White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

The rider eased himself up onto the fence rail, and glanced back towards the smouldering farmhouse. ‘I was not with that group,’ he said.

‘Though I could have been. What is your business in Mellicane?’

‘I am escorting a priest who wishes to take his vows there, and a boy seeking lost parents.’

‘Not a Naashanite messenger then?’

‘No.’

‘I see you sport the Spider on your arm. Naashanite custom, is it not?’

‘Yes. I served the Queen for a number of years. Now I do not.’

‘You realize I should either kill you or take you back to our camp?’

‘You do not have enough men with you to attempt it,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘Otherwise that is precisely what you would do.’

The rider smiled. ‘Exactly so. Would you explain to me how a warrior like yourself became engaged in so small a mission?’

‘A man I owed asked it of me.’

‘Ah, I see. A man should always honour his debts. We are nothing without honour. There is talk of a Naashanite army preparing to come against us. You think there is truth in the rumour?’

Skilgannon looked at the man. ‘You know there is.’

‘Aye,’ muttered the soldier sadly. ‘The Witch Queen has played us all for fools. Together we could have withstood her. Now we have more than decimated our armies. And for what? Datia and Dospilis together are not strong enough to hold Tantria. How soon will they come, do you think?’

‘As soon as Mellicane falls,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is no more than a guess.

I have no contact now with Naashan.’

The soldier stretched, then climbed to his feet and replaced his horsehair-crested helm. He tightened the chin strap then offered his hand to Skilgannon. ‘Good luck with your mission, Naashanite.’

Skilgannon stepped down from the fence and accepted the handshake.

The rider gripped him hard. Then his left hand swept out from behind his back. A thin-bladed dagger flashed upward towards Skilgannon’s throat.

Instead of trying to pull away Skilgannon threw himself forward, his forehead slamming into the bridge of the soldier’s nose. The dagger thrust missed Skilgannon’s throat, the blade causing a shallow cut to the skin at the back of his neck. Still gripping the rider’s right hand Skilgannon spun to his left, lifting the trapped arm and twisting it. The man cried in pain.

Skilgannon dropped him, leapt back and drew the Swords of Night and Day.

The other two soldiers ran forward, swords drawn. Their captain scrambled to his feet.

‘You are a skilled fighter, Naashanite. You realize that I had to make the attempt to kill you? My men here would have reported me had I merely let you go. No hard feelings, eh?’

‘You are a stupid man,’ Skilgannon told him, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. ‘I had no wish to kill you. You could have lived. Your men could have lived.’ Even as he spoke he leapt forward. The first of the soldiers — the young man with black, braided hair — managed to parry the thrust from the golden blade, but the silver sword opened his throat to the bone. The second soldier charged in — only to have his chest skewered by a single thrust. Skilgannon dragged clear his blade and stepped back as the body toppled towards him.

The leader backed away. Skilgannon cleaned his blades and sheathed them. Then he looked at the rider. Slowly the man drew his cavalry sabre.

‘I have struggled for years to put this vileness behind me,’ said Skilgannon. ‘A man like you can have no understanding of how hard that was.’

‘I have a wife and children,’ said the man. ‘I don’t want to die. Not here.

Not so uselessly.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘Then walk away,’ he said. ‘I will take your horses. By the time you send men after us we will be long gone.’ With that he walked past the rider towards the waiting mounts.

For a moment it seemed the soldier would let him go. Then, seeing Skilgannon’s back, he raised his sabre and darted forward.

Skilgannon spun. A shining circle of serrated metal tore through the rider’s throat. Blood gouted from the wound. The man choked and stumbled, falling to his knees.

With scrabbling fingers he tried to close the wound. Skilgannon walked past him, gathered up the circle of steel, then returned to kneel by the dying man. The fallen rider began to tremble violently, then with one last gasp he died.

Skilgannon wiped the steel weapon clean on the dead man’s sleeve, then rose and walked to the horses.

‘You seem very sad,’ said Rabalyn, moving to sit opposite Braygan at the dining table. The deserted house was cheerless, as if yearning for the people who had fled it in fear.

‘I am sad, Rabalyn. It hurts my heart to see such violence. That family back there were not soldiers. They grew crops and they loved one another.

I cannot understand how people can commit such acts of evil.’

Rabalyn said nothing. He had killed Todhe, and killing was evil. Even so he now knew how such acts began. Rage, grief and fear had propelled him into the murder of Todhe. And Todhe himself had been angry with him, which is why he had set fire to the house… Lost in thought Rabalyn sat quietly at the table.

Braygan stared around the large room. It had been carefully constructed, originally of logs, but the inner walls had been plastered. The floor was hard-packed earth, but someone had etched designs upon it, spirals and circles that had then been dusted with powdered red clay, creating crimson patterns. Everything about the room spoke of care and love. The furniture had not been crafted by a trained carpenter, but had been carved and adorned by someone trying hard to master the skills; someone willing to add small individual touches to the pieces. A clumsy rose had been carved into the back of one of the chairs, and what might have been an ear of corn had been started on another. A family had tried to make a life here, filling the room with evidence of their love. Initials had been carved into the beam above the hearth. ‘I think I would like the people who lived here, Rabalyn,’ he said. ‘I hope they are safe.’

Rabalyn nodded, but still said nothing. He didn’t know these people, and, truth to tell, he didn’t much care if they were safe or not. Rising, he wandered about the house, seeking any food that might have been left behind. In a deep larder he found some pottery jars with cork stoppers.

Removing one he looked inside. It was filled with honey. Rabalyn dipped his finger into it and licked it greedily. The silky sweetness on his tongue was beyond pleasurable. Aunt Athyla had used honey in her baking, but Rabalyn’s favourite snack was to toast stale bread over the fire, then smear it with honey. Finding a wooden spoon, he sat down in the kitchen and scooped out several spoonfuls. After a while the sweetness began to cloy on his tongue. Putting aside the jar he walked outside to the well, and drew up a bucket of water. Drinking deeply, he washed away the sugary taste.

Then he saw Brother Lantern riding towards the house. He was leading two other horses.

Rabalyn walked out to meet the warrior. The horses looked huge, quite unlike the shaggy ponies to be seen back in Skepthia. Rabalyn stepped aside as they passed. They loomed above him and he reached out to stroke the flank of the nearest. Its chestnut-coloured coat gleamed and its powerful muscles rippled under his hand.

Skilgannon rode past Rabalyn without a word and dismounted at the house, tethering the horses to a post. Rabalyn followed him as he walked inside. Braygan looked up. ‘Did you discover any more victims?’ he asked.

‘No. We have horses. Do you ride?’

‘I once rode a pony around a paddock.’

‘These are not ponies. These are war horses, highly trained and intelligent. They will expect equal intelligence from you. Come outside. It will not be safe to stay here long, but we will risk a short training period.’

‘I would just as soon walk,’ said Braygan.

‘There are three dead Datians back there,’ said the warrior, ‘and they will be discovered before long. Walking is no longer an option. Follow me.’

Once outside he gestured to Rabalyn, and helped him mount the chestnut gelding the boy had stroked