harbour, awaiting their turn to be unloaded.

‘They are going to storm the gates,’ said Garianne.

‘I don’t believe they will during daylight,’ Skilgannon replied. ‘They may be angry, but no-one wants to die. They will shout and curse for a while.

That is all. Tonight may be different.’

Druss stood silently by. Skilgannon approached him. ‘You seem deep in thought, my friend.’

‘I do not like that woman.’

‘Who could? She is a malevolent crone.’

‘What did you make of what she said?’ The older man’s eyes locked to Skilgannon’s gaze.

‘Probably the same as you.’

‘Say it.’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘She knew too much about what your friend was seeking. How? My guess would be that Orastes went to her, seeking her help, and that she then betrayed him to this Ironmask.’

‘Aye, that would be my reading also,’ said Druss. ‘Though I cannot work out why. If she hates Ironmask, why would she deliver a potential enemy to him?’

‘She is a subtle creature, Druss. She wants Ironmask dead. How better to do that than to make him an enemy of Druss the Legend?’

‘There could be truth in that. However, this is a woman who once sent a demon to kill a king. I fought that demon, and, by Missael, it almost had me. Why does she not simply send another after Ironmask? She has the power.’

‘The answer to that,’ replied Skilgannon, ‘probably lies in what she did not say. Tell me about this Ironmask. She said you met him.’

‘Yes, when I came here three months ago. As she said it was at a banquet. The King did not attend, and Ironmask greeted the guests. He is a big man, but he moves well. There is an arrogance in him — a physical arrogance. I’d say he was a fighting man and a good one.’

‘What was his role here?’

‘He led the King’s bodyguards, and also supervised the creation of the Joinings. The plan was to use them in war, but they could not tame them sufficiently. Ironmask was also the lord of some group calling themselves Arbiters. Strange bunch. Every one of them I met looked at me as if I was a demon. They have a hatred of foreigners. Diagoras thinks it ironic -

since Ironmask is also a foreigner.’

‘Where is he from?’

‘No-one seems to know. Probably Pelucid.’

‘Why do they call him Ironmask?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘He wears a metal mask, which covers his face. Did I not mention that?’

‘No.’

‘It is a close-fitting and well-made piece, beautifully crafted.’

‘He is disfigured then?’

‘Not really. I saw him remove it at the feast. It was hot in the hall and he wiped his face with a cloth. He bore no scars. The skin on his nose and the right side of his face is discoloured, dark, almost purple. Like a large birthmark. The mask is just vanity.’

‘You say he supervised the creation of the Joinings. Is he a sorcerer himself?’ Skilgannon asked. Druss shrugged.

‘No-one knows. Diagoras thinks not. He says Ironmask brought a Nadir shaman to the city. From what the Old Woman said I would guess he is from this stronghold in Pelucid.’

Skilgannon turned away and gazed out over the harbour for a while.

Then he swung back. ‘I too know little of magic, Druss, but I would think it is this shaman who prevents the Old Woman sending demons after Ironmask. A summoned demon must be paid in death. If the attack is repulsed the demon will return to the sender and take their life. If this shaman is powerful — and judging by his creation of Joinings he is — then the Old Woman dare not attack Ironmask directly with sorcery. If the shaman repulsed her spell she would die. Therefore she needs a mortal weapon.’

From above them the shouting increased. Then someone screamed.

People began running down the steps to the waterside. Others fled along the quayside. Datian soldiers in full battle garb of breastplate and shining helm appeared, swords in their hands. As they marched down the steps the milling city dwellers below panicked and began to hurl themselves into the water. One man put his hands in the air. ‘I meant no harm,’ he shouted. A shortsword plunged into his belly. A second soldier slashed a blade through the man’s neck as he fell.

Several more soldiers, swords drawn, advanced on Druss and Skilgannon. Rabalyn was terrified. Then Skilgannon spoke, his voice calm, his attitude relaxed. ‘Is the path to the gate now open?’ he asked. ‘We have been stuck here for an age.’

The soldiers hesitated. Skilgannon’s easy manner made them unsure.

One of them spoke. ‘You are from one of the embassies?’

‘Drenai,’ said Skilgannon. ‘My compliments on the efficiency of your action. We thought to be waiting here all day. Come, my friends,’ he said, turning to the others. ‘Let us go through before the mob returns.’

Rabalyn scrambled up, and joined Garianne. Together they followed Skilgannon and Druss. No-one moved to stop them. Soldiers were still massed upon the steps. ‘Make way there,’ called Skilgannon, climbing upwards and easing past the swordsmen.

On the square above there were bodies lying sprawled upon the stone.

One moved and groaned. A soldier stepped alongside him and drove his sword through the injured man’s throat.

Skilgannon and Druss approached the gates, which were still shut.

‘Open up, lads!’ called Druss.

And then they were through.

As they walked on Druss clapped Skilgannon on the shoulder. ‘I like your style, laddie. We’d have taken a few bruises if we had had to fight our way through them.’

‘One or two,’ agreed Skilgannon.

Later that afternoon Diagoras took Druss to see Orastes’s servant, Bajin, but they learned little of consequence. Bajin was a gentle man, who had served Orastes for most of his adult life. His mind had been all but unhinged by his experiences in the Rikar cells. Heavily sedated, he wept and trembled as Druss tried to question him. One fact did emerge. Orastes had indeed sought help from the Old Woman.

Diagoras led Druss out into the gardens of the embassy. The Drenai soldier’s head was pounding. ‘I’m never going to drink with you again,’ he said, slumping down on a bench seat. ‘My mouth feels like I tried to swallow a desert.’

‘Aye, you look a little fragile today,’ agreed Druss absently.

Diagoras looked up at the axeman. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he said.

‘Orastes deserved a better fate.’

‘Aye, he did. One fact I have learned in my long life is that what a man deserves rarely has any bearing on what he gets. As I walked this land I saw burnt-out farms, and many corpses. None of them deserved to die. Yet it will go on, as long as men like Ironmask hold sway.’

‘You still intend to go after him?’

‘Why would I not?’

Diagoras rose from the bench and walked to a well, in the shade of a high wall. Drawing up a bucket, he dipped the ladle into the water and drank deeply. Then he thrust his hands into the bucket, splashing water to his face. “Why would I not?’’ Ironmask had more than seventy men with him, and was heading into a stronghold friendly to him. That stronghold would be packed with Nadir fighters. There were no more terrifying foes than the Nadir. Life was cheap on the steppes and the tribesmen were raised to fight and die without question. Rarely did they take prisoners during battle, and if they did it was to torture them in ways too ghastly to contemplate. He glanced back at Druss. The axeman had walked over to a red rose bush, and was removing those of the flowers that were past their best. Diagoras joined him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Dead-heading,’ said Druss. ‘If you allow the blooms to make seed pods the bush will cease to flower.’ He stepped back and examined the plant. ‘It has also been badly pruned. You need a better gardener here.’

‘So, what is your plan, old horse?’ asked Diagoras.

Druss walked across to a second bush, a yellow rose, and repeated the dead-heading manoeuvre, nipping off the faded blooms with thumb and forefinger. ‘I shall find Ironmask and kill him.’

‘That is not a plan, that is an intent.’

Druss shrugged. ‘I never was much for planning.’

‘Then it is just as well I’ll be travelling with you. I am famous for my planning skills. Diagoras the Planner they called me at school.’

Druss stepped back from the rose bush. ‘You don’t need to come, laddie.

We are no longer searching for Orastes.’

‘There is still the child, Elanin. She will need to be taken back to Purdol.’

Druss ran a hand through his black and silver beard. ‘You are right. But I think you are a fool to volunteer for such an enterprise.’

‘I am also famous for my foolish ways,’ Diagoras told him. ‘Which I expect is why they didn’t make me a general. I think they were wrong. I would look spectacularly fine in the embossed breastplate and white cloak of a Gan. Will the Damned be travelling with us?’

‘Part of the way. He has no score to settle with Ironmask.’

‘The man makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Druss, with a smile. ‘You and he are warriors.

There is something in you that yearns to test yourself against him.’

‘I guess that is true. Is it the same for him, do you think?’

‘No, laddie. He no longer needs to test himself against anyone. He knows who he is, and what he is capable of. You are a fine brave fighter, Diagoras. But Skilgannon is deadly.’

Diagoras felt a flicker of irritation, but suppressed it. Druss always spoke the truth as he saw it, no matter what the consequences. He looked at the older man, and grinned as his natural good humour returned. ‘You never mix honey with the medicine, do you, Druss?’

‘No.’

‘Not even velvet lies?’

‘I don’t know what they are.’

‘A woman asks you what you think of her new dress. You look at her and think: "It makes you look fat and dowdy." Do you say it? Or do you find a velvet lie, like… "What a fine colour it is" or "You look wonderful"?’

‘I will not lie. I would say I did not like the dress. Not that any woman has ever asked me about how she looks.’

‘There’s a surprise. I see now why you are not known as Druss the Lover.

Very well, let me ask another question. Do you agree that in war it is necessary to deceive one’s enemy? For example, to make him think you are weaker than you are, in order to lure him into a foolhardy assault?’

‘Of course,’ said Druss.

‘Then it is fine to lie to an enemy?’

‘Ah, laddie, you remind me of Sieben. He loved these debates, and would twist words and ideas round and round until everything I believed in sounded like the grandest nonsense. He should have been a politician. I would say that evil should always be countered. He would say: "Ah, but what is evil for one man may be good for another." I remember once we watched the execution of a murderer. He maintained that in killing the man we were committing an evil as great as his. He said that perhaps the killer might have one day sired a child, who would be great and good, and change the world for the better. In killing him we might have robbed the world of a saviour.’

‘Perhaps he was right,’ said Diagoras.

‘Perhaps he was. But if we followed that philosophy completely we would never punish anyone, for any crime. You could argue that to lock the killer away, rather than hanging him, might prevent him meeting the woman who would have given birth to that child. So what do we do? Free him? No. A man who wilfully takes the life of another forfeits his own life.

Anything less makes a mockery of justice. I always enjoyed listening to Sieben ranting and railing against the ways of the world. He could make you think black was white, night was day, sweet was sour. It was good entertainment. But that is all it was. Would I deceive an enemy? Yes.

Would I deceive a friend? No. How do I justify this? I don’t.’

‘I think I understand,’ said Diagoras. ‘If a friend in an ugly dress asks your opinion, you’ll give it honestly and break her heart. But if an enemy in an ugly dress comes before you, you’ll tell her she looks like a queen.’

Druss chuckled, then burst into laughter. ‘Ah, laddie,’ he said, ‘I am beginning to look forward to this trip.’

‘I’m glad one of us is,’ muttered Diagoras.

Servaj Das was a careful man, painstaking in all that he did. He had found that attention to detail was the most important factor in the success of any undertaking. Originally a builder by trade, he had learned that without adequate foundations even the most beautifully constructed building would crumble. In the army he had soon discovered that this principle could be applied to soldiering. The uninitiated believed that swords and arrows were the most vital tools to a soldier. Servaj Das knew that without good boots and a full food pack no army could prevail.

He sat now in a high room at the Naashanite embassy, staring out over the harbour, and considering the mission orders he had received by carrier pigeon. He was to locate and kill a man swiftly.

How could one pay attention to detail when the orders specified speed?

Speed almost always led to problems. In normal circumstances Servaj would have followed the man for some days, establishing his routines, getting to know and understand the way the man’s mind worked. In doing this he would better be able to judge the manner of the man’s death.

Poison, or the knife, or the garrotting wire. Servaj preferred poison.

Sometimes when he followed a man, and observed his habits, he found himself liking the victim. He had never forgotten the merchant who always stopped to pet an old dog at the street corner. It seemed to Servaj that a man who took pity on a mangy, unwanted hound must have a kind heart.

Often the man would feed the creature small titbits he had taken along for the purpose. Servaj sighed. He had been forced to garrotte him when the poison failed. Not a pleasant memory. Servaj filled a goblet with watered wine. Sipping it, he rose from his chair and stretched his lean frame. His back gave a satisfying crack. Placing the goblet on the table he interlaced his fingers, and cracked his knuckles. No, poison was better. Then one was not forced to observe the death.

Picking up the small piece of parchment he scanned again the message.

‘Kill him. Swiftest. Recover Swords.’

He was not happy.

This was not some offending politician, soft, fat and weak. Nor a merchant unused to violence. This was the Damned.

Servaj had been in the army during the time of the Insurrection. One of the moments he would never forget was when Skilgannon had fought the swordmaster, Agasarsis. As a common soldier Servaj had no intimate knowledge of the reasons for the duel, but gossip among the men claimed that Skilgannon’s closeness to the Queen had enraged the Prince Baliel.

This jealousy came to the fore when Skilgannon was almost killed at the Battle of the Ford. BaliePs forces had mysteriously drawn back, leaving Skilgannon and his company of horse exposed to an enemy counter attack.

Baliel, it was said, maintained he had misinterpreted his battle orders.

The Queen replaced him as the Marshal of the Right Flank. Enraged and embittered, Baliel made it known that he believed Skilgannon had engineered the debacle to discredit him. The bitterness grew during the next few weeks, until finally the famous swordsman, Agasarsis — a sworn servant of Baliel — found an excuse to challenge Skilgannon.

He was not the first. During the two years of the Insurrection seven others had crossed swords with the Damned. Only one had lived, and he had lost his right arm. But Agasarsis was different. The man had fought sixty duels in his thirty-one years. His skills were legendary and there was much excitement in the camp as the day dawned. There was also unrest.

The Queen’s army at this time numbered thirty thousand men, and not all could witness the epic confrontation. In the end lots were drawn. Servaj had been offered twenty silver pieces for his pass to the contest, and had refused. Duels like this one were rare indeed, and he had no wish to miss it.

There was rain in the morning, and the ground was soggy and treacherous, but the sun shone brightly by midday. The one thousand men privileged to witness the fight had formed a large circle some two hundred feet in diameter. Skilgannon was the first of the combatants to arrive.

Striding through the ranks of the waiting men he stripped off his battle jerkin and moved effortlessly through a series of exercises to loosen his muscles.

Even then Servaj was a keen student of human behaviour. He looked for signs of nervousness in the general, but could detect none. Agasarsis arrived. He was more powerfully built than Skilgannon, and when he stripped off his shirt he looked awesome. Both men sported the crested plume of hair that signified their swordmaster status, but Agasarsis also had a neatly fashioned trident beard, which gave him a more menacing appearance.

He approached Skilgannon and bowed, and then both men continued their exercises, their movements fluid and synchronized, like two dancers, each mirroring the other. A sudden blaring of trumpets announced the arrival of the Queen. She wore thigh-length silver chain mail, and knee-length cavalry boots, edged with silver rings. Two men carried a high-backed chair into the circle and she sat upon it, her raven hair gleaming in the sunshine.

Servaj was close enough to hear her words to the fighters.

‘Are you determined upon this folly, Agasarsis?’

‘I am, my Queen.’

‘Then let it begin.’

‘Might I make a request, Majesty?’ said Agasarsis.

‘I am in no mood to grant you anything. But speak and I will consider it.’

‘My swords are well made, but they hold no enchantment. Skilgannon’s blades, however, are known to be spell enhanced. I request that he uses no unfair advantage against me.’

The Queen turned to Skilgannon. ‘What say you, general?’

‘This fight is already folly, Majesty. But in this he is right. I shall use other blades.’

‘So be it,’ she said. Turning to the nearest soldiers, one of whom was Servaj, she called six of them forward. ‘Take out your swords,’ she ordered them. Once they had done so she gestured to Skilgannon. ‘Choose one.’ He hefted them all, then chose the sabre carried by Servaj. ‘Now you,’

snapped the Queen, pointing a regal hand at Agasarsis.

‘I already have swords, Majesty.’

‘Indeed you do. And you have used them so often they are like a part of your body. Your own request was for no unfair advantage. So choose. And do it swiftly, for I am easily bored.’

After Agasarsis had chosen a blade the two men bowed to the Queen and moved back towards the centre of the circle. She gestured for them to begin.

The duel did not start swiftly. The men moved warily around one another, and the first clash of steel seemed more like an extension of the exercises they had undergone before the Queen’s arrival. Servaj knew that the duellists were merely accustoming themselves to the feel of the weapons. Neither Skilgannon nor Agasarsis attempted a death strike.

They were gauging each other’s strengths and weaknesses. The crowd was silent as the two masters continued to circle one another. Sunlight gleamed on the blades, and each sudden attack would see the swords create a glittering web of brightness around the combatants. The ground below their feet was slick and treacherous, and yet it seemed that they remained in perfect balance. Time passed, the action quickened, and the music of clashing steel increased in tempo. Servaj was transfixed, flicking his gaze between the fighting men. Both exuded confidence. Both expected to win. First blood went to Skilgannon, the tip of his sabre scoring a cut to Agasarsis’s shoulder. Almost immediately the champion countered, and blood appeared on Skilgannon’s torso. It seemed to Servaj that the blood was dripping from the fangs of the panther head tattooed upon his chest.

The speed and skill of the fighters was dazzling. Bets had been placed by the soldiers, but no-one in the crowd cheered or shouted for their favourite. The watchers were all fighting men, and they knew they were observing a classic encounter. Not a whisker separated the talents of the duellists, and Servaj began to believe they would be fighting all day. He half hoped it would be true.

Such a brilliantly balanced contest was rare, and Servaj wanted to savour it for as long as possible.

Yet he knew it could not last. The blades were razor sharp, and they flashed and lunged, parried and countered, within a hair’s breadth of yielding flesh.

They had been fighting for some twenty minutes when Agasarsis stumbled in the mud. Skilgannon’s sabre lanced into Agasarsis’s left shoulder as he fell, then slid clear. The champion hit the ground and rolled, coming up in time to block a vicious cut that would have beheaded him. He threw himself at Skilgannon, hammering his shoulder into Skilgannon’s chest, hurling him backwards. Both men fell heavily.

At a command from the Queen the herald beside her blew a single blast upon his curved horn.

Two soldiers ran forward, bearing towels. The combatants plunged their swords into the earth, and took the cloths. Agasarsis wiped sweat from his face, then pressed the towel into the deep wound in his left shoulder. Skilgannon approached him. Servaj did not hear what was said, but saw Agasarsis shake his head angrily, and guessed that Skilgannon was enquiring as to whether honour had been satisfied.

After a few moments the Queen ordered the horn sounded, and the two fighters took up their swords. Once again they circled. Now the duel entered into its last phase. Servaj found it fascinating. Both men were tired, but he could see desperation in the eyes of Agasarsis. Doubt had entered the champion’s mind, and was leaching away his confidence. To counter this he launched a series of reckless attacks. Skilgannon defended smoothly for a while. When the death blow came it was so sudden that many in the crowd missed it. Agasarsis lunged. Skilgannon met the attack, blocking the lunge and rolling his blade round the sabre of Agasarsis. The two men leapt back. Blood suddenly gushed from Agasarsis’s severed jugular. The champion tried to steady himself, but his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees before his killer. Servaj realized then that, even as he parried, Skilgannon had flicked the point of his sabre across the throat of his opponent.

Agasarsis pitched face forward to the earth.

Skilgannon dropped his sabre and walked back to the Queen. He bowed, and Servaj saw that his face was set, his eyes angry. ‘Agasarsis was the best cavalry commander we had, Majesty,’ he said. ‘This was madness.’

‘Indeed it was,’ she agreed. ‘Behold the man responsible.’ She gestured to the herald, who sounded the horn twice in succession.

Two of the Queen’s trusted bodyguard, Askelus and Malanek, came into sight, leading a bound man. His eyes had been torn out, and his face was a mask of blood. Even so Servaj recognized the Prince Baliel. The man was sobbing piteously.

Askelus dragged him out to stand alongside the fallen Agasarsis. The Queen rose from her chair and walked out to the centre of the circle. ‘Our war is almost won,’ she said, her voice ringing out over the seated men.

‘And why? Because of your bravery and your loyalty. Jianna does not forget those who serve her faithfully. But this creature,’ she cried, pointing to the pitiful Baliel, ‘put all your courage at risk. My gratitude to my friends is infinite. My enemies will always find that my vengeance is swift and deadly.’ Askelus drew his sword and plunged it into the belly of the blinded man. His scream was hideous. Servaj saw Askelus twist the blade, then wrench it clear. Disembowelled, Baliel fell to the ground, and began to writhe in fresh agony. The Queen let the sounds go on for a while, then signalled Askelus. The soldier drove his sword through Baliel’s neck. The silence that followed was total. ‘So die all traitors,’ said the Queen.

Someone began to chant: ‘Jianna! Jianna!’ Servaj saw it was the former swordmaster Malanek. Other men began to follow his lead, but the cheering was not enthusiastic. Jianna raised her hands for silence. ‘When we have taken Perapolis every man in my army will receive three gold pieces, as a sign of my love and gratitude.’

Now the cheering began in earnest. Servaj shouted in jubilation, along with the others. Three gold coins was a fortune. Even as he cheered, however, he glanced at Skilgannon. The general looked troubled.

Shaking himself from his memories Servaj returned to the problem at hand. The Damned had been sentenced to death, and it was left to Servaj to determine the manner of his execution.

He had under his command a number of good swordsmen, but none with the skill of Agasarsis. Skilgannon was staying at the Crimson Stag.

There would be no opportunity to poison his food.

Servaj thought the problem through. There would need to be an attack on the general. Five, maybe six men. And two men with crossbows, hidden close by. Even this was fraught with risk. He would have to visit the alchemist. If the crossbow bolts were tipped with poison, then even if Skilgannon escaped the ambush he would die later.

How, though, could he ensure Skilgannon came to the place of his execution?

249