White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FOR AN HOUR NOW RABALYN HAD SAT ON A BENCH BEHIND

THE Crimson Stag, watching Druss chop logs. Using a long-handled, single-bladed axe Druss worked methodically, with an extraordinary economy of effort. With each stroke the timber split and fell apart. Druss would tap the chunks to the left, knocking them from the large round he used as a chopping block, and then thunk the axe blade lightly into a fresh round, lifting it to the block. With a flick of his wrist he would free the axe blade, raise it and bring it down, splitting the new round. It was rhythmic and impressive to see. When the timbers to Druss’s left began to pile up Rabalyn would leave his seat and carry them to the wood store by the tavern wall, stacking them carefully.

As the first hour ended Druss took a break. He was bare-chested, and his body gleamed with sweat. Rabalyn had known strong men back at the village. Usually their bodies were sculpted, the muscles of their chest and belly in sharp relief. Not so with Druss. He was merely huge. His waist was thick, his shoulders bunched with muscle. There was nothing remotely aesthetic about the man. He just radiated power.

‘Why are you doing this work?’ asked Rabalyn, as the axeman took a deep draught of water.

‘I don’t like to be idle.’

‘Is Shivas paying you?’

‘No. I do it for pleasure.’

‘I can’t see how chopping wood is pleasurable.’

‘It relaxes me, laddie. And it keeps me strong. You’ll hear men talk about skill with sword or knife, axe or club. Most people believe it is that skill which makes a warrior great. It is not. Great warriors are men who know how to survive. And to survive a man needs to be strong. He needs stamina. There are many men out there who are faster than me. More skilful. There are few who can outlast me.’

Rabalyn looked at the big man, seeing the old scars on his chest and arms. ‘Have you always been a warrior?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It is my one great weakness,’ said Druss, with a rueful grin.

‘How can it be weak? That makes no sense.’

‘Don’t ever be fooled by appearances, boy. Strong men build for the future: farms, schools, towns and cities. They raise sons and daughters, and they work hard, day in day out. See that wood there? The tree it came from is around two hundred years old. It started out as a seed, and had to send roots into the hard earth. It struggled to survive — to live long enough to make its first leaf. Slugs and insects ate away at it, squirrels chewed on its soft bark. But it struggled on, making deep roots and a stronger heart.

For two hundred years its falling leaves fed the earth. Its branches became the home of many birds. It gave shade to the land beneath it. Then a couple of men with axe and saw brought it down in less than an hour.

Those men are like warriors. The tree is like the farmer. You understand?’

‘No,’ admitted Rabalyn.

Druss laughed. ‘Ah, well, one day maybe you will.’

Rising from the bench, he began to work again. Rabalyn helped him for another hour. Then Skilgannon arrived, and Druss laid down the axe. He still did not seem tired. Skilgannon laid his swords on the ground and stripped off his shirt, exposing the ferocious panther tattoo on his chest.

Taking up the axe he lifted a fresh round to the chopping block and split it expertly. Rabalyn sat back, fascinated by the difference in the way the two men worked. Druss was all power and economy. Skilgannon brought a touch of artistry to the labour. Every so often, as the axe swung up, he would twirl it, causing sunlight to flash from the blade. His movements were smooth and supple. Though less strong than Druss he powered through the work with great speed. Where Druss’s axe blade would occasionally bite into the chopping block and need to be wrenched clear, Skilgannon would strike each blow with just the right amount of force.

The rounds would split, the axe blade coming to rest almost gently on the block.

Both men made the work look easy, and yet when Rabalyn tried it the swinging axe would bury itself in a round and need to be wrestled clear, or else he would miss with his swing, the blade bouncing from the block and jarring his shoulders. ‘Keep at it, laddie,’ said Druss encouragingly. ‘It’ll come.’

By the time Rabalyn had successfully sliced around thirty rounds his shoulders and arms were burning with fatigue. Druss called a halt and they moved to the well nearby. Druss drew up a bucket of water and drank.

‘We should be ready to leave in a day or two,’ he told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon donned his shirt and swung his swords to his back. ‘A man at the tavern told me that there are horses for sale in the northern quarter of the city. He said I should seek out a man named Borondel.’

Druss thought for a moment. ‘The northern quarter is mostly Naashanite. Will it be safe for you?’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘Nowhere is safe. But we do need horses. Diagoras says the Drenai have none to spare.’

‘Did you ask Shivas about this Borondel?’

‘Yes. He is a horse trader.’

‘But you are not convinced. I see it in your eyes, laddie.’

‘No. It seems too… convenient that a man should seek me out and ask if I’m looking for mounts.’

‘I’ll go with you.’

Skilgannon shook his head. ‘I’ll scout the area. If it is a trap I will seek to avoid it.’

That it was a trap was not in doubt. Skilgannon knew this even as he left the embassy area compound. So why are you going, he asked himself?

The man at the tavern had been Naashanite — even though he had tried to disguise his accent. While talking to the man Skilgannon had noted the edge of a tattoo under the long cuffs of his red shirt. He saw enough to know it was the Coiled Cobra, sported by archers and spearmen of the Coastal Army.

As he walked he glanced to his left and right. Once he caught a glimpse of someone darting between two buildings. The man was wearing a red shirt. This is foolishness, he told himself. Why walk into danger?

Why not, came the response? Suddenly Skilgannon smiled and his mood lifted. He saw again Malanek, in his training room back at the compound. ‘You look in a mirror and you think you see yourself. You do not. You see a body inhabited by many men. There is the happy Skilgannon, and the sorrowful. There is the proud, and the fearful. There is the child who was, and the man who is yet to be. This is an important lesson, because, when in danger, you need to know — and more important to control — which of these men is in charge at that time. There are moments when a warrior needs to be reckless, and others — far more others — where he needs to be cautious. There are times for acts of great bravery, and times for tactical withdrawals, to regroup and fight another day. Equally there are times when action is needed so swiftly there is little time for thought, and, worse sometimes, where there is too much time for thought. Understand yourself, Olek. Know how to find the right man within, for the right moment.’

‘How do I do that?’ the fourteen-year-old had asked.

‘First you must remove emotion from the arena. Each action is judged on its merits alone, and not from the heart. An example: a man stands before you and challenges you to fight him with your fists. What do you do?’

‘I fight him.’

Malanek slapped him on the top of the head. ‘Will you think?’ he demanded. ‘I have no sand timer working here. You have time to consider my questions.’

‘Is the man alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he an enemy?’

‘Good question. He might be a friend who is angry with you.’

‘Then I would try to reason with him.’

‘Excellent,’ said Malanek. ‘But he is not a friend.’

‘Is he bigger or stronger than I?’

‘He is — for the sake of this discussion — the same as you. Young, strong, and confident.’

‘Then I fight him. Reluctantly.’

‘Yes, you do, for a man cannot remain a man if he refuses a challenge.

He becomes lessened in his own eyes, and the eyes of his comrades. The important word here is reluctantly. You will fight coolly, using your skill to end the fight as swiftly as possible. Yes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Now picture this: a man — the same man — has just punched Molaire in the face and knocked her to the ground. He is kicking her as she lies unconscious.’

‘I would kill him,’ said the youth.

‘Now this is what I am talking about, Olek. Who is in charge now?

Where is the man who fought coolly and reluctantly, seeking to end the fight as swiftly as possible?’

‘If I saw Molaire attacked I would react with anger.’

‘Exactly — and this would lessen your effectiveness. Block from your mind all emotion. This will bring you to your true self. When you fight let your body relax, and your mind float clear. Then you will be at your best. I have fought many duels, Olek. Most of the men have lacked my skill. Some of them I managed not to slay. I disarmed them, or wounded them sufficiently seriously to end the fight. Others were almost as skilled. These I had to kill. But a few, Olek, were better than me. One was so far better I should not have survived for more than a few heartbeats. These men should have won. They did not. And why? One died for arrogance. So sure was he of his skill he fought complacently. Another died through stupidity.

I managed to make him angry. The one who was infinitely better than I died because he feared my reputation. He was already trembling when we touched blades. Emotion has no place in combat, Olek. This is why I will teach you the illusion of elsewhere. You will learn to float clear.’

As he walked on through the city Skilgannon began to breathe deeply and easily. No longer irritated, no longer tense, he considered the problem.

The assassins knew where he was staying, and therefore could find him.

If he tried to hide from them they would continue to seek him, either in the city or on the open road. Better then to seek them. They would have the advantage of numbers, but they would also be expecting to surprise him. The man in the tavern had given directions to the stables owned by Borondel. Therefore the attack would take place either along the route, or at the stables. The most likely place would be at the stables, where, once inside, the murder could be committed out of sight.

That was the strongest possibility, but they could have men stationed along the way. A knifeman, perhaps, or a bowman. Both? Probably. If he himself were planning an assassination — especially that of a known swordsman — he would have at least three units on call. The first would be armed with swords or knives, and would attempt to kill the man as he was on the move through a crowded area. The bowmen would be positioned further back along the route, in case the man escaped the first attempt and ran back the way he had come. The third unit would have been following the victim, some distance back, ready to cut off any line of retreat.

Skilgannon could no longer see the man in the red shirt, and guessed that he had sprinted on ahead to warn the attackers of his arrival.

He strolled on. How many would there be? This was more difficult to estimate. Ten seemed the most likely. Two bowmen, four in the first knife

— or sword — attack. Another four following. Emerging from a broad avenue, he crossed the road and entered a small park. There were scores of people here, sitting on the grass, or standing near the fountains. They were better dressed than those he had seen in the mob yesterday. Up ahead was a family, a man and a woman, walking with three children.

Skilgannon scanned the area. The park was mostly open ground, with little screening of bushes or trees. There was nowhere for a bowman to hide.

Furthermore, the men he could see were dressed in warm weather clothing: tunics, shirts and leggings. None carried weapons. Some way into the park Skilgannon paused on an ornate wooden bridge spanning a stream. He glanced back the way he had come. Three men were strolling some distance back. All wore heavy jerkins, beneath which knives could be hidden.

Three behind.

If the organizer of this attempt believed three could stop him fleeing it was possible that no more than three would be waiting ahead.

According to the directions he had been given the stables of Borondel were beyond the park exit. There was a long alleyway, he had been told, which led on to an area of open ground.

Leaving the park he crossed another road, then cut to the left, avoiding the alleyway. Walking on swiftly, he ducked down a second side street. Out of sight of the men following he broke into a run. This second street was full of market stalls, though there were few goods displayed on them.

Several contained clothing, but the food stalls were bare. Halfway along the street was a tavern, with tables set outside. Around a dozen men were sitting there, nursing jugs of black beer. Skilgannon moved past them and entered the building. The interior was dark, and no customers were inside.

A thin man approached him. ‘There is no food today, sir,’ he said. ‘We have ale and we have wine. The wine is not high quality.’

‘A jug of ale then,’ said Skilgannon, moving along the room and sitting by an open window. Shifting his chair to hide himself from view he sat in the shadowed tavern and watched the sunlit marketplace. Within moments he saw the three followers moving past the stalls. They looked tense and angry. One of them approached the group of men sitting outside the inn.

Skilgannon rose from his chair and moved swiftly along the wall of the tavern, halting just beyond the doorway.

‘What’s it worth?’ he heard someone ask.

Skilgannon heard the rasping of metal, and guessed a weapon had been drawn. ‘You get to keep your eyes, you slug!’

‘No need for that,’ said the man, his voice suddenly fearful. ‘He just went inside there.’

Shadows flickered across the entrance. Skilgannon’s stiffened fingers slammed into the first man’s belly. He doubled over, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Before the second could react Skilgannon’s fist cracked against his chin, spinning him from his feet. The third man lunged with his knife. Skilgannon grabbed the knife wrist, stepped inside and hammered a head butt to the man’s nose, shattering it. Half blinded, the assassin dropped his knife and staggered back. Skilgannon followed in with a straight left and a right cross. The man hit the floor and did not move.

Scooping up the fallen knife Skilgannon turned back towards the first man, grabbing him by his long, dark hair and dragging him into the tavern. The innkeeper, Skilgannon’s jug of ale in his hand, stood by anxiously. ‘Just put it on the table,’ said Skilgannon pleasantly.

‘You’re not going to kill him, are you?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Probably.’

‘Would you do it outside? Dead bodies tend to upset my customers.’

The man Skilgannon had hauled into the tavern was gasping for breath, his face crimson. Skilgannon lifted him by his hair into a sitting position.

‘Lean forward and breathe slowly,’ said the warrior. ‘And while you are doing that think on this. I am going to ask some questions. I am going to ask each one once only. If you do not answer instantly I shall cut your throat. Say my name!’

Drawing back the man’s head, he laid the blade of the knife on the assassin’s jugular. ‘Skilgannon,’ said the man, between gasps.

‘Excellent. Then you know that what I have told you is no idle threat. So, here is the first question. How many are waiting for me at the stable?’

‘Six. Don’t kill me.’

‘How many bowmen?’

Two. I have a wife and children…’

‘Where are the bowmen hidden?’

‘In the alley, I think. But I don’t know. Servaj will have positioned them.

We were just told to follow and cut off your retreat. I swear it.’

Skilgannon released the man’s hair, then struck him sharply on the back of the neck. The Naashanite slumped forward, unconscious.

Skilgannon sliced away the man’s money pouch and opened it. There were a few silver pieces inside. He tossed the pouch to the tavern keeper.

‘Something for your trouble,’ he said.

‘Very kind,’ said the man sourly.

Skilgannon rose and walked to the entrance. One of the other assassins was beginning to move. The man groaned. Skilgannon knelt beside him and hit him in the jaw. The moaning ceased.

Checking the third man he saw that he was dead, his neck snapped.

The innkeeper leaned over the body. ‘Oh, this is pleasant,’ he said.

‘Another corpse.’

‘At least he’s not bleeding.’

‘Not exactly a silver lining though, is it?’ said the man. ‘Corpses are not considered good business for an eating establishment.’

‘Neither is having no food.’

‘You have a point. Does he have money in his pouch?’

‘If he does it is yours,’ said Skilgannon, rising and walking outside. A small crowd had gathered.

‘What went on in there?’ asked a round-shouldered, balding man.

Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the end of the street and stood by the corner, scanning the buildings close by. Locating the stable, he strolled towards it. The man in the red shirt was in the loft, watching from a hay gate. As soon as he saw Skilgannon approach he ducked back inside.

Skilgannon broke into a run, cutting to the left and vaulting the fence around a small corral. As he landed he heard a thunk from behind him.

Glancing back he saw a crossbow bolt jutting from a timber. Surging forward, he sprinted across the corral, swerving left and right. Another bolt hit the ground and ricocheted past his leg. Then he was at the stable doors. Drawing the Swords of Night and Day he dived through the open doorway, and rolled to his feet. Three men rushed forward.

And died.

A fourth remained sitting on a bale of hay. He was a thin man, dark-haired and balding, and he wore no weapon. ‘Good to see you again, general,’ he said affably.

‘I know you. You were an infantryman.’

‘Indeed so. I have a medal to prove it. The Queen gave it to me herself.’

Skilgannon moved across the stable, eyes scanning the empty stalls.

Then he paused with his back to a sturdy column. ‘To use such fools as these against me is most insulting.’

‘You are not wrong. Speed, they said. It’s never a good idea. But do they ever listen? Do this, do that, do it now. Makes you wonder how they reach such high positions, doesn’t it? I take it you killed the others?’

‘The three who were following? No. Only one. The others will be waking up soon.’

‘Ah well, not entirely a bad day then.’ Servaj levered himself upright. His sabre was hanging from a hook on the wall. Strolling over to it he drew the blade. ‘Shall we end this, general?’

‘As you wish.’ Skilgannon sheathed the Sword of Night. ‘You are remarkably calm for a man about to die. Is this because of some religious belief?’

‘You fought Agasarsis with my sword. This sword here. I watched you.

You’re not that good. Come on. Let me give you a lesson.’

Skilgannon smiled, took one step away from the column, then spun and dropped to one knee. The crossbowman hidden in the far stall reared up.

Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out. The tiny circular blade sliced into the bowman’s throat just as he loosed his bolt. With a gurgling cry he fell back. The bolt flashed past Skilgannon, burying itself in the calf of Servaj, who swore loudly then dropped his sabre. ‘A poor end to a bad day,’ he said. Looking up he shouted: ‘Rikas, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Servaj,’ came a muffled voice.

‘Forget about your bow and go home.’

‘Why? I can still get him.’

‘You can still get yourself killed. Just do as I say. Remove the bolt, loose the string and come down.’ Skilgannon stood ready as a crossbowman descended the loft ladder steps. He was a young man, fair-haired and slim.

He glanced at his wounded leader, then at Skilgannon. ‘Just leave, Rikas.’

The young man walked past Skilgannon and left by the rear door.

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Ah well, there are some tasks which are more onerous than others. To be honest I always liked you, general. And now that I’m dying I don’t feel much like completing my mission.’

‘Men don’t usually die from a bolt in the lower leg.’

‘They do if the bolt is poisoned.’ The man’s speech was beginning to slur and he slumped back to the hay bale. ‘Damn. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so bloody tragic.’ His body arched forward. He groaned, then he pitched to the ground. Skilgannon retrieved the circular throwing blade, cleaned it and tucked it inside his belt. Then he moved back across the stable and knelt beside the assassin. ‘May your journey end in light,’ he told the dying Servaj.

‘I… wouldn’t… bet on that.’

Reaching down, Skilgannon retrieved the man’s fallen sabre. ‘It was a good weapon that day,’ he said. Glancing down he saw that Servaj had died. Rising, Skilgannon lifted the scabbard from the hook on the wall and sheathed the sabre, hooking the sword belt over his shoulder.

There were four horses in stalls at the rear of the stable. All looked thin and undernourished.

Skilgannon saddled them all. Then, mounting a bay gelding, he took up the reins of the other mounts and led them out into the daylight.

As more supplies entered the city the mobs began to disperse. The Datians and their allies proved benevolent rulers, and there were few executions. Some prominent members of the old King’s family were hunted down, and a score of his advisers were held in the city prison for interrogation. For the common folk life began to return to normal.

Diagoras took the horses Skilgannon had acquired into the Drenai compound, where they were grain-fed and rested. ‘They need more time than we have,’ said Diagoras, ‘but they’ll be in better condition when we leave.’

Skilgannon thanked him, but the officer’s response was cool. It was difficult for Diagoras. There was something about the former general that pricked under his skin, leaving him angry and unsettled. Not normally a bitter or resentful man, he found himself uneasy around the Naashanite.

What Druss had said about rivalry was partly true, but it was not the main reason for Diagoras’s behaviour. He tried to rationalize his feelings, but it was not easy. In company Skilgannon was non-confrontational and pleasant, and Druss liked him. Yet he was also the mass murderer who had ordered and supervised the slaughter of thousands in Perapolis.

Stories of his battle triumphs were legion, as were tales of his ruthlessness in war. It was impossible to reconcile the man with the legend. Diagoras knew that if he had met him and been unaware of his past he would have liked him. As it was he could not hold a conversation with Skilgannon without a smouldering anger flaring in him.

‘Why do you not like Brother Lantern?’ asked Rabalyn, on the afternoon of the third day.

They were taking a break from sword practice on the open ground at the rear of the Crimson Stag. The lad had promise, but his arms needed strengthening. ‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Diagoras.

‘I don’t know. It is to me.’

‘Then you have a sharp eye, for we have exchanged no angry words.’

‘He has been kind to me, and I like him,’ said Rabalyn.

‘There is no reason, then, why you should not,’ Diagoras told him.

‘So why don’t you?’

‘We’re here for you to learn swordplay, Rabalyn. Not to discuss my likes and dislikes. You are fast, which is good, but you need to think about your balance. Footwork is vital for a swordsman. The weight must shift from back foot to front foot. Come, let me show you why.’

Moving out onto the open ground Diagoras offered his blade. Rabalyn’s sword touched it. ‘Now attack me,’ said the Drenai. Rabalyn moved forward, slashing his sword through the air. Diagoras blocked the cut, stepped inside and hammered his shoulder into Rabalyn’s chest. The youngster tumbled back and fell heavily. Diagoras helped him up. ‘Why did you fall?’ he asked the lad.

‘You shoulder-charged me.’

‘You fell because your back foot had come forward alongside your front foot. When weight was thrown against you there was nothing to support you. Stand with your feet together.’ Rabalyn did so. Extending his arm Diagoras pushed hard on the youth’s chest. He staggered back. ‘Now, stand with your left foot pointing forward, knee slightly bent, and your back foot at a right angle to the front.’

‘What is a right angle?’

‘Point your left foot towards me, twist the other foot to the right. That’s it.’ Once more Diagoras pushed the youth. This time he hardly moved.

‘You see. The weight is pushed onto the back foot, so you remain balanced.

When you lunge you extend the left foot first. When you move back it is on to the right foot. They never cross over.’

‘It is very complicated,’ complained Rabalyn. ‘How am I supposed to remember this in a fight?’

‘It is not about memory. It is about practising until it is second nature to you. With luck you’ll develop into a fine swordsman. Of course it would help if you had a better blade.’

‘Then this might be of use,’ said Skilgannon. Diagoras spun round. He had not heard the man approach, and this unsettled him. The Naashanite walked past Diagoras and offered a sabre and scabbard to Rabalyn. ‘It is a good weapon, well balanced and finely made.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rabalyn, reaching for it.

‘I was just explaining to the lad about the importance of footwork,’ said Diagoras. ‘It would be most helpful if he could see it displayed. Would you object to a practice?’ He found himself looking directly into Skilgannon’s sapphire eyes. The warrior held his gaze for a few moments, and Diagoras felt as if the man was reading his soul.

‘Not at all, Diagoras,’ he said, retrieving the sabre from Rabalyn.

‘Would you be more comfortable using one of your own blades?’ asked Diagoras.

‘It would not be safe for you if I did,’ said Skilgannon softly.

They touched blades as Rabalyn sat down on a bench. Then, in a whirl of flashing steel, they began to fight. Diagoras was skilled. Eighteen months ago he had won the eastern final of the Silver Sabres at Dros Purdol. His assignment to Mellicane had meant missing the national final in Drenan. He was sure, however, that he would have won it. So it was with great confidence that he took on the Damned. The confidence, he soon realized, was misplaced. Skilgannon’s sabre blocked every lunge and cut. Diagoras increased the pace, moving beyond that of a practice. He did not do this consciously. His mind was locked now in combat. Faster and faster they moved. Suddenly Diagoras saw his opportunity and leapt forward. Skilgannon parried, stepped inside, and slammed his shoulder into Diagoras’s chest. The Drenai officer hit the ground hard. He glanced up and saw Rabalyn staring at him, his expression one of shock and fear.

Only then did Diagoras come to his senses and realize that he had been trying to kill Skilgannon. He took a deep breath. ‘You see what I meant about balance, Rabalyn,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘In my excitement I forgot all about footwork.’ The youth relaxed.

‘I have never seen anything like it,’ he said. ‘You are both so fast.

Sometimes I couldn’t even see the swords. They were just blurs.’

Skilgannon reversed the blade, offering the sabre hilt to Rabalyn. The young man took it, then grinned at Skilgannon. ‘It is a wonderful gift. I can’t thank you enough. Where did you get it?’

‘From a man who had no need of it. Use it well, Rabalyn.’

Diagoras pushed himself to his feet. ‘My apologies, Skilgannon,’ he said.

‘I was so carried away by the contest I almost forgot we were merely practising.’

‘No apology is needed,’ said Skilgannon. There was no danger.’

Anger flared in the Drenai, but he swallowed it down. ‘Even so, the apology stands. I should have known better.’

Skilgannon met his gaze once more, then shrugged. ‘Then it is accepted.

I shall leave you to your practice.’

‘Garianne was looking for you,’ said Rabalyn. ‘She is in the tavern with Druss. I think she’s a little bit… er… drunk,’ he concluded lamely.

Skilgannon nodded, then strolled away.

‘He is very good, isn’t he?’ said Rabalyn.

‘Yes, he is.’

‘You look angry.’

‘You mistake embarrassment for anger,’ lied Diagoras. ‘But at least you saw how important it is to retain balance.’

‘Oh, I saw that,’ said Rabalyn.

In the tavern Skilgannon found Druss sitting alone, and eating a double sized meal. Two huge slabs of meat pie had been placed on an oversized banquet plate, with a huge portion of roasted vegetables. Skilgannon sat down.

‘You could feed an army on that,’ he said.

‘I was feeling a little peckish,’ said Druss. ‘Chopping logs always gives me an appetite.’

‘The lad said Garianne was looking for me.’

‘Aye, she was. But now she’s gone.’

Skilgannon chuckled. ‘Druss the Legend is embarrassed,’ he said. ‘Is that a blush I see?’

Druss glared at him. ‘Some Datian officers have been asking questions about a number of dead men found in a stable in the Naashanite quarter,’

he said after a moment. ‘Best stay low here until we leave.’

‘That makes sense,’ agreed Skilgannon.

‘You think they’ll try again?’

‘Yes. But probably not until we’re on the road. It does not concern me unduly.’

‘And why is that?’ asked the axeman.

‘I must assume Servaj used the best men he had in the first attack. They were really not very skilled. The Source alone knows what the second best will think to accomplish.’

‘Beware of arrogance, laddie. I have seen great fighters brought down by an idiot with a bow. Once I saw a fine warrior felled by a stone hurled from a child’s sling. Fate has a dark sense of humour sometimes.’ The axeman fell silent, and set about tackling the enormous plate of food. After a while he glanced up. ‘I saw your bout with Diagoras. Don’t judge him too harshly. He’s a good man — sound and brave and loyal.’

‘I didn’t judge him, Druss. He judged me. In all likelihood his judgement is accurate. If I was a warrior told about the deeds of the Damned I would loathe him too. You can’t change the past, no matter how much you long to.’

‘Aye, there’s truth in that. We make mistakes. No point dwelling on them. As long as we learn from them. Garianne went off with a Vagrian officer. Don’t judge her too harshly either. She needs what she needs.’

‘I know. Have you learned any more about this Ironmask?’

‘Nothing good,’ said Druss. ‘He’s sharp, canny and brutal. His men were handpicked for their savagery. Not a nice bunch.’

‘And you still mean to take them on alone?’

‘Ultimately, laddie, we are all alone.’

‘What is your plan?’

‘Simplicity itself. I shall walk into the fortress, find Ironmask, and kill him."

‘Simple plans are usually the best,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Less to go wrong. Have you considered the hundred and seventy warriors who are said to man the fortress?’

‘No. They’d best keep out of my way, though.’

Skilgannon laughed aloud. ‘And you talk to me about arrogance?’

Druss chuckled. ‘I might think of a better plan once I’ve seen the place.’

‘That would be wise,’ Skilgannon agreed.

‘I’m not sure you’re the man to be offering lectures on wisdom,’ said Druss. ‘As I recall you were a general, with a palace and a fortune. You gave it all up to become a pacifist priest — an occupation, I might add, you proved wholly unsuitable for. You are now a penniless warrior, being hunted by assassins. Have I missed anything out?’

‘You could add that the person who wants me dead is the woman I love above all else in this world.’

‘I take it back,’ said Druss. ‘Tell me more of your wisdom, laddie. I find it strangely appealing.’

Jianna had been ten years old when first she stumbled on the passageway that led beneath the royal palace. It had been an accidental discovery. She had been playing in her father’s apartments while he had been away with the army putting down a rebellion. Her mother had sent servants looking for her, to scold her for some infraction, and Jianna had run into the huge and luxurious bedroom seeking a hiding place. She had sought to conceal herself behind a heavy silk curtain set against the north wall, but when she tugged on it she found that it would not move. A tiny section of it, at floor level, had become wedged in the walnut panelling of the wall behind. The ten-year-old princess found this perplexing. Gently she eased it out, and stepped behind the curtain. The two servants sent to fetch her to her mother soon gave up the search. Jianna heard them move away. Once alone she drew back the curtain and examined the panelling.

It was ornately carved, and embellished with gold leaf. Above her head a golden adornment had been set into the wood. It was a lion’s head, the mouth open and snarling. On both sides of the head were golden candle holders. Jianna moved back into the room and hauled a chair to the panelling. Standing upon it she studied the lion’s head. Suddenly the chair shifted. As she fell the princess grabbed the nearest candle holder. It twisted under her grip. Letting go, she fell to the floor. A cold draught of air flowed across her. The panelling had opened. Beyond was a shadowed chamber. Clambering to her feet she stepped inside. It was no more than five feet deep, ending in a barred iron door. Sliding back the bar, she pushed open the door. Beyond it was a dark tunnel. At ten the princess was too fearful to enter this frightening place. Barring the door once more she returned to the apartment, drew the panelling shut, and pushed the candle holder back into its place, relocking the entrance.

During the following year she thought about the secret passageway often, and chided herself for her childish fears. One hot afternoon, as her servants dozed in the afternoon sunshine, she crept away, back to the royal apartment. Taller now, she could — standing on tiptoe — reach the candle holder and twist it. The panel eased open. Taking a lighted lantern she stepped into the chamber beyond, examining the wall on the other side of the lion ornament. Here there was a simple lever. Pushing shut the panelling she tugged on the lever. A click sounded. The panelling was now firmly shut.

Moving to the iron door, she opened it and stepped out into the passageway. It was cool here, and a flow of air made the lantern flame flicker. Feeling her way carefully ahead she came to a set of steps leading down. The walls glistened with damp, and a rat scurried across her foot.

She almost dropped the lantern.

Jianna felt her heart beat faster as fears began to swamp her mind.

What if hundreds of rats attacked her? No-one would hear her screams, and, worse yet, her body would never be found. She faltered, and considered going back. But she did not. Instead she recalled the instruction of the swordmaster Malanek: ‘Fear is like a guard dog. It warns you when danger threatens. But if you run from all your fears the guard dog becomes a savage wolf, and will pursue you, snapping at your heels. Fear, if unopposed by courage, eats away at the heart. Once you run you will never stop.’

The tunnel seemed to go on for ever. Jianna began to worry that her lantern would splutter out, leaving her in darkness. Eventually though she came to another barred door. The bar had been recently greased, and slid open easily. Opening the door just an inch she saw beyond it an iron ladder set into a rock wall. Chequered light patterned the rocks. Pulling the door fully open, she looked up. A metal grille blocked the shaft some twenty feet above. The shaft continued down beyond the doorway, and she could not see the bottom, though she could hear running water. Leaving the lantern burning in the doorway Jianna climbed the ladder. The grille at the top was too heavy for her to move, but glancing through it she could see the tops of trees, and hear the fountains of the royal park.

The tunnel, she now knew, was an escape route from the palace.

Retracing her steps Jianna made the long journey back to the apartments, re-barring the doors as she went. Her curiosity satisfied, she did not travel that way again until the second year of her triumphant return to the capital. Her face stripped of the paint of nobility, her clothes ordinary, she sometimes escaped to walk the sunlit streets, or shop in the markets alongside ordinary citizens. She would eat in taverns, and listen to the conversations. Had either Askelus or Malanek known of these trips they would have become apoplectic with rage and frustration. Yet it was on adventures like this that Jianna learned what the populace truly thought of her government of their lives. It did not matter to her that she was now known among the nobility as the Witch Queen. To the common people she was a figure of awe, respected and feared. Not loved, though, as Malanek believed. In taverns and eating houses people spoke of her courage, her shrewdness, her battle skills. There was considerably more debate about her ruthlessness.

Crimes were now punished severely; thieves had three fingers of their left hand cut away for a first offence. A second offence led to death by beheading. Killers were taken back to the scenes of their crimes and executed there. Embezzlers and fraudsters were stripped of all assets. In the first year of her reign more than eight hundred people had been put to death in the capital alone. Askelus was not in favour of such extreme practices, even though the numbers of reported crimes plummeted.

Jianna listened to his arguments about the need for a compassionate society, about understanding the complexities of the causes of crime.

Jianna had been dismissive of his reasoning.

‘A man breaks into a house, and kills the owner to steal a few valuables.

How many people are affected? The owner may.be dead, but he might have a wife and children. He will certainly have relatives, neighbours and friends. His relatives have neighbours and friends. Perhaps a hundred people in all. Like a rock hitting the surface of a still lake the ripples of this crime spread out. People become worried about their own homes and their own lives. When then the murderer is dragged back to the house and killed there people relax. Justice has been done.’

‘And what if the wrong man has been killed for the crime?’

‘It makes no difference, Askelus. A crime has been punished. A hundred people are satisfied that society will avenge crime.’

‘Does the man unjustly killed not have family and friends and neighbours, Majesty?’

‘And that is the curse of intelligence, Askelus. Intelligent people always seek to see the other side of the problem. They look for cause and effect, balance and harmony. They focus on the poor man who steals a loaf of bread to feed his family. Oh woe, they cry, that we live in a society where a man can be reduced to such a state. Let us therefore give free food to all, so that no-one will ever steal bread again.’

‘I do not see a problem with that, Majesty. There is food enough.’

‘There is now, Askelus. But travel a little further down this road and what do you see? Men and women who no longer have to work for food.

They breed and they multiply, producing more and more people who do not have to work for food. Where do they then live, these people who do not work? Ah, then we give them free houses perhaps, and horses so that they may travel. What of clothes to wear? How can they afford them, these people who do not work? And who pays for this road to madness, Askelus?’

He had not been convinced and had spoken of building more schools, and the training of the poor to give them new skills. This idea did have appeal. Jianna’s new empire would need more skilled men and women. So she had allocated funds from the treasury for the creation of more schools and teachers, and even the building of a university. Askelus had been delighted.

As time passed Jianna continued to use the secret passageway, travelling more and more through the city. Shopkeepers and tavern owners came to know her, and she built a new identity. She was Sashan, the wife of a travelling merchant. She even bought a cheap silver wedding band, which she wore on her right wrist. This kept most of the single men from bothering her as she moved through the city. The ones untroubled by the band she sent on their way with harsh words and a flash of her eyes.

An area a mile south of the palace became a favourite haunt for her.

There was a square here, and a marketplace. Women would often gather round the well at the centre of the square. There were benches and seats and the women would chat to one another about life and love and the raising of children. It was rare that politics entered the discussion. Even so Jianna found sitting among them hugely enjoyable.

It was there that she met Samias, the wife of a local builder. Often she would have three young children with her, and would watch them run around the square, peeping at items on the stalls. They would squabble good-naturedly, or play. Samias would open her bag and remove parcels of food, and the children would sit by her feet, munching on pies, or cake, or fruit. Samias was a tall woman, heavy around the hips. She constantly smiled as she watched her children. Only on the days when she was alone did her smile fade, and then Jianna saw the sadness in her eyes.

They spoke often. Mostly Jianna listened. Samias was contentedly married. Her husband was ‘a good man, sound and caring’ and her children were a constant delight. ‘Life is good, so I mustn’t complain,’ she said one day.

‘Why do you talk of complaining?’

Samias seemed surprised. ‘Did I? Oh, it’s just a phrase.’

‘You love your husband?’

‘Of course. What a silly question. Wonderful man. Very good with the children. What about your man? Is he kind?’

‘He’s pleasant enough,’ said Jianna, suddenly unwilling to create more lies.

‘That’s good. I expect you miss him when he’s away. Travelling merchant, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I don’t love him, though.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t say that. Best to try to love him. Makes life more bearable if you can convince yourself.’

‘The man I truly loved went away,’ Jianna found herself saying. ‘I wanted him more than anyone else I have ever met. He is in my mind constantly.’

‘Ah, we all have someone like that,’ said Samias. ‘What was he like?’

‘Handsome, with eyes of sapphire blue.’

‘Why did he go away?’

‘I wouldn’t marry him. I had other plans. We travelled together once, through a forest. Looking back I think it was the happiest time of my life. I can remember every day.’ Jianna laughed. ‘We were hungry and we came across a rabbit with its leg caught in a trapper’s noose. He went to it and knelt beside it. The little thing was trembling, so he stroked it. Then he carefully cut the noose. I looked at him and said: "Well, are you going to kill it and cook it?" He picked the rabbit up and stroked it again. "It has such beautiful eyes," he said, then put the rabbit down and walked away from it.’

‘Soft-hearted then? Some men are.’

‘In some ways he was. In others he was ruthless. We were attacked in the woods.’ Jianna fell silent. ‘Ah well, long ago now,’ she said at last, realizing she was coming too close to the truth.

‘Who attacked you?’

‘Robbers,’ said Jianna swiftly.

‘How awful!’ said Samias. ‘What happened? Did your lover fight them off?’

‘Yes, he fought. He was a fine fighter. I must go now. My… husband will be waiting for me.’ Jianna rose from her seat.

‘Try not to dwell upon the past, dear,’ said Samias. ‘We can’t change it, you know. We can only live with what we have now. Once I loved a man with all my heart. He was the sun and moon of all my desires. He was a soldier of the King. You know, the old King, Bokram. He was sent out into the forest of Delian after a murderer. We were due to be wed within the month. He was killed there. And that was it for me. My life all but ended.’

‘I am so sorry,’ said Jianna, surprised that she meant it.

‘A long time ago now, Sashan. And my husband is a good man. Oh, yes.

Very kind.’

‘Did they catch the murderer?’

‘No. He was an awful man. He murdered the people who raised him after his father died. Cut them up, he did. Tortured them. Can you believe that? Then he fled the city with a young whore. My Jeranon and a group of soldiers almost caught them. That’s what I was told. There was a fight and Jeranon was killed. Some others too. And the evil pair escaped. They were never found.’

Jianna felt a sudden chill touch her heart. ‘Did he have a name, this murderer?’

‘Aye. His name was Skilgannon. I never heard the whore’s name.’

Samias shrugged. ‘The Source will punish them, though. If there is any justice.’

‘Perhaps the Source already has,’ said Jianna.

As Jianna made her way back to the royal park she thought of how Askelus would have enjoyed listening to her conversation with Samias.

Never before had Jianna considered the lives of those soldiers who had almost trapped her in the forest of Delian. They had just been men with swords, ordered to capture her. She tried to remember their faces, but only one came to mind, a bearded man with florid features and savage eyes. He had wanted to rape her, but was overruled by the others.

Skilgannon and she had parted an hour earlier, after harsh words. It was difficult now to recall exactly what the argument had been about.

Once they left the city, and were travelling together, they seemed to grate on each other. Looking back with the full wisdom of her twenty-five years Jianna could see now that the tension was sexual. She had longed to be intimate with the young warrior. She smiled. Abstinence had never been agreeable to her. It was much the same for Skilgannon. So they bickered and argued. Finally, two days after escaping the city, they had agreed to separate, Jianna striking out north towards a tribal settlement where she believed she would be safe.

An hour later she had been surrounded, and chased down by soldiers.

Fleet of foot, she had almost escaped them. She had been scrambling up a steep slope when she grabbed hold of a jutting tree root for purchase. The root snapped off, and she tumbled back down the muddy slope. They grabbed her then.

‘Got to be her,’ said the soldier with the florid face. ‘Look at her.’

Grabbing her by the neck he dragged her head down, and ran his hand over her shorn hair. ‘See, there’s still traces of the blond dye.’

‘What’s your name, girl?’ asked another man. Jianna couldn’t remember his face now, except that he was thin. She didn’t answer him.

There were five soldiers in the group and they gathered round her.

‘What did she do?’ someone asked.

‘Who cares?’ answered the florid man. ‘Boranius said she was important. That’s all that matters. Beautiful legs and arse, hasn’t she?’ he continued, running a calloused hand over her thighs. ‘Reckon we ought to sample this one.’

‘No, we don’t,’ said someone else. Jianna wondered now if this was the young man Samias had spoken of. ‘We just take her back.’

‘I am the Princess Jianna,’ she said. ‘The tyrant wants me dead. He has already killed my mother and father. Take me north and I shall see you rewarded.’

‘Oh, yes, you look like a princess, right enough,’ said Florid Face. ‘Stupid bitch! You need a better story than that.’

‘It is the truth. Why do you think you were sent out? What whore would be worth that trouble? I’ll wager you are not the only troops out here.’

‘Suppose she’s right?’ said someone else.

‘What if she is?’ demanded Florid Face. ‘Nothing to do with us. There’s a new king now. New kings always kill their rivals. And how would she reward us, eh? There’s nowhere safe for her. The only reward she can offer is between her legs. And we can have that now. I never drilled a princess before. Think it’s any different?’

‘You’ll never know,’ came the voice of Skilgannon. Jianna still remembered the leap in her heart. It was not because she thought she was rescued. In that instant she believed them both to be ruined. It was merely the sound of his voice, and the knowledge he had come back for her.

The soldiers turned to see the young man. He was standing some ten feet from them. In his right hand he held a short, stabbing sword, in his left a wickedly sharp hunting knife. Sunlight gleamed upon the blades.

‘Would you look at that?’ said Florid Face contemptuously. ‘Be careful with those blades, boy. You might cut yourself.’

‘Let her go or die,’ said Skilgannon calmly. ‘There are no other choices.’

‘Will someone take those swords away from him?’ said Florid Face. ‘He is beginning to annoy me.’

Two men drew their sabres and advanced on Skilgannon. He stood very still for a moment, and when he moved the effect was startling. One man fell back, his throat gouting blood. The second cried out as the hunting knife plunged into his chest, spearing his heart. Before the other soldiers could react he leapt forward, the shortsword cleaving into the belly of another soldier, even as the man struggled to draw his sabre. Jianna’s hand reached out, pulling a knife from a scabbard at Florid Face’s side. He was too surprised at the sudden violence to notice. He was even more surprised when the blade lanced into his chest just below the sternum. It went deep. He gave a groan and, releasing Jianna, staggered back. The fifth soldier ran for his life. Florid Face clumsily dragged his sabre from its scabbard, and tried to attack Skilgannon. But his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, blood pumping from his chest. Weakly he lashed out with his sabre, but Skilgannon stepped back from the swing.

‘Time to go,’ he told Jianna. She looked into his face. His sapphire eyes were cold, like ice crystals. She shivered.

‘I agree,’ she told him.

The story of the rescue in the forest grew in the years that followed.

Jianna had heard many versions. In some she had been dressed in armour and had fought and killed three men herself. In others the Damned had defeated six swordmasters. The reality was that the action had been short, bloody and brutal. Jianna had stayed free, and Samias had lost the love of her life.

This was what Askelus had meant when he spoke of a compassionate society. The concentration on individual loss and grief, rather than the effect of an action on society as a whole.

Back at the park Jianna sat on a bench close to the undergrowth which hid the entrance to the secret passageway. She was forced to wait for some time as people were constantly moving along the pathways, or sitting by the fountains. Finally she stood.and eased her way back into the undergrowth, squatting down and lifting the grille. The lantern was still burning at the lower doorway. Holding it high she locked the door and moved back along the passageway. She had left instructions that she was not to be disturbed until two hours after noon, but the time was close.

Almost too close.

In the hidden chamber behind the panelling she stripped off her ordinary clothes, then entered the apartment, strolling naked through to her bedroom. Just then two servant girls entered, bowed and told her that Malanek was waiting outside. She ordered them to prepare her bath, then swung a pale blue satin robe round her shoulders.

One of the servants ushered Malanek into the main room. He looked tired, his face drawn. ‘I am glad you got some extra rest, Majesty,’ he said.

‘You should take your own advice, Malanek. You look exhausted.’

He gave a weary smile. ‘I keep forgetting I am no longer a youngster.’ He sighed. ‘There is news from Mellicane, Majesty. Did you have a change of heart about Skilgannon?’

‘No. Why would I?’

There was an assassination attempt upon him. Led by a Naashanite named Servaj Das.’

‘It was not by my order, Malanek. Skilgannon is free to go where he wishes.’

Malanek nodded. That pleases me, Majesty. But it leaves me wondering who else would want Skilgannon dead.’

She looked at him closely. ‘I do not need to lie to you, my friend. When I took your advice to let him go I did so freely. Had I wanted him killed I would have told you.’

‘I know that, Jianna,’ he said, forgetting himself for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’

Gesturing him to a couch she sat beside him. ‘What is worrying you?’

‘I have been studying the reports on Mellicane. The man Ironmask made a great many contacts within the Naashanite community. Many of his men are also former soldiers of ours. Most were rebels, though not all.

According to our sources in Mellicane Servaj Das worked for him. We have little information on Ironmask, save that he is not from Tantria. His accent showed that he was not Ventrian. It seems he is not known either in Datia or Dospilis. He could be from across the water: Drenan, Gothir, Vagria. But what if he is a Naashanite?’

Jianna shrugged. ‘Why should I care?’

‘He is a charismatic leader of men. We know this. He has gathered warriors to him, many of whom fought against you. Where did such a man come from? And there is something else. Our sources among the Datian officers say that when they entered the palace he used they found chambers below with blood-spattered walls. They also found severed fingers and hands.’

The Queen sat very still. ‘The man whose name we do not speak was killed in battle. Skilgannon slashed away half of his face, and then stabbed him through the heart. I have seen the reports of this Ironmask. The wearing of the mask is merely a conceit. His face is not mutilated, merely discoloured.’

‘His body was never found. Supposing he was healed, Majesty? There are reports of a temple in Pelucid, and a priestess who can work miracles.’

‘These are not reports. They are rumours. Myths. Like flying lizards, and winged horses.’

‘The man whose name we do not speak almost defeated us. If he still lives he is a threat to everything you are trying to build. It may even be that the recent attempts on your life can be traced back to him.’

‘Now you are making me uneasy!’ she snapped. ‘I do not believe the dead can return to haunt me.’

‘No, Majesty. Nor would I — had I been able to find his body. But if you did not instruct Servaj Das to murder Skilgannon, and no-one in our embassy did so, then Ironmask is the only other link. That being the case the question is: why would Ironmask seek the death of Skilgannon, a man he does not know, and who is no threat to him?’

‘Where is Skilgannon now?’

‘Still in Mellicane, but he is preparing to journey north. I have a report from contacts in the Drenai embassy that he intends to travel with the warrior Druss. They are going to Pelucid. Druss intends to kill Ironmask.

Why Skilgannon travels with him is a mystery. The Datians are also sending a force to Pelucid. They want to capture Ironmask themselves.

Apparently several of his victims were prominent Datian nobles.’

‘Then I suspect the mystery will be resolved before long,’ said Jianna.

‘Until it is, Majesty, we need to be careful for your safety. No unnecessary risks. If the man we do not name is still alive then the danger to you is very real.’

‘I do not take unnecessary risks, Malanek. And a ruler is always in danger.’