White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JUST OVER TWO HOURS LATER SKILGANNON WAS LED TO A ROOM ON A higher level. As he followed the slow-moving Weldi he saw several other priests moving along the corridors. They passed a dining room. Through the open door Skilgannon saw a large group of people sitting and eating. ‘How many of you are there?’ he asked Weldi.

‘More than a hundred now.’

‘What is it you do here?’

‘We study. We live.’

Climbing another set of stairs they came to a leaf-shaped door. The wood was dark, and there were gilded inscriptions upon it that Skilgannon could not read. The door opened as they approached. Weldi stepped aside.

‘I shall return for you when your visit is concluded,’ he said.

Skilgannon stepped inside. The room was large, the ceiling domed. The plastered walls had been adorned with paintings, mostly of plants, trees and flowers, against a background of blue sky. There were also real plants here, in earthenware containers. In the lantern light it was difficult to see where the real greenery ended and the paintings began. The sound of tinkling water came to him. Stepping further into the room he saw a tiny waterfall bubbling over white rocks to a shallow pool. There were many scents in the air, jasmine and cedar and sandalwood. And others more heady. He felt himself relax.

As he moved past the waterfall the room narrowed, then widened again, leading out onto a balcony above the valley. Here, in the moonlight, he found Ustarte. The shaven-headed priestess was leaning on an ebony staff, tipped with ivory. He stood for a moment, transfixed by her beauty. Her features were Chiatze, fine-boned and delicate. Her large, slanted eyes, however, were not the deep golden brown of that race. In the moonlight they shone like silver, though Skilgannon guessed them to be blue. He bowed low. ‘Welcome to the Temple of Kuan,’ she said. The music of her voice was extraordinary. He found himself suddenly speechless in her company. The silence grew. Angry with himself, Skilgannon took a deep breath.

‘Thank you, lady,’ he said at last. ‘How is Rabalyn?’

‘The boy will survive, but you will need to leave him here with us for a while. I have placed him in a protective sleep. There was a deal of sepsis and gangrene had begun. He will need a week or more before he can rise from his bed.’

‘I am grateful. He is a courageous lad. And you brought him back from the dead.’

Ustarte looked at him and sighed. ‘Yes, I did. But I cannot accomplish what you would ask of me, Olek Skilgannon. This is not the Temple of the Resurrectionists.’

He stood silent for a moment, struggling with his disappointment. ‘I did not really believe that you could. The one who sent me to you is evil. She would not wish me to succeed.’

‘I fear that is true, warrior,’ said Ustarte softly. She gestured to a table.

‘Pour yourself a goblet of water. You will find it most refreshing. The water here has enhancing properties.’ Skilgannon lifted a crystal jug and filled a matching goblet.

‘Shall I pour for you, lady?’

‘No. Drink, Olek.’

Raising the goblet to his lips he paused. Her laughter rang out. ‘There is no poison. Would you like me to taste it first?’

Embarrassed, he shook his head, and drained the goblet. The water was wondrously cool. In that moment he felt like a man who had crawled across a burning desert and had discovered an oasis.

‘I never tasted water like it,’ he said. ‘It is as if I can feel it flowing through every muscle.’

‘As indeed you can,’ she said. ‘Let us go inside. My old legs are aching and tired. Give me your arm.’

Together they moved back to the garden room. By the light of the many lanterns he saw that her eyes were indeed of a dazzling blue, flecked with gold. He helped her to a weirdly carved piece of furniture. It seemed a cross between a chair and a stool. She slowly knelt upon it, then handed him her staff. He laid it down close to her, then, lifting his scabbard from his back and placing it on the floor beside him, he sat himself on a high-backed chair opposite her.

‘So, why did the Old Woman send you here?’ she asked.

‘I have been giving that a great deal of thought,’ he said. ‘Almost from the moment she sent us on this quest. I think I know the answer — though I hope I am wrong.’

‘Tell me.’

‘First I have a question of you, lady. If I may?’

‘You may.’

‘Is it true that you grew a new hand for one of Khalid Khan’s tribesmen?’

‘The body is a far more complex and wonderful piece of machinery than most people realize. Each cell contains details of its master plan. But to answer your question simply: yes. We helped him to grow a new hand.’

‘Some years ago was a man brought to you whose face had been cut away?’ Even as he asked the question Skilgannon felt the tightness of fear in his belly.

‘You are speaking of Boranius. Yes, he was brought here.’

‘A shame it was you healed him,’ he said bitterly. ‘The man is evil.’

‘We do not pass judgement here, Olek. If we did would we have allowed you inside?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘When did you suspect Ironmask was Boranius?’

‘Something inside me said he was alive. When we couldn’t find his body after the battle I knew. Deep down, I knew. Then when I heard of Ironmask I wondered. But then Druss told me he was not mutilated, he merely had an ugly birthmark. Only when I heard of the tribesman with the discoloured hand did the thought recur. The fear of it has been growing in my mind ever since.’

‘That is why the Old Woman did not tell you. She knew you feared this man, and yet she desired you to go after him. She guessed that — once set upon this road — you would not let Druss tackle the evil alone. Was she wrong?’

‘No, she was not wrong. Though how Druss can tackle him with a ruined heart I do not know.’

Ustarte smiled. ‘There is nothing wrong with Druss’s heart — though Heaven alone knows why, considering his love of alcohol and red meat. He contracted an illness in a village south of Mellicane. It attacked his lungs.

Any ordinary man would have taken to his bed for a while and given his body the opportunity to rest and defeat the virus. Instead Druss marched around the country seeking his friend. He exhausted himself and put his heart under enormous strain. He has been given a potion that will eradicate the… illness. Tomorrow morning he will be strong again.’

‘And the twins?’

Ustarte’s smile faded. ‘We cannot heal Nian. A year ago perhaps. Six months ago even. Tumours are now erupting all over his body. We cannot deal with them all. He has less than a month to live. We will reduce the pressure on his brain, and he will be himself for a while. Not long, though, I fear. Maybe days. Maybe hours. Then the pressure will increase again.

The pain will swell. He will fall into a coma and die. It would be best if he stayed here, where we can administer potions to quell the pain.’

‘This will break Jared’s heart,’ he said. ‘I have never seen two brothers so close.’

‘They were conjoined for the first three years of their lives. That creates a special bond,’ she said. ‘I performed the operation which separated them. Part knowledge, part magic. It is the magic that is killing him now.

In order for them both to survive I had to re-engineer Nian’s life codes.

They shared a single heart. I manipulated his genetic foundations, causing his body to create a second heart. This manipulation resulted, finally, in the mass of cancers that are now killing him. It grieves me greatly.’

Skilgannon did not understand much of what she told him, but he could see the anguish in her face. ‘You gave them a chance at life,’ he said. ‘A life they could not have enjoyed without your help.’

‘I know this, though I thank you for saying it. What else do you wish to ask of me?’

‘What of Garianne?’

‘I cannot help her. She is either possessed or insane. You know, of course, that she is in the thrall of the Old Woman.’

‘I know.’

‘Then you know also her purpose on this quest?’

‘She is here to kill me.’

‘Do you know why?’

He shrugged. ‘It is what the Old Woman wants, ultimately. That is reason enough. I doubt she will attempt an assassination until Boranius is dead. I will deal with that when it happens.’

‘You will kill her.’

‘To save myself? Of course.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. That is what warriors do. They fight. They kill. They die. Do you know where Garianne was born?’ she asked suddenly.

‘No. She does not take well to questions.’

‘That is because she was tortured and abused for some weeks by vile men. They wanted information. They wanted pleasure. They wanted pain.

But that came after. Garianne was a normal, healthy young girl. She lived with her family and her friends. She dreamed of a future in which she would be happy. Like all young people she built fantasies in which her life was enriched by love and success, fame and joy. Her tragedy was that she had these dreams in Perapolis.’ Skilgannon shuddered, and could no longer gaze into Ustarte’s blue and gold eyes. ‘When the Naashanite soldiers first breached the walls Garianne’s father — a stonemason — hid her beneath some rocks behind his workshop. She lay there terrified all that day, listening to the screams of the dying. She heard people she loved begging for their lives. Old men, women, children, husbands, fathers, sons and daughters. Priests, merchants, nurses and mid-wives, doctors and teachers. The loveless and the loved. When night fell she was still there.

Only now she was not alone. Her head was filled with voices that would not go away. They just carried on screaming.’

They sat in silence for a few moments. ‘You must hate me,’ he said at last.

‘I hate no-one, Olek. Long ago hatred was burned out of me. But I have not yet finished the story of Garianne. I shall not tell you of the horrors she later suffered, when captured by Naashanite troops. When she was brought here there seemed no hope for her. We did all we could to restore some semblance of normality to her. What you see now is a result of our best efforts. She ran away, and somewhere came under the sway of the Old Woman. She managed to give her purpose. She gave her a goal. It may even be that this goal will give her back her life. You see, Garianne believes that the ghosts will find peace when they have been avenged. The ghosts will sleep when the Damned is dead.’

‘And will they?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could say. If the ghosts are real then perhaps they will find peace through revenge. I have never believed that vengeance brings peace, but then I have never been a ghost. If her mind is unhinged it may be that completing her mission will free her. It is doubtful — but possible. So you see, if you do kill her you will merely be completing the horror for which you are so aptly named.’

‘A fine set of choices,’ he said, rising from the chair and gathering up the Swords of Night and Day. Swinging the scabbard to his shoulder, he bowed to her. ‘I thank you for your time, lady.’

‘Those blades are of evil design, Olek. Eventually they will corrupt your soul. They carry as much responsibility for Perapolis as you yourself.’

‘My chances of defeating Boranius are not good. Without the Swords of Night and Day they would be non-existent.’

‘Then do not fight him. I do not have the skill to bring back Dayan.

Others will. The code of her life is contained in the hair and the bone you carry. There are those who could activate that code. They might also have the skill to draw her soul back from the Netherworld to re-inhabit a new body.’

‘Where would I find such people?’

‘Beyond the old lands of Kydor, perhaps. Or deep in the Nadir steppes.

The Temple of the Resurrectionists does exist. I believe this. There is too much evidence to ignore. Leave Boranius behind. Leave Garianne behind.

At least then your quest will be wholly unselfish.’

‘That would also mean leaving Druss and Diagoras behind. I cannot do that. What of Druss’s friend, Orastes? Can you bring him out of the beast?’

Ustarte lifted her hand and peeled off her glove. Then she drew back the sleeve of her silk robe. Skilgannon stared at the soft, grey fur which covered her arm, and the talons that glinted on the ends of her fingers. ‘If I could do that for Orastes, would I not do it for myself?’ she asked him. ‘Go now, warrior. I wish to speak to the Legend.’

There were thirty-three windows and three doors in the Citadel. The Nadir shaman, Nygor, checked each one of them before retiring to his pallet bed on the fourth level. The ward spells on the main doors were the simplest to re-energize, for here he had hung an ancient relic, the withered hand of Khitain Shak. The dried bones retained much of the power the legendary priest had wielded in life. The windows were more tiring and time-consuming. Some were wide, others mere murder holes — slits through which archers could shoot down on enemies below. Each of these needed a fresh spell daily, fuelled by a drop of Nygor’s blood. The wounds on the palms of his hands were troubling him now, itching and irritating.

This annoyed him.

For a few days he had managed to use the blood of the stupid woman Ironmask had brought to the Citadel. But then the Naashanite had lost his temper and killed her. A waste. He could at least have allowed her to live until Nygor’s hands healed. The child would do. Ironmask would have none of it. He wanted the girl alive until Druss the axeman was in his power. Then he would kill her in front of the Legend. ‘Can you imagine,’

said Ironmask, ‘how sweet that will be? Druss the Invincible. The Captain of the Axe. The Victor of Skein. Trussed and chained, and watching the slow death of the child he had come so far to rescue? It will drive him mad.’

‘I think you should just kill him, lord,’ warned Nygor.

‘You have no understanding of the exquisite,’ Ironmask had told him.

This was obviously true. Nygor took no enjoyment at all from the suffering of others. Death was sometimes necessary in the pursuit of knowledge. Now, at sixty-one, Nygor was close to understanding the secrets he had yearned for decades to unlock. He had mastered the Meld, one of the greatest of the ancient spells. The concentration needed for the creation of Joinings was prodigious. Soon he would unravel the mysteries of rejuvenation. He would have achieved that already had it not been for the Old Woman, and her constant seeking for ways to kill him. He could feel her power even now, pushing at the ward spells, tugging upon them, ever searching for a gap in his defences.

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

So he remained — for the moment — trapped between the hammer of her hatred, and the anvil of Ironmask’s ambition. Not for much longer, though. Ironmask had hoped to build the Tantrian nation into a force strong enough to oppose the Witch Queen. He had dreamed of leading an army back into Naashan. Those dreams had withered now. They had begun to fail the moment the Old Woman gave the Tantrian King that cursed sword. It had corrupted his mind, filling him with delusions of greatness. Nygor could see now that this had been her intention all along.

When Tantria declared war on Datia and Dospilis it served only the Witch Queen. Ironmask had been ruined. Nygor sighed. He should have quit him when the war went bad, and the Datians were at the gates of Mellicane.

But Ironmask had escaped with a large portion of Mellicane’s treasury, and that wealth might still serve Nygor. If he could find a way to steal it.

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

He stood at the murder hole and stared out at the stars. In that moment he sighed, as he thought of his bond woman, Raesha. It was not until she was dead that he realized how great an affection he had for her. Last year Ironmask had demanded the death of the Witch Queen, and Nygor had summoned a demon to slay her. Not a great feat. Not even a difficult one.

He had used Raesha as a vessel of summoning, to enhance his own power.

The demon had sped off in search of its prey. All had been well. What they could not know was that the Old Woman had placed powerful ward spells around the Queen. Rebuffed, the demon had returned, seeking blood.

Raesha’s heart had been torn from her body. Nygor shuddered at the memory.

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

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

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

The black rat vanished into a hole and emerged out onto the battlements. From here it ran along the edge of the crenellated wall and through another hole that brought it onto one of the domed roof timbers.

Its sleek black form scuttled along the wood, coming at last to a torn section of tarred felt. The rat began to gnaw at the felt, creating enough of an opening to squirm beneath. Here there were interlocking planks, and several dead rats.

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is wrong with you, laddie?’ asked Druss.

‘I am fine, axeman. Never better.’

‘You look like a man with a scorpion in his boot.’

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

Druss laughed. ‘They have done us no harm. Far from it.’

‘Up to now,’ said Diagoras. ‘They are animals, Druss. They have no souls.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am sorry, lad,’ said Druss.

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

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

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

‘You desire my company on this journey, I think,’ said Skilgannon.

‘You must come now,’ she said. ‘You must face Boranius. It is your destiny.’

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

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

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

Later, as Skilgannon lay in his bed, staring up at the stars outside his window, the door to the bedroom whispered open, and Garianne entered.

She walked to the foot of the bed without a word. In her hand was the crossbow, a single bolt notched.

‘You would like to do it now,’ he said.

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

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

Boranius sat upon a wicker chair, watching as the Nadir woman bathed the child, Elanin. The little girl was sitting in the copper bath tub, staring ahead, expressionless, as the Nadir scrubbed the dirt from her pale skin.

There were sores upon her shoulders and back, but she did not flinch when the harsh cloth scraped across them.

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

There was no change of expression. Irritation flickered in Boranius. The spectacle would be of little merit if the child did not react. ‘Slap her,’ he ordered the Nadir woman. Her hand cracked against the child’s face.

Elanin did not cry out. Her head drooped a little, then she stared ahead again. ‘Why does she feel no pain?’ he asked.

‘She is not here,’ said the Nadir woman.

‘Bring her back then.’

The woman laughed. ‘I do not know where she is.’

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

‘You gave her the mother’s fingers to play with,’ said Nygor. ‘What else do you expect?’

‘I thought it amusing. How can we bring the child back?’

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

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

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

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

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. You wish to disagree?’

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

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

‘As I recall he screamed for several hours.’

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

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

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

‘My guess would be that you killed someone she had some use for.’

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

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

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

A hooded, translucent figure appeared in the shadows by the doorway.

‘So pleasing to be appreciated,’ said the Old Woman. Boranius drew a dagger from his belt and threw it across the hall. It passed through the figure and clattered against the wall.

‘How did you breach my spells?’ asked Nygor, his voice echoing his despair.

‘I found another opening, Nadir. Up there in the roof. A tiny hole I forced some rats to make. And now it is time for you to join your friend Raesha. Burn, little man.’ The hooded figure pointed at Nygor. The shaman tried to run to the window, to hurl himself to the stones far below, but a holding spell closed around him. Flames leapt up from his leggings, igniting his shirt. He screamed and screamed. Boranius watched as Nygor’s hair flared away, his scalp and face turning black, the skin bubbling. Still the screams filled the hall. Men began pounding on the door. Finally the screams ended. Nygor’s blackened corpse fell to the floor.

It continued to burn, filling the hall with acrid black smoke. At the last there was nothing left upon the floor that was remotely human.

The pounding continued. ‘Be silent,’ said the Old Woman, flicking her hand towards the entrance. The pounding ceased.

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

‘Oh, I shall watch you die, Boranius. I shall take great pleasure in it.

First, however, you will do me a service.’

‘Never!’

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

‘I’ll kill them both, and piss on their corpses.’

The Old Woman’s laughter rang out. ‘Ah, but I could like you, Boranius.

Truly I could. Such a shame we are enemies.’

‘We do not need to be.’

‘Ah, but we do. I was not always as you see me now. A few centuries ago I was young and men considered me comely. In that heady time of youth I had a child. I left it to be raised by others. I have never been maternal. As time passed I watched over that child, and the children she had. There were not many. Easy to keep track of. At first it was an amusement for me.

My gift to the future. The fruit of my loins. Quietly — so quietly — I manoeuvred their lives, bringing them a little luck when they needed it. I could not watch them all the time, however. They got old and died.

Despite my best efforts the line ran thin. Until there was only one. A girl.

Sweet child. She married the Emperor of Naashan after I slipped him a love potion. There was no way he would ever betray her. She then had a daughter. The last of my line. And you, Boranius, killed the mother and hunted the daughter. In your wildest imaginings can you believe I will forgive you?’

‘I care nothing for your forgiveness. I’ll kill Skilgannon for the pleasure of it. I’ll kill Druss to avenge the Immortals and their defeat at Skein Pass.

If I live long enough I’ll kill Jianna — and rid the world of your get.’

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

Fire swept across Boranius’s face, searing lips and nose and cheeks.

With a strangled cry he fell back.

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

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

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

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

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

‘He is a fine lad.’

‘He is that. Too many shirkers and cowards in this world,’ said Druss.

‘Too many people who live life selfishly and care nothing for their fellows.

It grieved me greatly when I thought the boy was dead. Did I tell you that he leapt from a tree and took up my axe to fight a Joining?’

‘Only ten or twelve times.’

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

‘Let us hope he achieves more than we have,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Amen to that.’ The axeman glanced at Skilgannon, his piercing grey eyes holding to the sapphire blue gaze of the Naashanite warrior. ‘So why are you coming with me, laddie?’

‘Perhaps I just enjoy your company.’

‘Who wouldn’t? Now tell me the truth.’

‘Boranius killed my friends. He threatened the life of the woman I love.’

‘And what else?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skilgannon nodded. ‘Perhaps I will.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You sent for me, lady?’

‘I thought you might like to travel with me, warrior. To the Citadel.’

‘Now?’

‘If you wish.’

‘You will travel with us?’

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

Skilgannon was uneasy. ‘And how are we to do this?’

‘Merely sit in the chair there, and relax. I will lead your spirit there.’

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

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

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

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

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

The Citadel loomed closer. ‘As you can see it is still a formidable castle.

It could withstand a besieging enemy for some time. A few willing fighters, however, could enter the outer wall largely unnoticed.’

‘What of the Nadir shaman? Would he not see us coming?’

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

Now let us see the inside.’

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

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

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

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

‘She will never recover from this,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He has destroyed her future.’

‘You may be right, but it is best not to be hasty in these judgements.

The child has fled in her terror. She needs to be found and comforted before the rescue. She needs to know that help is coming. She needs to feel that she is loved.’

‘How would that be possible?’

‘I can take you to her, Olek.’

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

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

‘She knows Druss. Let us go back. You can bring Druss to her.’

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

‘What must I do?’

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

‘Dangerous for her — or for me?’

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

‘I am not the man for this task, Ustarte.’

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

‘Take me to her,’ he said.

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

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

the priestess had said.

‘What can I do there?’

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

Moving back from the writhing roots he stared at the forest of thorns.

He felt the weight of his swords upon his back, and considered cutting his way through. It seemed the most logical course. Yet he did not.

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

This was a quandary. The child had created the thorn barrier as a defence. Were he to slash and cut at them he would be attacking her, causing her even more fear. She needed to believe in her strength.

Swinging the scabbard from his back he laid it down on the stone. Then he removed his fringed jerkin and his shirt. Leaving the weapons behind he carefully picked his way through the writhing roots until he reached the first of the thorn limbs. These too were moving.

‘ I am a friend, Elanin,’ he said aloud. ‘I need to speak to you.’

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

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

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

Gripping the dagger thorn in his arm he prised it loose and moved on.

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

The dagger was ripped from him. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Looking up, he saw a narrow pathway between the thorns.

Touching his fingers to his belly he found no blood, nor any sign of a wound. Pushing himself to his feet he moved down the winding path. A savage roar made the ground tremble beneath his feet. He walked on.

The thorn wall ended. Before him was a clearing. At its centre stood a huge bear with slavering fangs. Skilgannon stepped to meet it — and saw that he once more held his swords in his hands.

‘ No!’ he shouted, hurling them from him. ‘I don’t want them!’

The beast charged. Skilgannon instinctively dived to his right, rolling on his shoulder and coming smoothly to his feet. ‘I will not hurt you, Elanin,’ he shouted. ‘I am here to help.’

The beast reared and moved towards him. Skilgannon stood very still.

‘I have come with Uncle Druss to find you,’ he said, scanning the undergrowth for signs of the child.

The bear loomed above him, and he looked up into its huge brown eyes.

‘ Where is Uncle Druss?’ it asked, with the voice of a small girl.

‘ He is coming to the Citadel.’

‘ Does he have an army?’

‘ No. I am with him. And Diagoras and Garianne. Two friends of Uncle Druss.’

The bear sat down. Its shape shimmered and changed. The ground shifted. Walls reared up around the clearing. Within moments Skilgannon found himself sitting in a high room, with a wide window overlooking the sea. It was a child’s room, full of toys and books. On the bed by the window sat a blonde girl, with large, blue eyes. ‘Hello, Elanin,’

he said.

‘ Where is my father?’ she asked. ‘I cannot find him.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘May I sit with you?’ he asked.

‘ You can sit in the chair.’

He did as she bid. ‘I am Brother Lantern,’ he said. ‘I am… I was… a priest. I am also called Skilgannon. I do not know your father. I have never met him. Uncle Druss tells me he is a fine man.’

‘ They killed him, didn’t they? They killed Father. Ironmask told me. He said they turned him into a wolf and he was killed in the arena.’

‘ Ironmask is an evil man. But you must be strong. We will come for you.’

‘ He wants to kill me too. But he won’t find me here.’

‘ No, he won’t.’

The little girl looked into Skilgannon’s eyes. ‘If you haven’t got an army you won’t win. There are lots of soldiers with Ironmask. Big men with big swords. More than a hundred. I saw them from my window.’

‘ I have seen them too. It will be difficult. Tell me, little one, do you know the way back to the Citadel?’

‘ I’m not going there! You can’t make me!’ The room shimmered, thorn limbs sprouting from the walls.

‘ No-one is going to make you do anything,’ he said swiftly. ‘Is that the harbour outside? Do you have a boat there? I have always liked boats.’

The thorns withdrew. Elanin rose from the bed and walked to the window.

‘ Father doesn’t like boats. They make him feel sick.’

‘ I sometimes feel sick in boats. But I still like them.’ He knelt down in front of her. "When we come to rescue you in the Citadel we need to be able to call you home. We need… a secret password so you know it is safe.’

‘ I am not coming home. Father isn’t there. I shall stay here.’

‘ That is one plan,’ he agreed. ‘I think it will make Uncle Druss sad.’

‘ Then he can come here.’

‘ And what of your friends back in Dros Purdol? They can’t come here.

This is your special place. I only came because I have a special friend who showed me the way.’

‘ Ironmask killed Mother too. He cut her up.’ Tears welled in the child’s eyes. Instinctively Skilgannon reached out and drew her into a hug. He stroked her hair, and patted her back.

‘ I cannot bring her back,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I cannot take away your suffering. But you are strong. You are a very brave girl. You will make your own decisions. Let us agree on a password. You can then decide whether to stay here, or come back to Uncle Druss and me.’

‘ I think you should go now,’ she said. ‘It is getting late.’

The room spun. Skilgannon was flung through the air, in total darkness. He landed heavily on the ground — just in front of the thorn forest.

‘ I will see you soon, Elanin,’ he called. Then he whispered the name of Ustarte.

Skilgannon opened his eyes. Ustarte was standing by the balcony’s edge, looking at him intently. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

‘Weary.’

‘Drink a little of our water. It will revive you.’ The sun was shining brightly, and a cool breeze flowed across the balcony. Skilgannon filled a crystal goblet and drained it. His limbs felt leaden, as if he had run a great distance.

‘You suffered much,’ said Ustarte. ‘I will be honest, you have surprised me, warrior. You almost died in there.’

‘You warned me it could be dangerous.’ Strength was seeping back into his limbs.

‘That is not what surprised me. Even Druss, I think, would have taken his axe to that thorn thicket. He would certainly have fought the bear.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I failed. She is too terrified to come out.’

‘You have planted a seed. You could do no more. You should rest for a while.’

‘Not yet,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Can you take me to the Citadel once more? I need to see exactly how many soldiers there are, and what their duties.’

‘I can tell you the numbers.’

‘With respect, lady, I need to see for myself. Four warriors cannot attack the Citadel. If we merely needed to enter and kill Ironmask we could do it.

However, I have now seen the child, and the most important duty we have is to rescue her, to bring her safely home. If that is to be even remotely possible I need to know the movements of their troops, their methods and their duties. I need to understand their loyalties. Do they fight for love of Boranius, or for plunder? Everything is against us at this moment. Had we arrived in secret we might have spirited the child away, and then returned for Boranius. But we are not arriving in secret. He knows we are coming.

And I know Boranius. He is not a fool. From what I saw of the Citadel there are only four approaches. He will have scouts out, watching for us.

Once we are seen on the open road he will send riders to intercept us. Even with twenty Druss the Legends we would be overcome, by arrows and spears, if not by swords.’ He looked up at her. ‘So I ask again that you take me back.’

‘Would it make a difference to your plans if I told you that you cannot win, Olek?’

‘No,’ he said simply.

‘And why is that?’

‘Not an easy question to answer, lady, and I am too weary to debate it.’

‘Then I shall take you back to the Citadel, Olek. Close your eyes.’