White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER SEVEN

RABALYN SLEPT FOR A WHILE, AND THEN AWOKE, GASPING, FROM A nightmare. His face was cold. Reaching up he touched his cheek.

It was clammy and wet. A little rain had fallen and his clothes were damp.

The healing skin on his face and leg began to itch and burn. Ignoring the pain, he got to his feet. Skilgannon was sitting with his back to a tree. The hood of his cloak was raised and his head was bowed. Rabalyn could not tell whether he was asleep or not. Carefully and silently he moved towards the warrior. Skilgannon’s head came up. In the moonlight it seemed his eyes were the colour of burnished iron.

‘I can’t sleep,’ said Rabalyn lamely.

‘Bad dreams?’

‘Yes. I don’t remember them now, but they were frightening.’

‘Come and sit,’ said Skilgannon. Rabalyn brushed wet leaves from a flat rock and settled himself down upon it. Skilgannon tossed him a folded blanket and the boy gratefully wrapped it round his shoulders.

‘That man with the axe was incredible,’ he said. ‘He’s so old and yet he beat all those men.’

‘He’s a former Immortal. Tough men,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Hard to believe any army could have defeated them.’

‘Who defeated them?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘The Drenai — at a place called Skein Pass. Five years ago now. That’s where Gorben died.’

‘I remember when the Emperor died,’ said Rabalyn. ‘We had a week of mourning back in Skepthia. We all had to have ashes in our hair. It was really itchy. Everyone said he was a great man. Then a little while later everyone said he was a terrible man. It was really confusing. Which one was he?’

‘Both, I guess,’ said Skilgannon. ‘When he died he was the Emperor of all the lands of the east. No-one knew then whether his heirs would prove as capable. So people were careful with their opinions. They praised the dead Emperor. Then, when the civil wars broke out, and nations like Tantria and Naashan broke away from the empire, they became more daring, talking of him as a conquering tyrant.’

‘Did you know him?’ asked the lad. ‘Was he a tyrant?’

‘No, I did not know him. I saw him once. He came to Naashan — two thousand Immortals with him. There was a massive parade. Flowers were strewn along the Great Avenue, thousands of them. And tens of thousands of people gathered to watch him ride by. He was a fine-looking man, broad-shouldered, keen of eye. A tyrant? Yes. He killed any who opposed him, and even killed those he thought would oppose him. And their families. His devoted followers maintained he was driven by a desire to see peace across all the lands of the empire. For a while, once he had conquered, there was peace. So he was both. Great and terrible.’

‘Were you a soldier then?’

‘No. I was little older than you. I went to the parade with my friend Greavas.’

‘Why did the Emperor come to Naashan?’

‘For the coronation of a new king. His puppet king. It’s a long story, and I’m too tired to tell it all. In brief he had invaded Naashan and made it a part of his empire. The Naashanite Emperor was dead, killed in battle, and Gorben put his own man on the throne. His name was Bokram. At first most of the people were content. The war was over and peace looked immensely attractive.’

Rabalyn yawned. All this talk of history was tiring and confusing. War bringing peace, peace bringing war. Yet he did not want to sleep. There was something reassuring, even comforting, about sitting in the night silence and talking to Skilgannon. ‘Did he have a great horse?’ he asked.

Skilgannon smiled. ‘Yes, let us talk of truly important matters. He had a wonderful horse. Seventeen hands tall, and black as deepest night. The bridle was decked with gold — as was the saddle. It was a war horse the like of which I have never seen since.’

‘I would like a horse like that.’

‘What man wouldn’t?’

‘Did the Immortals have good horses?’

‘No. They were foot soldiers, heavily armoured. They marched in perfect unison. They wore ceremonial armour of black and gold. Handsome men, with fierce, proud eyes. I watched them. I was awestruck. The name they carried was a fitting one — for they seemed like gods to me.’

‘Why were they called Immortals?’

‘After every battle the Immortals who died would be replaced by men promoted from other regiments. Therefore there were always ten thousand of them. In that way the regiment itself was immortal. You follow? But the name came to mean something else. The Immortals were unbeatable. Like gods, they never lost.’

‘But they did lose.’

‘Aye, they did. Once. And that was the end of them.’

Rabalyn eased himself off the rock and lay down. The blanket felt warm on his shoulders. Resting his head on his arm he closed his eyes. ‘How did you become a soldier?’ he asked sleepily.

‘I was born to it,’ said Skilgannon. ‘My father was Decado Firefist. His father was Olek the Horse Lord. His father was Decado the Smiter. A line of warriors, Rabalyn. Our family has fought battles throughout time. Or that’s what my father used to say.’ Rabalyn heard the man sigh. ‘Always other men’s battles. Always dying in one lost cause after another.’

‘Will your son be a warrior?’

‘I have no sons. Perhaps that is just as well. The world needs no more warriors. It needs fine young men like you; men who can become teachers, or farmers, or surgeons. Or actors or gardeners or poets.’

Skilgannon fell silent. Rabalyn wanted to ask him more questions concerning Gorben’s horse. But as he tried to think of them he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Skilgannon stared at the sleeping Rabalyn. For the merest moment he felt a touch of emotional warmth towards the lad. Then it passed.

Skilgannon had no place in his heart for such feelings. Friendship weakened a warrior. A man comes into this world alone, and he is alone when he leaves it. Far better to rely on no-one, to love no-one. He sighed.

Easy to say. He could even believe it — until thoughts of Jianna seeped into his mind.

The Witch Queen.

It remained baffling how one so beautiful could have become so cold and deadly.

Weariness washed over him. Leaning back against the tree he closed his eyes.

The parade had been remarkable to the fifteen-year-old Skilgannon. It was the first time he had seen elephants. Standing alongside Greavas, he had been totally stunned by the majesty and power of the six beasts. Silver chain mail had been fitted to their foreheads and chests. It glittered in the morning sunshine. And the tusks! At least four feet long, they gleamed like white gold. Wooden towers had been placed upon their enormous backs, each protecting four Ventrian bowmen.

The beasts are less useful than they look,’ said Greavas. ‘They can be panicked and turned. Then they will stampede back through their own lines.’

‘But they are magnificent.’

‘Indeed. Wondrous creatures.’

Then had come the new Naashanite lancers, loyal to Bokram, the soon to be crowned king. Bokram himself rode at their head, a slim man, thin-faced and sharp of eye. He wore a tall, curved silver helm and breastplate, but his chain mail, elaborately fashioned, was of white gold.

‘Oh, how the fallen are mighty,’ whispered Greavas.

All Naashanites knew of Bokram’s history. Stripped of his titles three years before, Bokram had been banished by the old Emperor, only to flee to Ventria and enter the service of Gorben. Soon after that the Ventrians had invaded western Naashan. For two years the Naashanites had held out, but then the Emperor himself had fallen in battle, his body pierced by the iron swords of the Immortals. It was whispered that, as the Emperor lay dying, Bokram had run to his side and spoken to him, before slowly pushing a dagger through the old man’s eye. With the Naashanite army in flight, Bokram advanced into the capital. Today he would be crowned king in the presence of the true ruler, Gorben of Ventria.

‘You shouldn’t speak against Bokram,’ Skilgannon warned Greavas. ‘He is a harsh man, and they say all whispers reach his ears eventually.’

‘I expect they are right — whoever they are,’ said Greavas. ‘There have been many arrests among the noble classes. Others have fled. There is even a death warrant against the Emperor’s widow, and his daughter, Jianna.’

‘Why would they want to kill women?’

‘It is the normal practice, Olek. All members of the old blood royal must die. That way there will be no men to rise against Bokram and his new dynasty — and no women to birth new enemies for the future.’

‘I hope they don’t find them then.’

‘So do I,’ muttered Greavas. ‘She is the sweetest child. Well, when I say child, she is almost sixteen and about to be dazzlingly beautiful.’

‘You have seen her?’

‘Oh, yes, many times. I have been teaching her poetry and dance.’

Skilgannon was amazed. He said nothing, though, for at that moment the Emperor Gorben came into sight, riding the most magnificent war horse. He was a powerful man, his hair and beard jet black and gleaming.

Unlike Bokram he wore no gilded chain mail. His armour was of the highest quality, but designed for use rather than ornament. Behind him marched two thousand Immortals. ‘Now there is the real power,’ said Greavas. ‘Look closely upon him, Olek. He is — at this moment — the most powerful man in the world. He has it all. Charm, strength, charisma and enormous courage. He is adored by his men and he has a purpose. There is only one flaw.’

‘And what is that?’

‘He has no children. His empire is built, therefore, on shifting sand. He is the mortar which binds the castle walls. If he dies the building will crumble.’

They stood and watched as the parade passed, then eased their way back into the crowds and headed along the broad avenue towards home.

‘Did you see Boranius?’ asked Greavas.

‘No. Where was he?’

‘Riding just behind Bokram. He is a captain of the Lancers now. Not bad for an eighteen-year-old — though it helps if the new king is your uncle, I suppose. Now we best move swiftly or you will be late for your appointment with Malanek.’

‘Are you coming to watch?’

Greavas shook his head. ‘I have matters to attend to. I will see you this evening. Best run, Olek. Malanek is not a man to keep waiting.’

Greavas waved a farewell and walked across the avenue. Skilgannon watched him go. The man had been most secretive of late, disappearing sometimes for days without explanation. Now Skilgannon had learned he had been tutoring the princess Jianna. Skilgannon grinned. Greavas had spent much of his adult life portraying princesses on stage, so who better to instruct her?

Following Greavas’s advice he began to run through the streets, cutting through the alleyways, and up the steep Hill of the Cedars. Priests in yellow robes were leaving the domed temple, and he darted between them, continuing on to the old academy buildings. They had been sold several years before, and the barracks had been refashioned into apartments for rich visitors to Naashan. Close to the palace, they made ideal temporary homes for visiting courtiers and ambassadors.

One of the guards at the gate waved at Skilgannon as the youth ran by.

They had long since ceased to ask him for his pass. This both pleased and disturbed the lad. It made access to Malanek more swift, yet it was sloppy.

Many of the residents of the Old Academy were powerful men. As Decado had once explained, all powerful men have enemies. It was a natural law.

If the guards became complacent, then one day the wrong person would be allowed in, and blood would flow.

However, it was not his problem. Skilgannon ran up the stone stairs to the former dining hall. It was now an indoor exercise area, equipped with climbing ropes, vaulting frames, baths and massage areas. There were targets for bowmen and javelin throwers, and a long rack of swords, some of wood, but others of sharp iron. A separate rack held smaller projectile weapons: knives and shimmering circular pieces with serrated edges.

Malanek was waiting by the far sword rack, testing the balance of a matched pair of sabres. Skilgannon paused to watch the swordmaster. He was tall and, though appearing slender, was powerfully built. The lower part of his head had been shaved up to the ears and around to the temples. The dark hair of his crown was cropped short into a wedge-shaped crest at the front, while at the back it fell away like a horse’s tail. He was naked from the waist up. Upon his chest was a tattooed panther and both forearms were also tattooed, one with a spider, the other with a snake that wound around his arm, the head emerging on his right shoulder. The swordmaster did not acknowledge the boy’s presence.

Instead he walked out to the centre of the hall.

He swung the sabres gently, then, with increasing pace, he began to leap and twirl, loosening his body. Malanek had incredible grace.

Skilgannon waited in excited anticipation for the finale. He always enjoyed it. Malanek flipped the blades into the air, then launched himself into a forward roll. As he came to his feet he raised his arms, his fingers closing on the hilts of the spinning swords. Skilgannon clapped. Malanek bowed, but did not smile. Without a word he flung one of the blades towards Skilgannon. The razor sharp sword spun through the air.

Skilgannon focused on it, then swiftly stepped to the side, his hand snaking for the hilt. He almost had it, but it slipped from his fingers. The blade clattered down, glancing from his bare leg. A little blood began to flow.

Malanek strolled forward and examined the shallow cut. ‘Ah, it is nothing,’ he said. ‘It will seal itself. Go and prepare.’

‘I almost had it.’

‘Almost doesn’t count. You tried to think it into your hand. Can’t do that, boy.’

For two hours Malanek pushed Skilgannon through a gruelling set of exercises: running, climbing, vaulting and lifting. Every ten minutes or so he would allow one minute of rest, then begin again. At the last he took the two sabres, handed one to Skilgannon, then launched into a sudden attack. Skilgannon was surprised. Normally he was told to buckle on the padded leather chest armour, and the arm protectors. Often, when the practice was intense, Malanek would insist he also wear a head guard.

Now he had nothing. He defended himself as best he could. Malanek was also devoid of armour, and Skilgannon made no attempt to pierce his guard. The swordmaster stepped back. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

he asked coldly.

‘Defending myself, sir.’

‘And the best method of defence is?’

‘Attack. But you are wearing…’

‘Understand me, boy,’ snapped Malanek. ‘This session will end with blood. Either mine or yours. Now raise your blade, or place it on the floor and leave.’

Skilgannon looked at the man, then placed his sabre on the floor, and swung towards the stairs.

‘Are you frightened?’ hissed Malanek. Skilgannon turned.

‘Only of hurting you, sir,’ he said.

‘Come here.’ Skilgannon walked back to the swordmaster. ‘Look at my body. See the scars. This one,’ he said, tapping his chest, ‘was a lance I thought had killed me. And this was a dagger thrust. And this,’ he went on, pointing to a jagged cut alongside the snake head on his shoulder, ‘was given to me by your friend Boranius during a practice. I bleed and I survive. We can play in this room with our blades for an eternity and you will never be a warrior. Because until you face a genuine threat you cannot know how you will cope with it. Follow me.’ The swordmaster walked to the far wall. There was a shelf there. Upon it he had laid bandages, a curved needle and a length of thread, a jug of wine and a jar of honey. ‘One of us will bleed today. The likelihood is that it will be you, Olek. Pain and suffering. If you are skilled when we fight the wound will be small. If not, it may be serious. You might even die.’

‘This makes no sense,’ said Skilgannon.

‘And war does?’ countered Malanek. ‘Make your choice. Leave or fight.

If you leave I never want to see you again in my training hall.’

Skilgannon wanted to leave, but, at fifteen, he could not have borne the shame of such a withdrawal. ‘I shall fight,’ he said.

‘Then let us do it.’

Sitting now in the woods Skilgannon remembered the pain of the stitches. The cut on his chest was some seven inches long. He had bled like a stuck pig. The wound had pained him for weeks. The fight had been intense, and somewhere within it, he had forgotten that Malanek was his teacher. As the blades whirled and clashed Skilgannon had fought as if his life depended on the outcome. At the last he had risked death to send a deadly lunge at Malanek’s throat. Only the speed and innate skill of the swordmaster had allowed him to duck and sway away from the death stroke. Even so the point had opened his cheek, spraying blood into the air.

Only in that moment did Skilgannon realize that — even as he avoided the death thrust — Malanek’s blade had sliced across his chest. He stepped back as the blood began to flow. Malanek had turned his own blade at the last possible second, merely scoring the skin. Had he wished he could have plunged the sabre through Skilgannon’s heart.

The two combatants had looked at one another. ‘I hope one day to have half your skill,’ the boy had said.

‘You will be better, Olek. One more year and I will have nothing more to teach you. You will be a fine swordsman. One of the best.’

‘As good as Boranius?’

‘Hard to say, boy. Men like Boranius are rare. He is a natural killer, with faster hands than any man I’ve ever known.’

‘Could you beat him?’

‘Not any more. His skills surpass mine. Already he is as good as Agasarsis, and they don’t come much better than that.’

By mid-morning the travellers had made some eleven miles, emerging from thick forests and out onto rolling farmland. They rode along the column of refugees, hundreds of weary people trudging towards a place they hoped would offer at least transient security. Heavy clouds masked the sun, and the day was grey and cool. Braygan had at last managed to find his rhythm in the saddle — at least for the trot. The canter saw him bounce awkwardly and grip the saddle pommel. Skilgannon took to riding ahead, scanning the land for sign of hostile riders. He saw several cavalry patrols, but none approached the refugees.

As afternoon faded towards dusk the clouds cleared, and bright sunshine shone on the column. It lifted the spirits of the fleeing people.

Far ahead Skilgannon saw that the refugees had stopped walking. They were milling around. The news that had halted the column flowed back faster than a brush fire.

Mellicane had fallen. No-one knew what had become of the Tantrian King, or the remnants of his army. All they knew was that their journey to safety now had no purpose. There were no walls to shelter behind. People sat down on the ground. Some wept. Others merely stared vacantly over the landscape. They had left their homes in terror. They feared to go back, and yet now there was no going forward.

Skilgannon galloped his horse towards the northwest, dismounting where the largest group of refugees had gathered. Here he saw several armoured lancers, wearing the yellow cloaks of the Tantrian army, trying to respond to a host of shouted questions, most of which they could not answer. Sitting his gelding Skilgannon gleaned what information there was. The King had killed himself — or been killed by those he believed loyal.

The gates had been thrown open. The Datians had ridden in uncontested.

There had been some looting and stories of attacks on the populace, but the city was now under martial law. The worst incidents had occurred when the arena beasts had been set free. The creatures had moved out into the populated areas, killing indiscriminately until hunted down.

Skilgannon rode back to where Braygan and Rabalyn were waiting. ‘What are we to do?’ asked the little priest.

‘Go on to the city. That is why we came.’

‘Is the war over then?’

‘No,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘Only the first stage. Now the Naashanite army will invade.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Braygan. ‘The Naashanites were our allies.

Why did they not come earlier?’

‘The sheep made an alliance with the wolf, Braygan. The Queen desires to rule these lands. And those of Datia and Dospilis. The Tantrian King is dead. Now the Queen will come as an avenging liberator, and accept the grateful thanks of a frightened people.’

‘Does she have no honour then?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Honour?’ answered Skilgannon, with a harsh laugh. ‘She is a ruler, boy.

Honour is a cloak she wears when it suits her. You remember the old adage: "The louder they spoke of their honour, the faster we counted the spoons"? Do not look for ordinary virtues among rulers.’

‘Will it be safe in the city?’ enquired Braygan.

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that. It will be safer than it was yesterday, though we will have to release the horses and walk in.’

‘Why?’ asked Rabalyn.

Skilgannon saw the hurt on the youth’s face. ‘We have no choice. They are branded, Rabalyn. We took them from dead Datian lancers. You think it wise to ride into a conquered city on stolen horses? We will keep them until the far hills above the city. Then we will let them go. No harm will come to them. Now let us be moving on.’

Swinging his horse, Skilgannon skirted the refugees and cut across the fields. The fall of the city was — at least for Skilgannon — a blessing. With this phase of the war over entry to — and exit from — Mellicane should prove somewhat simpler. Supplies would be more accessible, and the journey north towards Sherak and the deserts of Namib should be less troublesome. The armies of Naashan would be entering from the south.

The armies of Datia and Dospilis would be forced to march in that direction to oppose them. There would be little military activity, therefore, in the north.

They rode on in silence for several hours. The land here was deceptive, apparently flat, and yet filled with concealed gullies and dips. Skilgannon rode slowly and carefully. His trained eyes scanned the area. This would be one place to ambush an invading army. A large force could be hidden in these gullies, or in the reeds alongside the streams. Skilgannon had planned many such surprise attacks during the early days of the Naashanite uprising.

Once more they came upon refugees, ever more weary as they plodded on towards an uncertain future. They were wading through a sea of reeds, trying to create a shortcut to the hills. The ground below the horses’

hooves was waterlogged and spongy, and, with the mass of people heading northwest, the going was slow. On horseback Skilgannon could just see over the tops of the reeds. They went on for close to another half-mile.

Swarms of midges rose up, clustering around the faces of the riders and their mounts. The horses tossed their heads and flicked their ears. The heat rose, and Skilgannon felt sweat trickling down his back.

From somewhere ahead came a scream of pure terror. Skilgannon reined in his mount. Across the top of the reeds he saw a body fly up, and twist in the air. Then came another scream — harshly cut off in mid-cry.

People began streaming back past Skilgannon, running for their lives.

This sudden movement startled the horses. Skilgannon’s mount reared and he fought for control. Braygan was dumped from the saddle, his horse turning and galloping back towards the south. Rabalyn’s horse bolted past Skilgannon, the boy wrestling with the reins.

A slight breeze began to blow through the reeds. Skilgannon’s horse caught the scent. Despite the skill of its rider the gelding suddenly trembled, reared again and swung away, bolting after Braygan’s riderless mount.

Skilgannon had little choice but to let his horse run for a while, keeping a light but constant pressure on the reins. As it reached firmer ground Skilgannon spoke to it in a gentle voice, and sat back in the saddle. ‘Whoa now, boy!’ he said. Clear of what it perceived as the initial danger the gelding heeded the commands, dropped back into a lope and finally halted. Skilgannon patted its long neck, and swung it back towards the north.

He scanned the reeds, now some quarter of a mile distant. People were still running in every direction.

Then he saw the beast.

It was around seven feet high, covered in black fur. For a moment Skilgannon thought it to be a bear, but then it turned. The body tapered down from powerful shoulders and long arms to a slimmer waist and long legs. The head was huge and hunched forward on a massive neck, the jaws elongated like a wolf’s. Blood stained its teeth and throat. The great head swung from side to side, then the beast darted forward, the speed impressive for something so large. Bearing down on a fleeing woman it leapt to her back, its fangs crunching down on her skull. The woman collapsed, instantly dead. Another beast, its fur a mottled grey, emerged from the reeds, and ran at the first. Rearing up, they struck at each other.

The black beast gave way, moving back, and the grey newcomer moved in to feed.

Skilgannon had heard of the arena beasts, but never seen one. It was said they were created by renegade Nadir shamen in the pay of the Tantrian King. He had heard talk of bizarre rites where prisoners were dragged from their dungeons and magically melded with wolves, bears or dogs.

At that moment he saw Braygan stumble from the reeds, some two hundred yards from the feeding beast.

Skilgannon swore, and heeled the gelding into a run. The grey-coated creature looked up, but ignored both the horseman and the staggering priest. Not so the black-furred one, who had been robbed of his feed.

Dropping to all fours he charged at Braygan.

The gelding, at full run, bore down on the priest. Skilgannon glanced back. There would be no room for error now. Braygan had seen the wolf creature and was trying to run away. Skilgannon leaned over in his saddle and guided the gelding alongside the fleeing man. Grabbing his robe he hauled him from his feet, throwing him over the pommel. Braygan landed with a grunt. The gelding continued to run. Skilgannon turned him, heading back towards the hills. He glanced over his shoulder. The beast was gaining.

The gelding thundered on. Braygan, the pommel horn digging into his ribs, tried to wriggle clear of it.

‘Keep still, idiot!’ yelled Skilgannon.

The gelding jerked and whinnied. Skilgannon looked back. The beast had dropped to its haunches and given up the chase. But there was blood on the gelding’s hindquarters, and the bloody marks of talons upon its back.

It had been close.

Skilgannon rode on. The terrified gelding struggled up the slope. At the top Skilgannon unceremoniously dumped Braygan from its back. Then he dismounted and checked the horse’s wound. There were three parallel slashes, but they were not deep.

The black creature watched them from some three hundred yards distant, then turned and ambled back towards the reeds.

Braygan came to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer. ‘I thank thee, Great Lord in Heaven,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I thank thee for this life, and for sparing me upon this day.’

The day is not over,’ observed Skilgannon.

They sat upon the hillside for almost an hour, until the light began to fail. Then Skilgannon saw movement to the south. Another large group of refugees came into sight, emerging from a fold in the land. They were walking towards the reeds.

‘Sweet Heaven!’ said Braygan. ‘They will be torn to pieces.’

Rabalyn became aware of pain in his head. It began as a soft thumping, then grew alarmingly. A feeling of nausea swept through him and he groaned and opened his eyes. He was lying on the grass, a little way from a line of trees. With another groan he sat up and looked around. Some distance away he could see the edge of the reed marsh. Beside him there was a splash of blood on the surface of a flat rock. He stared at it for a moment, then reached up to his head. His hand came away sticky. He wiped his fingers on the grass, leaving a red smear.

Then he remembered the horse bolting, racing along the edge of the marsh. He had clung to the pommel horn, fighting to stay in the saddle.

That was when the horror had surged from the reeds. Rabalyn had only caught a glance as the horse raced by, but what he saw was enough to chill his heart. The beast was massive, with slavering jaws. It stood upright like a bear, but its head was that of a wolf. The creature lunged at the horse and struck it. Rabalyn was hurled to his left, but clung on as the horse stumbled. Then it righted itself and sped away. It had galloped for some minutes, then had stumbled again. At the last its neck dipped and Rabalyn was hurled through the air. His head had obviously struck the rock.

The youth struggled to his feet and turned. The dead horse lay some fifteen feet distant. Rabalyn cried out in anguish, and ran to it. There was a deep and bloody wound in its flank. Flesh and sinew hung from it, trailing down into a deep, congealing pool of blood.

The pain in his head forgotten, Rabalyn knelt down and stroked the horse’s mane. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said.

From the distance came a weird and blood-chilling howl.

Rabalyn scrambled to his feet. The horse was dead, but the scent of its blood would carry on the wind. He had to get as far from it as possible.

Turning, he stumbled up the hill and into the trees. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to put distance between himself and the carcass. His head began to pound again. Falling to his knees, he vomited.

Then he struggled on. The undergrowth was thick, and he skirted it, looking for a tree which he could climb. But his limbs felt leaden, and he did not know if he had the strength to haul himself into the branches.

The dreadful howling sounded again. Rabalyn could not tell if it was closer now, but in his terror he believed it was. Coming to a large oak, he began to climb. His foot slipped and he fell back, landing with a jarring thud on the ground. As he tried to rise a shadow loomed over him. Panic swept through him.

‘Easy, laddie,’ said a deep voice. ‘I’ll not harm you.’

Rabalyn blinked. Before him stood the ancient axeman who had killed the lancers. Up close he seemed even more fearsome, with his glittering pale grey eyes. His beard was black and silver, and he wore a black leather jerkin, reinforced at the shoulders with shining steel. Upon his head was a round black helm, edged with silver. Rabalyn’s eyes were drawn to the huge axe he carried. The blades looked like butterfly wings, flaring up into two points. The haft was black, and runes were embossed there in silver.

‘What happened to your head?’ asked the axeman, kneeling down, and placing his axe on the ground.

‘I fell off my horse.’

‘Let me look.’ The axeman probed the wound. ‘I don’t think you’ve cracked your skull. Looks like a glancing blow. Torn the skin a bit. Where are your friends?’

‘I don’t know. My horse bolted when the beasts attacked.’ Fear returned and Rabalyn scrambled up. ‘We must climb a tree. They are coming.’

‘Be calm, laddie. What is coming?’

Rabalyn told the axeman what he had seen, and how his horse was dead, half its belly ripped open by sharp talons. ‘They may have killed my friends,’ he said.

The axeman shrugged. ‘Maybe. I doubt the swordsman is dead. He seemed a canny man to me.’ Glancing up at the darkening sky he rose.

‘Let’s find a place to camp. We’ll light a fire and you can rest awhile.’

‘The beasts…’

‘They’ll either come or they won’t. Nothing I can do about that. Come on.’ Reaching out, he pulled Rabalyn to his feet, then took up his axe and walked back through the trees. Rabalyn followed him. A little while later the axeman reached a natural clearing. Two old oaks had fallen, creating a partial wall to the west. With his boot the axeman scraped away twigs and tinder, clearing a spot for a fire. He told Rabalyn to gather dry wood, and, when the boy had done so, took out a small tinder box and struck a flame.

The darkness deepened. Rabalyn sat down beside the fire. He still felt a little sick, but his headache was passing.

‘Brother Lantern said you were with the Immortals.’

‘Brother Lantern?’

‘The swordsman who helped you.’

‘Ah. Yes, I was for a while.’

‘Why did you attack those soldiers?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I thought at first you were protecting your family, or some friends. But you are travelling alone. So why did you fight?’

‘Good question. What is your name?’

‘Rabalyn.’

‘And why are you heading for Mellicane, Rabalyn?’

The youngster told him about the attack on his house, and the death of Aunt Athyla. At the last he also admitted the killing of Todhe, and the shame he felt.

‘He brought it on himself,’ said the axeman. ‘No point losing sleep over it. All actions have consequences. I used to argue all the time with a friend of mine. He’d talk endlessly of what he called the potential of Man. He’d say even the most evil were capable of good. He’d witter on about redemption, and such like. Maybe he was right. I don’t bother myself with such thoughts.’

‘Have you killed lots of people?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Lots,’ agreed the axeman.

‘Were they all evil?’

‘No. Most were soldiers, fighting for their own cause. As I was fighting for mine. It is a harsh world, Rabalyn. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better come morning.’

‘You didn’t say why you attacked those soldiers,’ the youngster pointed out.

‘No, I didn’t.’

Rabalyn stretched out and looked up at the forbidding figure seated beside the fire. He noticed then that the axeman was not facing the flames, but was looking out into the gathering darkness.

‘You think they will come?’ asked the boy.

‘If they do they’ll regret it. Go to sleep.’

For a little while Rabalyn forced himself to stay awake. The axeman did not speak, and the boy lay very still, staring up at the seated figure. The glare from the flickering fire made the axeman appear even older. The lines on his face were deep. Rabalyn saw him pick up his axe. The muscles on his forearm rippled as his huge hand curled round the haft. ‘Have you ever been frightened?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Aye, once or twice. My wife had a weak heart. Several times she collapsed. I knew fear then.’

‘Not now, though?’

‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, laddie. We live. We die. A wise man once told me that one day even the sun will fade, and all will be darkness.

Everything dies. Death isn’t important. What counts is how you live.’

‘What happened to your wife?’

‘She’s gone, boy. Five years now.’ The axeman threw a chunk of wood to the fire and the flames rippled over it. Then he rose to his feet, and stood statue still. Time to climb your tree, I think,’ he said softly. Rabalyn scrambled to his feet. ‘That one there,’ said the axeman, pointing to a tall oak close by. ‘Do it now!’

Rabalyn ran to the tree and leapt for the lowest branch, hauling himself up. He climbed to a fork and sat down, staring back at the campfire. The axeman was still standing quietly, his axe in his hands. Rabalyn scanned the area. He could see nothing, save moonlit undergrowth and trees. Then a shadowy figure flitted across his line of vision. He tried to focus on it, but there was nothing to be seen. Another shape moved to the right.

Rabalyn found himself trembling. What if they could climb?

He felt ashamed of himself. One old man was about to face these creatures, while he hid in a tree. Rabalyn found himself wishing he had a weapon, so he could aid the axeman. Down below he saw the man lift the axe above his head and slowly stretch from side to side, loosening his muscles.

For a while nothing moved. Rabalyn became aware of his heart thumping like a drum. He felt a little dizzy and clung on tight to the branch. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and darkness fell over much of the clearing. Rabalyn could just make out the axeman, by the glint of reflected flames on his axe and helm. He heard the snapping of branches, then a feral growl. A black shadow fell across the axeman, and Rabalyn could see nothing for a moment. A strangled cry sounded.

Something tumbled across the fire, scattering sparks. Now it was even darker. Rabalyn could hear something moving through the undergrowth, its breathing harsh.

The moon emerged, bright silver light bathing the clearing. The axeman still stood. Across the fire lay the body of a huge beast. Smoke wreathed it, and Rabalyn caught the smell of charred fur and flesh. Another beast leapt over a fallen tree, hurling itself at the axeman. He spun on his heel, the axe thudding into the creature’s massive neck. As the beast half fell the axeman wrenched his weapon clear and struck again. The axe blades crunched through the creature’s shoulder, biting deep. Two more beasts ran in. Tearing his axe clear the axeman turned to face them. They backed away, circling him. One rushed forward, then sprang away as the axe rose.

The second darted in, but also swerved aside at the last moment. Rabalyn saw one of them look up at the sky. The boy followed its gaze. More clouds were looming, and he realized the creatures were waiting for darkness.

The axeman leapt at the first beast. It sprang away. Rabalyn wished there was something he could do to help the man. Then it came to him. He could distract them. Taking a deep breath he shouted at the top of his voice. Startled, one of the creatures half turned. The axeman charged in, his weapon cleaving through the beast’s ribcage. It screamed and fell back, tearing the weapon from the man’s hand. The second creature sprang through the air. The axeman spun and hammered a right cross into its jaws. The weight of the beast bore the axeman back, and they fell together, rolling across the clearing. Rabalyn scrambled down the tree and jumped from the lowest branch. He ran to the body in which the axe was embedded and grabbed the haft with both hands, trying to pull it free.

The beast was not dead. Its golden eyes flared open and it roared.

Rabalyn threw his full weight back. The axe wrenched clear. The beast gave an ear-splitting scream. It half rose, then slumped back, blood pumping from the great wound in its chest. The axe was heavier than Rabalyn had imagined. Struggling with it, he hefted it to his shoulder and stumbled to where the axeman was wrestling with the last creature. The old man’s helm had been knocked from his head, and blood was flowing from a gash in his temple. His left hand was locked to the creature’s throat, straining to hold the snapping fangs from his face. His right was gripping the left wrist of the monster.

Holding the axe in both hands Rabalyn raised it high. It tipped backwards, almost making him lose balance. Righting himself, he hacked the axe downwards. It thudded into the beast’s back between the shoulder blades. A hideous screech came from the creature. It arched up, dragging the axeman with it. Releasing the beast’s wrist the axeman thundered a punch to its head. Behind the creature Rabalyn grabbed for the axe haft, trying to tear it clear. The beast spun. Its taloned arm lashed out, striking Rabalyn in the chest and sending him hurtling through the air. He landed heavily. Half stunned, he struggled to his knees. The old warrior had his axe once more in his hand. The beast backed away, then turned and fled into the trees.

The warrior watched it go, then walked over to Rabalyn. ‘My, but you are a game lad,’ he said. Reaching out, he hauled Rabalyn to his feet.

‘You killed three of them,’ said Rabalyn. ‘It was incredible.’

‘I’m getting old,’ replied the axeman, with a grin. ‘Was a time when I wouldn’t have needed my axe to deal with such puppies.’

‘Truly?’ asked Rabalyn, amazed.

‘No, laddie, I was making a joke. Never was much good at jokes.’ He lifted his helm, wiped his hand around the rim, then settled it back on his head. A low snarl sounded from one of the bodies. The axeman walked back to the creature. Its legs were twitching. The axe swept up, then down into its neck. All movement ceased. Returning to Rabalyn, the axeman thrust out his hand. ‘I am Druss. I thank you for your help. I was beginning to struggle a mite with that last one.’

‘It was my pleasure, sir,’ answered Rabalyn, feeling proud as he shook the old man’s hand.

‘Now I want you to climb that tree again.’

‘Are there more of them?’

‘I don’t know. But I need to leave you here for a short while. Don’t worry.

I’ll be back.’

Rabalyn climbed to the original fork and settled down. His fears returned once Druss had left the clearing. What if the man left him here?

He banished the thought instantly. He did not know the axeman well, but he instinctively knew he would not lie about coming back.

Time passed, and the sky cleared. Wedged against the fork in the branches Rabalyn dozed a little. He awoke to the smell of roasting meat.

Down in the campsite the axeman had hauled the dead beasts from the clearing and had rekindled the fire. He was sitting before it, a thick strip of flesh held on a stick before the flames. Rabalyn climbed down to join him. The aroma of the food made his senses swim. He squatted down beside the axeman. Then a thought struck him. ‘This is not from those creatures, is it?’ he asked.

‘No. Though were I hungry enough I’d try to cook them. Smells good, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From the dead horse.’

‘My horse?’ asked Rabalyn, horrified.

‘There’s only one dead horse, boy.’

‘I can’t eat my horse.’

The axeman turned to look at him. ‘It’s just meat.’ He sighed, then chuckled. ‘I know what Sieben would say. He’d tell you that your horse is now running in another place. He’d say the sky is blue there, and the horse is galloping across a field of green. All that’s left behind is the cloak it wore.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘That horse carried you from danger — even after it was mortally wounded. In some cultures they believe that to eat the flesh of a great beast is to absorb some of its qualities into yourself.’

‘And do you believe that?’

The axeman shrugged. ‘I believe I am hungry, and that what I don’t eat the foxes will devour, and the maggots will thrive on. It’s up to you, Rabalyn. Eat. Don’t eat. I’m not going to force you.’

‘Maybe your friend was right. Maybe he is running in another world.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I think I’ll eat,’ said Rabalyn.

‘Hold on to this for a moment,’ said Druss, handing Rabalyn the toasting stick. Then he rose and took his axe to a nearby tree. With two swift chops he cut away sections of bark, which he carried back. ‘They’ll make do for plates,’ he said.

Later, after they had eaten, Rabalyn stretched out on the ground. He felt almost light-headed, as if in a dream. His stomach was full. He had helped defeat monsters, and he was sitting by a fire in the moonlight with a mighty warrior. ‘How can you be so good when you are so old?’ he asked.

The axeman laughed aloud. ‘I come from good stock. Truth is, though, I am not as good as I was. No man can resist time. I used to be able to walk thirty miles in a day. Now I’m tired at half that, and I have an ache in my knee and my shoulder when the winter comes, and the rain falls.’

‘Have you been fighting in the war?’

‘No,’ answered Druss. ‘Not my war. I came here looking for an old friend.’

‘Is he a warrior like you?’

Druss laughed. ‘No. He is a fat, frightened fellow with a fear of violence.

A good man, though.’

‘Did you find him?’

‘Not yet. I don’t even know why he came here. He’s a long way from home. He may have returned to Mellicane. I’ll find out in a day or two.’ A tiny trickle of blood was still seeping from the gash in the old man’s temple. Rabalyn watched as he wiped it away.

‘That should be stitched or bandaged,’ he said.

‘Not deep enough for that. It will seal itself. And now I think I’ll get some sleep.’

‘Shall I keep watch?’

‘Aye, laddie. You do that.’

‘You think the beast might come back?’

‘I doubt it. That was a deep cut you gave it. He’s probably hurting too much to think of feeding. But if he does then two great heroes like us should be able to deal with him. Don’t worry overmuch, Rabalyn. I am a light sleeper.’

With that the axeman stretched himself out and closed his eyes.

With Braygan clinging on behind him Skilgannon urged the tired horse down the slope towards the refugees. The steeldust was almost at the end of its strength and stumbled twice.

As he rode Skilgannon scanned the land. He could see no sign of the beasts. Transferring his gaze to the refugees he saw two swordsmen walking at the head of the column. Both were tall, with close-cropped black hair, and both were heavily bearded. They paused as he rode up.

Leaping from the saddle, Skilgannon approached them. ‘Are you in charge here?’ he asked the first warrior. The man cocked his head and looked confused, then swung to the other swordsman.

‘Are we in charge, Jared?’

‘No, Nian. Don’t worry about it. What is it you want?’ he asked Skilgannon. People were milling around now, anxious to hear whatever news the newcomers had brought.

‘There is great danger here,’ Skilgannon told Jared. ‘It will be upon us at any moment.’ Turning away from him Skilgannon pulled Braygan from the saddle, and slapped the rump of the horse. Surprised, it began to run towards the reeds. It had travelled no more than a hundred yards before it swerved to the right. A Joining reared up from the long grass and leapt at it. The horse bolted. Screams of shock came from some of the refugees.

‘Be silent!’ roared Skilgannon, his words booming out. The power in his voice cowed the crowd. They stood silently awaiting instructions. ‘Gather together. Get into as tight a circle as you can. Now! Your lives depend upon it!’ As the crowd began to move Skilgannon shouted again. ‘Every man here with a weapon come to me.’ Men began to shuffle forward. Some had swords, others knives. Several had wooden clubs, or scythes. Turning to the swordsman, Jared, he said: ‘Move to the other side of the circle.

Stay on the outside of it. Do it now!’ Skilgannon turned his attention to the gathering men. ‘There are beasts abroad — Joinings who have escaped from the arena in Mellicane. Already they have killed many refugees.

Spread yourselves around the circle, facing outwards. When the beasts come make as much noise as you can. Scream, shout, clash your weapons.

Do not be drawn away from the circle.’

There were less than twenty armed men. Not enough to form a protective ring round the refugees. Skilgannon called out to the women.

‘We need more for the fighting circle,’ he said. ‘Do any women here carry weapons?’ Around a dozen women moved forward. Most had long knives, but one had a small hatchet. ‘Move alongside the men,’ Skilgannon told them. ‘Everyone else sit down. When the attack comes, take hold of the person closest to you. Keep low to the ground. Do not let any children panic or run. And do not break the circle.’

Braygan stood where he was, staring anxiously towards the reeds, no more than four hundred yards distant. Skilgannon grabbed him by the arm. ‘Go and sit with the women and children,’ he said. ‘You can do nothing here.’

The little priest did as he was bid, easing his way into the huddled refugees and sitting down. He gazed around the circle. It was some thirty feet in diameter. All around it stood the warriors, both men and women, Skilgannon had gathered. Braygan was still in shock. He had seen Brother Lantern fight, but this was a man he had never seen. He watched as Skilgannon moved around the outer edge of the circle, issuing orders.

People were hanging on his every word. He radiated power and authority.

The light was beginning to fail. A weird howling arose from all around them. Children screamed in panic and some people began to rise, ready to run.

‘Be still!’ bellowed Skilgannon. Braygan saw him draw his swords.

A huge Joining reared up and ran at the circle. Skilgannon leapt to meet it. The beast sprang at him. The golden sword in Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out, slicing across the Joining’s belly. Ducking under a sweep of its taloned arm Skilgannon spun. The silver blade in his left hand clove deep into the beast’s neck. It fell to all fours, blood gouting from its wounds. The swordsman, Nian, charged in, bringing his long, two-handed broadsword down onto the Joining’s skull. The creature slumped dead to the ground.

‘Do not break the circle!’ shouted Skilgannon. ‘Hold your line.’

All around them now the beasts were gathering.

‘Stand firm!’ the priest heard Skilgannon shout. His voice was all but drowned out by a dreadful howling that chilled the blood.