White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER THREE

CETHELIN AWOKE WITH A START, THE COLOURS OF THE VISION

filling his mind. Lighting a lantern he moved to his small writing desk, spread open a section of parchment and took up a quill pen. As swiftly as he could before the vision faded he wrote it down. Then he sat back, exhausted and trembling. His mouth was dry and he filled a goblet with water. In the days of his youth he could hold the visions in his head, examining them until all was revealed. Now he could barely sketch out the broadest lines of them before they dissolved.

He stared down at what he had written. A gentle hound, scarred by fire, had become a snarling wolf, dangerous and deadly. The beast had lifted its head and lightning had forked up from its mouth, striking the sky with great power and causing a massive storm. The sea reared up in a huge tidal wave and swept towards a rocky island. Atop the island was a shrine. The last word Cethelin had scrawled was Candle. He remembered then that a single candle was burning on the beach of the island, its tiny flame bright against the onrushing darkness of the colossal wave.

Cethelin could make no sense of the hound-wolf, but he knew that the tide always represented humanity. The angry sea was the mob in the town, and the shrine was the church. Lantern was right.

The mob would be coming with hatred in their hearts. Could a candle of love turn them from thoughts of murder? Cethelin doubted it.

The three-legged hound limped in from the bedroom and sat beside the abbot. Cethelin stroked its head. ‘You are not a wolf, my boy,’ he said. ‘And you have chosen a poor place to seek safety.’

Rabalyn entered the small cottage and closed the door quietly, inserting the wooden plug that locked the latch. He wandered through to the small living room. Aunt Athyla was dozing in the chair by the fire. In her lap were several balls of brightly coloured wool, and by her feet lay around a dozen knitted squares. Rabalyn moved through to the kitchen and cut himself some bread. Returning to the fire he took up the brass toasting fork, thrust a slice of bread onto it, and held it close to the coals. There had been no butter for some weeks now, but the toasted bread still tasted fine to a young man who had not eaten that day. He glanced across at Aunt Athyla as he ate. A large woman in her late fifties, she had never married, and yet she had been a mother to two generations of the family.

Her own parents had died when she was just fifteen — only a little younger than Rabalyn was now. Athyla had worked to raise four sisters and a brother. They were all gone now, and only rarely did she hear from any of them. Rabalyn’s own mother had deserted the family eight years ago with her husband, leaving two children in the care of the time-worn spinster.

He gazed fondly at the sleeping woman. Her hair was mostly grey, and her legs were swollen with rheumatism. Her knuckles too were slightly deformed by arthritis, yet she laboured on daily without complaint.

Rabalyn sighed. When he was younger he had dreamed of becoming rich and repaying Aunt Athyla for her kindness, perhaps buying her a fine house, with servants. Now he knew such a gift would bring her no joy.

Athyla did not desire servants. He wondered if she truly desired anything at all. Her long life had been filled with duties and responsibilities she had not asked for, yet had accepted. She had only one piece of jewellery, a small silver pendant that she unconsciously stroked when worried.

Rabalyn had asked her about it and she just said someone had given it to her a long time ago. Aunt Athyla did not engage in long conversations and her reminiscences were abrupt and to the point. As were her criticisms.

‘Just like your mother,’ she would say, if Rabalyn left any food upon his plate. ‘Think of those starving children in Panthia.’

‘How do you know they are starving in Panthia?’ he would ask.

‘Always starving in Panthia,’ she would say. ‘It’s a known fact.’

Old Labbers had later explained that forty years earlier a severe drought had struck the nations of the southeast. Cadia, Matapesh and Panthia had suffered crop failures and there had been great hardship. Scores of thousands had died in Panthia, the worst hit of all. Now, however, the Panthians were among the richest of nations. Aunt Athyla listened as Rabalyn explained all this to her. ‘Ah, well, that’s nice,’ she said. Some days later, when he refused to finish a meal that contained a disgusting green vegetable he loathed, she shook her head and said: ‘Those little children in Panthia would be glad of it.’

It had irritated him then, but he smiled as he thought of it now. It was easy to smile and think fond thoughts when Athyla was asleep. As soon as she was awake the irritation would return. Rabalyn couldn’t stop it. She would say something stupid and his temper would flare. Almost daily he made promises to himself not to argue with her. Most altercations ended the same way. His aunt would begin to cry and call him ungrateful. She would point out that she had beggared herself to raise him, and he would reply: ‘I never asked you to.’

His leggings were still damp, and he stripped them off and hung them over a chair near the fire. Returning to the kitchen, he filled the old black kettle with water from the stone jug and carried it back to the living room.

He added fuel to the coals, then hung the kettle over the flames. Once the water was boiling he made two cups of elderflower tisane, sweetening them with a little crystallized honey.

Athyla awoke and yawned. ‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘Have you had something to eat?’

‘Yes, Aunt. I made you some tisane.’

‘How is your eye, dear? Better now?’

‘Yes, Aunt. It’s fine.’

‘That’s good.’ She winced as she leaned forward towards where Rabalyn had left her tisane. Swiftly leaving his chair he passed her the cup. ‘Not so much noise tonight,’ she said. ‘I think all this unpleasantness is over now.

Yes, I’m sure it is.’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Rabalyn, rising from his chair. ‘I’m going to bed, Aunt. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Leaning over he kissed her cheek, then made his way to his own room. It was tiny, with barely space enough for the old bed and a chest for his clothes.

Too weary to undress, he lay on his bed and tried to sleep. But his thoughts were all of Todhe and the revenge he would seek. Rabalyn had always avoided trouble with the councillor’s son. Todhe was malicious and vengeful when he failed to get his own way, and merely surly and unpleasant to those he deemed not important enough to draw into his inner circle. Rabalyn was no fool and had remained wholly neutral in the only area where they were forced to come together — the little schoolroom.

When Todhe spoke to him, which was a rare occurrence, Rabalyn was always courteous and careful to avoid giving offence. He didn’t think of it as cowardice — though he was scared of Todhe — but more as good common sense. On occasions when he witnessed the bullying of other boys — like fat Arren — he had convinced himself it was none of his business and walked away.

However, the beating of old Labbers had been brutal and sickening, and Rabalyn found that he did not regret the punch that had begun this enmity with Todhe. His regret was that he had not had the courage to rush in on the adults who began the beating. No matter how much he thought about the dreadful incident he could make no sense of it. Old Labbers had never done anything to harm anyone in the town. Quite the reverse. During the plague he had gone from house to house ministering to the sick and the dying.

The world was indeed a strange place. As he lay on his bed Rabalyn thought about the lessons he had attended. He hadn’t taken much notice of them, save for the stories about heroic battles and mighty warriors.

Rabalyn had formed the impression that wars were fought by good people against evil people. The evil people were always from foreign countries. Yet was it not evil for a score of healthy men to beat an elderly priest almost to the point of death? Was it not evil for women in the crowd to jeer and scream for them to ‘kick his ugly face’ as Marja, the baker’s wife, had?

‘She always was a sad and sour woman,’ Aunt Athyla had said — which was a remarkable thing to hear from her. Aunt Athyla never spoke badly of anyone.

It was all most unsettling. Rabalyn had heard the gossip that travellers brought to the town. In the capital, Mellicane, huge crowds were said to have burned churches and hanged priests. The King’s adviser, the Lord Ironmask, had ordered the arrests of scores of ministers, who had then been executed and their lands forfeited to the state. As the government began to crumble Ironmask had appointed Arbiters, and these had travelled all across Tantria, rooting out ‘foreign inspired’ traitors.

When Rabalyn had first heard of these events he had thought them generally to be good. Traitors should be rooted out. Now, however, he had seen old Labbers branded a traitor, and he was confused.

Then there were the constant tales of battles fought between loyal troops and the vile enemy from Dospilis and their evil allies, the Datians.

These battles were always won by Tantria, and yet each battle seemed to get closer. He had asked old Labbers about this one day. ‘How can it be that when we win we draw back, and the defeated enemy moves forward?’

‘A little more reading might be in order, young Rabalyn,’ said Labbers.

‘In particular I would refer you to the historical works of Appalanus. He wrote: "Truth in war is like a maiden pure. She must be protected at all times within a fortress of lies." Does that help?’

Rabalyn had nodded and thanked him, though he had no idea what the old man was talking about.

As he lay on his bed he could smell the smoke from the hearth. He would have to borrow Barik’s brooms and clear the chimney of soot.

Pulling a blanket over his shoulders he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep.

His mind was too full. He kept thinking of Todhe. Perhaps if he just accepted a beating from Todhe and his friends it would all blow over. Like for like. Rabalyn doubted it. He had raised the stakes when he assaulted them with the iron rod. Perhaps the Watch would arrest him for it. This was a new and frightening thought. Uncomfortable now, and newly afraid, he sat up and opened his eyes. Immediately they began to sting. Smoke was everywhere. Rabalyn climbed off his bed and opened the door. The living room was filled with oily smoke, and he saw flames outside the window.

Coughing and gasping, he ran across the living room and pushed open the door to Aunt Athyla’s bedroom. The fire was eating through the window frame, and he could now hear it roaring through the thatched roof above. Stumbling to the bedside, he shook his aunt by the shoulder.

‘Aunt Athyla!’ he shouted. ‘The house is on fire.’ His knees buckled, his lungs hot and smoke-filled. Grabbing a chair, he hammered with it at the burning shutters. They would not give. Dragging a blanket from the bed he wrapped an edge of it round his hands and tried to lift the blazing wooden locking bar. The fire had warped it too badly. Pulling all the covers from Aunt Athyla he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her from the bed. Her body hit the floor, and she gave a groan.

‘Wake up!’ he screamed. On the verge of panic he began to haul her back into the living room. Fire was now bright here also, and a section of the roof fell into the far corner. The heat was intense. Leaving Athyla he ran to the door, lifted the bar and pushed it. The door would not open.

Something had been wedged against it from the outside. Rabalyn could scarcely breathe. Staggering to the one window in the living room he lifted the shutter bar and pushed open the shutters. Flames were licking at the wood. Scrambling up onto the sill he threw himself out onto the path beyond. Jumping to his feet he ran back to the front door. A wooden bench had been lodged against it. Grabbing it, he hauled it clear, then pulled open the door.

The flames were high now inside and as he tried to enter he felt the ferocity of the heat. Sucking in a deep breath he gave a yell and hurled himself forward. Fire was all around him as he reached the unconscious woman. Grabbing her arm he began to drag her across the floor. Her nightdress caught alight, but he could not stop to put it out. Flames licked at his arms and the backs of his legs, and he could feel his clothing charring. Still he would not let go. He screamed in pain but struggled on.

Once into the doorway he heard a great groan from the timbers above.

They suddenly sagged and burning thatch showered down over Aunt Athyla. Rabalyn hauled the woman out onto open ground.

Her nightdress was ablaze and he knelt by her side, beating out the flames with his hands, and wrenching the garment clear of her body. In the brightness of the fire he could see burns all over her legs. Pulling her even further from the blazing building he left her for a moment and ran to the well, dropped the bucket, and then hauled it up. It seemed to take an age. Carrying the bucket to Aunt Athyla, he tore off his shirt and dipped it into the water. Then, squatting naked beside her, he gently dabbed the drenched shirt to Athyla’s smoke-smeared face. Suddenly she coughed, and his relief was total.

‘It’s all right, Aunt. We’re all right.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. Then there was silence.

People began to arrive, rushing forward to surround Rabalyn.

‘What happened, boy?’ asked a voice.

‘Someone set fire to the cottage,’ he said. ‘They blocked the door to stop us getting out.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

Rabalyn did not answer. ‘Help my aunt,’ he said. ‘Please help my aunt.’

A man knelt down beside the still form, and held a finger to her throat.

‘She’s gone, boy. Smoke did for her, I reckon.’

‘She just spoke to me. She’s going to be all right.’ His voice was breaking as he began to shake Aunt Athyla by the shoulders. ‘Wake up, Aunt. Wake up.’

‘What happened here?’ asked a new voice.

‘Someone fired the cottage,’ said the man beside Rabalyn. The boy says they blocked the front door.’

Rabalyn looked up and saw Councillor Raseev. He was a tall man, with greying blond hair and a wide handsome face. His voice was smooth and deep. ‘What did you see, boy?’ he asked.

‘I woke up with the flames and the smoke,’ said Rabalyn. ‘I tried to get Aunt Athyla out, but someone put a bench against the front door. I had to climb out of the window to move it. Will someone help my aunt!’

A woman knelt beside Athyla. She also felt for a pulse. ‘There is nothing to be done,’ she said. ‘Athyla is gone, Rabalyn.’

‘I asked what you saw, boy,’ repeated Raseev. ‘Could you identify the villain who did this?’

Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet. He felt light-headed, as if it all were but a dream. The pain from the burns on his hands, arms and legs faded away. ‘I saw no-one,’ he said. He looked around at the faces of the gathered townsfolk. ‘But I know who did it. I only have one enemy.’

‘Speak the name, boy!’ ordered Raseev.

Rabalyn located Todhe in the crowd, and saw no fear in his eyes. If Rabalyn named him nothing would be done. No-one had seen him torch the cottage. He was the son of the most powerful man in the town. He was immune from the law. Rabalyn turned away and dropped down to his knees beside his aunt. Reaching out, he stroked her dead face. Guilt was heavy on his heart. Had he not made an enemy of Todhe, Aunt Athyla would still be alive. ‘Who is your enemy, boy?’ demanded Raseev.

Rabalyn kissed his aunt’s cheek, then rose to his feet. He turned to Raseev. ‘I didn’t see no-one,’ he said. He swung towards the crowd. ‘But I know who did it. He’ll pay. With his bastard life!’ He looked straight at Todhe — and this time there was real fear in the youth’s eyes.

Todhe ran forward and grabbed his parent’s arm. ‘He is talking about me, Father,’ he said. ‘He is threatening me!’

‘Is this true?’ thundered Raseev.

‘Did he torch my aunt’s house?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Of course he did not!’

‘Then he has nothing to fear, does he?’

Rabalyn walked away. In that moment Todhe broke away from his father and drew a knife from his belt.

‘No, son!’ yelled Raseev. The burly youth leapt at Rabalyn. Hearing the cry Rabalyn turned. Todhe’s knife flashed towards his face. Rabalyn swayed back. The blade missed him by inches. He hammered an overhand right to the side of Todhe’s jaw. The bigger youth, off balance, staggered.

Rabalyn ran in and kicked Todhe in the stomach. Todhe dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Without thinking Rabalyn swept up the blade and plunged it into Todhe’s neck. The blade thudded against bone then sliced through the youth’s jugular. Blood gushed over Rabalyn’s hand. Todhe gave a strangled cry and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he fell to his face on the ground. Raseev shouted: ‘No!’ and ran to his son’s side.

Rabalyn stood there, the knife in his hand dripping blood.

For a moment nothing was said. The crowd stood stunned into silence.

Then Raseev looked up. ‘Murder!’ he shouted. ‘You all saw it! This vile creature has murdered my son!’

Still no-one moved. But then two soldiers of the Watch pushed themselves through the crowd. Rabalyn dropped the knife and ran, vaulting the low wall round the burning cottage, and sprinting through the streets.

He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to escape. The punishment for murder was public strangulation, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be found guilty at trial. Todhe had dropped the knife. He was unarmed when Rabalyn slew him.

Panicked now, the pain from his burns forgotten, the naked youth ran for his life.

Raseev Kalikan’s view of himself was complex and distorted. People saw him as honest and a loyal worker for the good of the town and its people.

Therefore, in his own mind, that was what he was. The fact that he misappropriated town funds for his own benefit, and awarded building contracts to those of his cronies who paid him bribes, did not alter his own view of himself. On those rare occasions when his conscience pricked him he would think: ‘But this is how the world works. If I didn’t do it someone else would.’ He used words like honour and principle, faith and patriotism. His voice was rich and deep and persuasive, and when he used those words in his public speeches he would often see tears in the eyes of the townsfolk, who loved him. It was most moving, and, caught up in the moment, he would become quite emotional himself. Raseev Kalikan truly believed only in what was good for Raseev Kalikan. He was his own god and his own ambition. In short, Raseev Kalikan was a politician.

His greatest talent was an innate feeling for which way the political wind was blowing.

When the King’s armies had suffered defeats, and the ruler had turned on his advisers, the day of the Arbiters had dawned. Until now the Arbiters had been a minor force in the political life of Tantria, raging against what they saw as the malign influence of foreigners living within Tantria’s borders. Now they were preeminent. All the ills that had befallen the new nation were laid at the door of foreigners from Dospilis or Naashan or Ventria. Even the few Drenai merchants in the capital were viewed with deep suspicion. The irony was that the new leader of the Arbiters was himself a foreigner: Shakusan Ironmask, the Captain of the Warhounds, the King’s mercenary bodyguard. Raseev had greeted the Arbiter emissaries to the town warmly, and made them welcome in his own home. He had embraced their cause and pictured himself rising through the ranks, and perhaps moving on to a greater role in the future in Mellicane.

When the Arbiters had spoken against the church Raseev had spotted an opportunity not only to advance himself politically, but also to wipe away his debts. The church owned much of the property in the town, and also lent money to aid local businesses. Raseev had taken out three large loans in the past four years, in order to promote and build his business interests. Two of his ventures — timber felling and mining — had failed miserably, leaving him facing large losses. The church men were doomed anyway, so why should he not turn their destruction to his financial benefit?

The problem was that he had not been able to stir up the people sufficiently to attack the church directly. Many of them recalled how the priests had helped them during the time of plague and drought. The attack on the old teacher by some of Raseev’s hired men had been viewed with distaste by many — though no-one had spoken out directly. And when that other priest had caused the Arbiter to stab himself some had even laughed at his misfortune.

But now there was a way forward.

People’s sympathies were with Raseev following the death of Todhe, and word had been spread that the killer had taken refuge in the church, and that the abbot had refused to hand him over to the authorities for trial. It was not true, but it was believed to be, and that was what counted.

Raseev stayed in his house that night, the body of his son laid out in a back room and dressed in his best clothes. He could hear his wife weeping and wailing over the stupid lout. How strange women are, he thought.

Todhe was useless in every way. He was dull, vicious and a constant trial to Raseev. At least in death he could achieve something.

Several of Raseev’s most trusted supporters were out now, stirring the crowds, calling for the church to be stormed and the killer taken.

Antol the Baker was a bitter, vengeful man, and he would lead the crowd. Others who worked closely with Raseev would have weapons hidden, which would be drawn as soon as they were in the church buildings. Once the killings began the mob would rage through the environs of the monastery. Those priests who were not slain would flee.

Then Raseev would locate the Order’s treasury and seize its assets. It would also be a good time to find and destroy their records.

He took a deep breath and began to work on a speech. The murders of the priests could not be overlooked, and he would be forced to speak out against the dangers of hatred, and to have the speech recorded and placed in the council records. Political winds had a habit of changing and, at some point in the future, Raseev could then point out that he had been against the violence.

Taking up a quill pen, he began to make notes. ‘The deaths of so many scar us all,’ he wrote. Then he paused. From the back room the sound of sobbing increased.

‘Will you stop that wailing!’ he shouted through the wall. ‘I am trying to work in here.’

For Skilgannon the night had been long and sleepless, his mind haunted by painful memories, and laden with the guilts of his life. He had led men into battle — and for this he felt little shame — but he had also taken part in the razing of towns, and the awful butchery that accompanied it. He had allowed himself to be swept along on a tide of hatred and vengeance, his sword dripping with the blood of innocence. Those memories would not go away.

When the Queen had addressed her troops before the last battle — the dreadful storming of Perapolis — she had ordered that no-one should be left alive, not one man, woman or child within the besieged city. ‘All are traitors,’ she said. ‘Let their fate be an example for all time.’

The troops had cheered. The civil war had been long and bloody and victory was at hand. Yet it was one thing to say the words, and quite another to be part of the slaughter. As a general Skilgannon had not needed to bloody his sword. And yet he had. He had run through the alleys of Perapolis, slashing and killing until his clothes and armour were drenched in blood.

The following day he had walked through the now silent streets. Corpses were everywhere. Thousands had been killed. He saw the bodies of children and babes, old women and young girls. His heart had been sickened beyond despair at the sight.

On the high tower wall Skilgannon stared up at the fading stars. If there was a supreme being — and this he doubted — then his sins would never be washed away. He was a damned soul, in a damned world.

‘Where were you when the children were being slaughtered?’ he asked, looking up into the vast blackness. ‘Where were your tears that day?’

Something glinted in the distance and he saw another fire in the town.

Some other poor soul was being tortured and killed. An empty anger swept through Skilgannon. Idly he touched the locket on the chain round his neck. Within it was all that was left of Dayan.

Three days they had shared after his return from the war. Her pregnancy had not yet begun to show, but there was more colour in her cheeks, and a silken sheen to her golden hair. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, and the joy of her condition made her radiant. The first signs of problems began on a bright afternoon as they sat in the garden, overlooking the marble pool and the tall fountain. Sweat was gleaming on her pale features, and Skilgannon suggested they move to the shade. She had leaned heavily on him, then groaned. He had swept her into his arms and carried her inside, laying her down on a long couch. Her face had taken on a waxy sheen. She reached up and pressed her fingers into her armpit. ‘So painful,’ she said. Opening her dress he saw the skin of her left armpit was swollen and bruised. It seemed as if a large cyst was forming.

Lifting her once more he carried her upstairs to the main bedroom, and helped her undress. Then he sent for the surgeon.

The fever had begun swiftly. By the late afternoon large purple swellings had appeared in her armpits and groin. The surgeon arrived just before dusk. Skilgannon would never forget the man’s reaction when he examined Dayan. Full of quiet confidence, shrewd and resourceful, he had stepped inside the room and bowed to Skilgannon. Then he had walked to the bedside and drawn back the covers. It was in that moment that Skilgannon knew the worst. The surgeon had blanched, and taken an involuntary step backwards. All confidence fled from him. He continued to back away towards the door. Skilgannon grabbed him. ‘What is it? What is the matter with you?’

The Black Plague. She has the Black Plague.’

Pulling himself free of the shocked Skilgannon the surgeon had fled the palace. The servants had followed within hours. Skilgannon sat beside the delirious Dayan, placing water-cooled towels on her feverish body. He did not know what else to do.

Towards dawn one of the huge purple swellings under her arm burst.

For a time her fever dropped, and she awoke. Skilgannon cleaned away the pus and the blood, and covered her with a fresh sheet of white satin. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her, stroking the sweat-drenched blond hair back from her brow.

‘A little better. Thirsty.’ He helped her drink. Then she sagged back to the pillow. ‘Am I dying, Olek?’

‘No. I will not allow it,’ he said, forcing a lightness of tone he did not feel.

‘Do you love me?’

‘Who could not, Dayan? All who meet you are enchanted by you.’ It was true. He had never known anyone of such gentle disposition. There was no malice in Dayan, no hatred. She even treated the servants as friends, and chatted with them as equals. Her laughter was infectious, and lifted the spirits of all who heard it.

‘I wish we had met before you knew her,’ she said. Skilgannon’s heart sank. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I have tried not to be jealous, Olek.

But I cannot help it. It is hard when you love someone with all your heart, and yet you know they love another.’

He did not know how to answer her, and sat quietly, holding her hand.

Finally he said: ‘You are a finer woman than she can ever be, Dayan. In every way.’

‘But you regret marrying me.’

‘No! You are my wife, Dayan. You and I together.’ He sighed. ‘Until death.’

‘Oh, Olek. Do you mean that?’

‘With all my heart.’ She squeezed his hand, and closed her eyes. He sat with her through the dawn, and into the day. She awoke again towards dusk. The fever had returned and she cried out in pain. Once more he bathed her face and body, trying to reduce the inflammation. Her beautiful face took on a sunken look, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. A second swelling burst at her groin, staining the sheet. As night came on Skilgannon felt a dryness in his throat, and sweat began to drip from his brow into his eyes. He felt tenderness in his armpits. Gently he probed the area. Already the swellings had begun. Dayan sighed, then took a deep breath. ‘I think it is passing, Olek. The pain is fading.’

‘That is good.’

‘You look tired, my love. You should get some rest.’

‘I am fine.’

‘I have good news,’ she said, with a smile, ‘though now is probably not the time to share it. I was hoping to be sitting in the garden with you, watching the sunset.’

‘This is a fine time for good news.’ Skilgannon tried to drink some water, but his throat was swollen and inflamed, and it was difficult to swallow.

‘Sorai cast the runes for me. It will be a boy. Your son. Are you happy?’

It was as if a white hot iron had been plunged into his heart. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very happy.’

‘I hoped you would be.’ She was silent for a while, and when she spoke next the delirium had returned. She talked of lunching with her father, and what a fine time they had had. ‘He bought me a necklace in the market. Green stones. Let me show you.’ She struggled to sit up.

‘I have seen it. It is very pretty. Rest, Dayan.’

‘Oh, I am not tired, Olek. Can we go for a walk in the garden?’

‘In a little while.’

She chattered on, and then, in mid-sentence, stopped. At first he thought she was sleeping, but her face was utterly still. Reaching out, he gently pressed her throat. There was no pulse. A searing pain lanced his belly and he doubled over. After a while it passed. He gazed down at Dayan, then lay down beside her, drawing her into an embrace. ‘I did not choose to fall in love with Jianna,’ he said. ‘If I could have chosen it would have been you. You are everything a man could desire, Dayan. You deserved better than me.’

He lay there for some hours, as the fever grew. Finally delirium took him. He tried to fight it, forcing himself from the bed and falling to the floor. Then he had staggered to the gardens, and out into the meadows beyond.

Skilgannon remembered little of what followed, save that he had tumbled down a steep incline, then crawled towards a distant building. He seemed to recall voices, and then gentle hands lifting him.

He had awoken to a silent room in a church hospital. His bed was beside a window, and through that window he saw a cloudless sky, rich and blue. A white bird had glided across his field of vision. In that moment everything froze and Skilgannon experienced… what? He still did not know. For a single heartbeat he had felt something akin to perfection, as if he and the bird, and the sky, and the room were somehow one and bathed in the love of the universe. Then it passed and the pain returned. Not just the physical pain from the huge, lanced cysts and the terrible toll they had taken on his body, but the agony of loss as he remembered that Dayan was gone from the world, no longer to hold his hand, or to kiss his lips. No more to lie beside him on still summer evenings, her hand stroking his face.

Despair clung to his heart like a raven.

A young priest visited him on that first day and sat at his bedside. ‘You are a lucky man, general. Aye, and a tough one. By all rights you should be dead. I have never seen any man fight off the plague as you did. At one point your heart was pounding so fast it was beyond my ability to keep count.’

‘Was the plague contained to our area?’

‘No, sir. It is sweeping through the kingdom and beyond. The death toll will be awesome.’

‘The revenge of the Source for our sins,’ said Skilgannon.

The priest shook his head. ‘We do not believe in a god of revenge, sir.

The plague was spread by man’s error and greed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the northeast there is a tribe, the Kolear. You have heard of them?’

‘Kin to the Nadir and the Chiatze. They are nomads.’

‘Indeed, sir. One of their customs is that if they see a dead marmot -

small furry creatures that live in the lowlands — they move on. According to their beliefs the marmots contain the souls of Kolear wise men. That is why the Kolear do not hunt the creatures. A dead marmot is seen as a sign that the wise spirits have moved away and that the tribe should seek fresh pastures. During the war many of the Kolear sided with the Queen’s enemies, and were driven from their lands, or slain. Other non-Kolear residents moved in. They saw the marmots and decided to trap them for their fur. It is good fur. What they did not realize was that the marmots carried the seeds of a plague. At first the hunters and trappers fell sick.

Then their families. Then travellers and merchants who bought the fur.

Then it struck the eastern cities, and people fled, carrying the plague with them. Strange, is it not, that the backward Kolear had, within their simplistic theological beliefs, a way to avoid the plague, yet we — more civilized and knowledgeable — gathered it and spread it?’

Skilgannon was too weary to debate the point and drifted off to sleep.

Often now, though, he thought back to the priest’s words. It was not strange at all. One of the first of the Prophets wrote: The Tree of Knowledge bears fruit of arrogance.

Skilgannon sighed, and once more became Brother Lantern. He stripped off his clothing and began to exercise. Slowly he freed his mind of all tension, then smoothly ran through the repertoire of stretching and balance. Finally he began a series of swift, sudden moves, his hands lancing out, slashing the air, his body twirling and leaping, feet kicking high. Sweat-drenched, he pulled on his robes, and knelt on the stone floor.

For the first time in many days he thought of his swords, and wondered what the abbot had done with them. Had he sold them, or merely cast them in a pit? Giving up the Swords of Night and Day had been harder than he could ever have imagined. Even the act of passing them to Cethelin had caused his hands to tremble and his heart to flutter in panic.

For weeks afterwards he had struggled against a desire to retrieve them, to hold them again. He had felt physically sick for days, unable to hold down solid food. It was the opposite of the exhilaration he had experienced when the Queen gave them to him. When his hands first touched the ivory handles a sense of strength and purpose had flowed through his limbs. It seemed incomprehensible then that they had been created by the loathsome hag in the faded red gown who had stood alongside the young Queen. Mostly bald, wisps of straggly white hair clung to her skull like mist on rock. Once she would have been heavily built, but now the wrinkled skin of her face hung loose over the folds of her neck.

Her eyes were rheumy, and one was marred by a grey cataract.

‘Are they pleasing to you, Olek?’ she had asked. Her dry voice raised gooseflesh on the back of his neck, and he looked away as she smiled, showing rotted teeth.

‘They are very fine,’ he said.

‘My swords are blessed,’ she told him. ‘I made one for Gorben many years ago. With it he almost conquered the world. Now I have made more.

Mighty weapons. They enhance the strength and speed of the wielder. The blades you carry now are fit for a king.’

‘I have no wish to be a king.’

The Old Woman laughed. ‘Which is why the Queen grants them to you, Olek Skilgannon. You are loyal — and that is a quality so rare as to be priceless. You will win many battles with these swords. You will win back the lands of Naashan for your Queen.’

Later, as he sat alone with the young Queen, Skilgannon voiced his disquiet. ‘The Old Woman is evil,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to use her swords.’

The Queen had laughed. ‘Oh, Olek! You are too rigid in your thinking.’

She had sat beside him, and he had smelt the perfume of her raven hair.

‘She is everything you say — and probably more. But we must win Naashan back and I will use every weapon I can gather.’ She drew a knife from her belt and held it up to the light. It was long and curved, the blade exquisitely engraved with ancient runes. ‘She gave me this. Is it not beautiful?’

‘Aye, it is.’

‘It is the Discerning Blade. It enhances wisdom. When I hold it I can see so many things. And so clearly. The Old Woman is evil, but she has proved herself loyal. Without her you and I would have been killed on that awful night. You know that. I need her strength, Olek. I need to rebuild the kingdom. As a vassal state to Gorben we could not grow. Now he is dead we can fulfil our own destiny. Take the swords. Use them. Use them for me.’

He had bowed his head, then lifted her hand to his lips. ‘For you I would do anything, majesty.’

‘Not anything, Olek,’ she said softly.

‘No,’ he agreed.

‘Do you love her more than you love me?’

‘No. I will never love anyone that much. I did not know I was capable of loving with such intensity.’

‘You could still come to my bed, Olek,’ she whispered, sliding in close to him and kissing his cheek. ‘I could be Sashan again. Just for you.’

He rose from the couch with a groan. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If I did that it would rip away all my reasoning. We would destroy everything we have fought for. Everything your father died for. You have my heart, Jianna. You have my soul. I loved you as Sashan, and I love you now. But it cannot be! There is nothing more I can give. Dayan is my wife. She is sweet, and she is kind.

And soon she will be the mother of my child. I will be loyal to her. I owe her that.’

Then he had taken the Swords of Night and Day, and ridden back to the war.

Now alone in his small room Skilgannon placed his hand over the locket round his neck. ‘If the temple exists, Dayan,’ he whispered, ‘I will find it.

You will live again.’

He stayed for a while kneeling upon the floor, lost in thoughts of the past. Had he been a coward to refuse the demands of his heart? Was his love for Jianna so great, or not great enough? Could he have defeated the princes as well as the Ventrian overlords and their supporters? His mind told him no. He and Jianna would have been dragged down and betrayed.

His arrogance whispered the opposite. ‘You could have beaten them all, and been as one with the woman of your soul’s desire.’

Such thoughts were reinforced by what had happened following the gift of the swords. During the next two years all enemies had fallen before him.

One by one the cities held by Ventrian supporters had been taken, or had surrendered to his conquering armies without a fight. Yet, as Jianna’s power grew, she had begun to change. Their relationship cooled. She took many lovers, men of power and ambition, then leached away their strength before tossing them aside. Poor, demented Damalon had been the last. He had followed at her heels like a puppy, begging for scraps.

Jianna had sent Damalon away on that last night, after the massacre of Perapolis, and had entertained Skilgannon in her battle tent. He had arrived with the blood of the slaughtered on his clothes. Jianna, dressed in a gown of shimmering white, her black hair braided with silver wire, looked at him disdainfully. ‘Could you not have bathed before coming into my presence, general?’

‘A tidal wave could not wash this blood from me,’ he said. ‘It will be upon me all my days.’

‘Is the mighty Skilgannon growing soft?’

‘It was wrong, Jianna. It was evil on the grandest scale. Babies with their skulls smashed against walls, children with their guts torn out. What kind of a victory was this?’

‘My victory,’ she snapped. ‘My enemies are dead. Their children are dead. Now we can rebuild and grow without fear of revenge.’

‘Aye, well, you’ll have no need of a soldier now. So, with your leave, I’ll return to my home and do my best to forget this awful day.’

‘Yes, go home,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Go to your Dayan. Rest for a few weeks. Then return. There will always be a need for good soldiers. We have retaken the cities of Naashan, but I wish to reestablish the old borders that were in place when my father was king.’

‘You will invade Matapesh and Cadia now?’

‘Not immediately — but soon. Then Datia and Dospilis.’

‘What has happened to you, Jianna? Once we talked of justice and of peace and prosperity and freedom. These are the virtues we fought for. We had only contempt for the vanity of Gorben and the desire of conquerors to build empires.’

‘I was little more than a child then,’ she snapped. ‘Now I have grown.

Children talk of silly dreams. I now deal in realities. Those who support me I reward. Those who stand against me die. Do you no longer love me, Olek?’

‘I will always love you, Sashan,’ he said simply.

Her features softened then, and for a moment she was the girl he had saved in the forest of Delian. Then the moment passed. Her dark eyes narrowed and held his gaze.

‘Do not seek to leave me, Olek. I could not allow it.’

Pushing aside all dreams of the past Skilgannon climbed upon his narrow bed. He fell asleep.

And dreamed of the White Wolf.

It was a beautiful dawn, the sky bathed in gold, the few clouds drenched in colour: rich red at the base and glowing charcoal at the crown. Cethelin stood on the high tower, absorbing the beauty with all his being. The air tasted sweet and he closed his eyes and sought to still the trembling of his hands.

He did not lack faith, but he did not want to die. The distant town was quiet, though once more smoke hung in the air over ruined buildings.

Soon the mob would begin to gather, and then, like the angry sea of his dream, it would surge towards the church buildings.

Cethelin was old, and had seen such events too often in his long life.

Always they followed a pattern. The majority in the mob would, at first, merely stand around, awaiting events. Like a pack of hunting hounds, held on invisible leashes. Then the evil among them — always so few — would initiate the horror. The leashes would snap, the pack surge forward.

Cethelin felt another stab of fear at the thought.

Raseev Kalikan would be the ringleader. Cethelin tried to love all those he met, no matter how petty or cruel they might appear. It was hard to love Raseev — not because he was evil but because he was empty. Cethelin pitied him. He had no moral values, no sense of spirituality. Raseev was a man consumed by thoughts of self. He was too canny, however, to be at the forefront of the mob. Even with plans of murder already in place he would be looking to the future — to show that his hands were clean. No, it would be the vile Antol and his ghastly wife, Marja. Cethelin shivered and berated himself for such judgemental thoughts. For years Marja had attended church, making herself responsible for organizing functions and gathering donations. She saw herself as holy and wise. Yet her conversations inevitably led to the judgement of others. ‘That woman from Mellicane, Father. You know she is having an affair with the merchant, Callian. She should not be welcome at our services.’ ‘You must have heard the dreadful noise that the washerwoman, Athyla, makes during evensong.

She cannot hit a note. Could you not ask her to refrain from singing, Father?’

‘The Source hears the song from the heart, not from the throat,’

Cethelin had told her.

Then had come the awful day when — after a fundraising for the poor -

Brother Labberan discovered that Marja had ‘borrowed’ from the fund.

The sum had not been great, some forty silver pieces. Cethelin had asked her to return the money. At first she had been defiant, and denied the charge. Later, with proof offered, she maintained that she had merely borrowed the sum and had every intention of returning it. She promised it would be replaced the following week. She had never since attended any service. Nor had the money been repaid. Brother Labberan had requested the matter be brought before the Watch, but Cethelin had refused.

Since then both Marja and her husband had joined the ranks of the Arbiters, and had spoken against the church. The attack on Brother Labberan had been orchestrated by Antol, and Marja had stood by, screaming for them to kick him and make him bleed.

These two would be at the forefront of the mob. They would be the ones baying for blood.

The door to the tower was pushed open. Cethelin turned to see which of the priests had disturbed his meditations, but it was the dog, Jesper. It limped forward, then sat looking up at him. ‘The world will go on, Jesper,’

he said, patting the hound’s large head.

‘Dogs will be fed, and people will be born, and loved. I know this, and yet my heart is filled with terror.’

Raseev Kalikan was in the front rank of the crowd as it moved over the old bridge and onto the slope before the old castle buildings. Alongside him was the burly bearded figure of Paolin Meltor, the Arbiter from Mellicane. His injured leg was healing well, but walking any distance still caused him pain. Raseev had urged him to stay behind, but the Arbiter had refused. ‘It will be worth a little discomfort to watch those traitors die.’

‘Let us not talk of death, my friend. We are merely looking to see them hand over the boy who killed my son.’ There were others present during the conversation and Raseev ignored the look of shock and surprise on the face of Paolin Meltor. ‘If they refuse to do their honest duty then we must enter the monastery and arrest them all,’ he continued. Taking Paolin by the arm he led him away from the listening crowd. ‘All will be as you wish it,’ he whispered. ‘But we must think of the future. We must not be seen to go to the church as a murdering mob. We seek justice. A few angry men will lose their heads and a regrettable — deeply regrettable — massacre will take place. You understand?’

‘Whatever!’ snapped Paolin. ‘I care nothing for this… this subterfuge.

They are traitors and they deserve to die. That is enough for me.’

‘Then you must do as your conscience dictates,’ said Raseev smoothly.

Paolin moved away to walk alongside Antol and Marja. Raseev hung back just a little.

He glanced around at the crowd. It was some three hundred strong. It seemed to Raseev likely that the priests would bar the gates, but they were of wood and would burn swiftly enough. Antol had made sure some of the men were carrying jugs of oil and there was dry wood aplenty on the slopes before the castle. Barring the gates would suit Raseev. It would give the crowd time to grow angry.

The captain of the Watch, Seregas, approached Raseev as they moved on. Seregas was a canny northerner who had been stationed in Skepthia for the last two years. He had reorganized the Watch, increasing foot patrols in the more wealthy areas and the merchant district. For this service Seregas levied extra monies from shopkeepers and businessmen. It was purely voluntary. No-one was forced to pay, or threatened if they did not. Curiously, those who did not pay were certain to see their businesses or homes robbed. Taverns and eating places whose owners chose to remain outside the levy saw fights and scuffles break out, and a significant decrease in their turnover as customers stayed away from their troubled premises.

Seregas was a tall, thin man, with deep-set dark eyes and a thin mouth, partly hidden by a thick beard. The previous day he had come to Raseev’s home. Raseev had taken him to his study and poured him a goblet of wine.

‘You know the boy’s tracks led away from the church, Raseev,’ he had said.

It was not a question.

The slope is rocky. He probably doubled back.’

‘Doubtful at best.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘It is quite simple, councillor. You will ask them to surrender a boy they do not have. Therefore they must refuse. I am sure that this misunderstanding will lead to bloodshed.’

Raseev looked at him closely. ‘What is it that you want, Seregas?’

‘There is a wanted man at the church. There is a small reward for him.

I’ll take his body.’

‘Wanted by whom?’

That is none of your affair, councillor.’

Raseev had smiled. ‘You are becoming rich, Seregas. A small reward would interest you not at all. It occurs to me that — if matters get out of hand — all the bodies will be burned. Mobs and fire, Seregas.’

Seregas sipped his wine. ‘Very well, councillor, then I shall be more open with you. One of the priests is worth a great deal of money.’

‘As I asked before: to whom?’

To the Naashanite Queen. I have already sent a rider to Naashan. It should take him around five days to reach the border, and another two weeks, perhaps, for my letter to reach the capital.’

‘Who is this priest?’

‘Skilgannon.’

The Damned?’

‘The very same. We will need to keep his body for viewing. If we remove the inner organs then cover the corpse with salt it will dry and remain largely intact. Enough for them to see the tattoos. He has a spider on his forearm, a panther upon his chest and an eagle upon his back. In all other respects he also matches the description: dark-haired, tall with eyes of brilliant blue. After he arrived here the abbot sold a Ventrian pure bred black stallion for more than three hundred raq. It is Skilgannon.’

‘How much is she willing to pay?’

Seregas chuckled. ‘The question is, councillor, how much must I pay you?’

‘Half.’

‘I think not. You are organizing murders. Times change, as do political ideologies. You might well need someone in authority to give evidence of your good will in these troubled times.’

Raseev refilled the goblets. ‘Indeed so, captain. Then what do you suggest?’

‘One third.’

‘And that sum would be?’

‘A thousand raq.’

‘Sweet Heaven! What did he do to her? Slay her firstborn?’

‘I do not know. Are we agreed, councillor?’

‘We are, Seregas. But tell me, why did you not merely arrest and hold him?’

‘Firstly, he has committed no crime here. More importantly he is a deadly killer, Raseev — with or without weapons. I don’t doubt that many of the tales are exaggerated, but it is well known that he entered the forest of Delian alone and slew eleven warriors who had captured the rebel princess

— as the Queen then was. You also heard how he dealt with the Arbiter. I saw that, Raseev. The skill was extraordinary.’

‘You think he will fight tomorrow?’

‘It will not matter against three or four hundred. He is not a god. Sheer weight of numbers will drag him down.’

In the bright light of morning Raseev walked with the crowd, Seregas beside him, three other soldiers of the Watch close by. As they approached the old castle Raseev saw that the gates were open. The abbot, Cethelin, was standing beneath the gateway arch, two priests alongside him. One was tall and lean, the other black-bearded and heavily built.

‘The tall one is Skilgannon,’ whispered Seregas. Raseev held back, allowing other people to pass him.

‘Very wise,’ said Seregas.