White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

at the warrior. He no longer seemed so daunting.

‘Is it hard being a monk?’ he asked, after a while.

‘Is it hard being a boy?’ countered Skilgannon.

‘Very.’

‘I fear that answer could be given by any man, in any position. Life itself is hard. But, yes, I found it especially difficult. The studies were easy enough, and quite enjoyable. The philosophy, on the other hand, was exquisitely impenetrable. We were ordered to love the unlovable.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘You’re asking the wrong man.’

‘That is blood on your neck,’ said Rabalyn.

‘A scratch from an idiot. It is nothing.’

‘What will you do when you get to Mellicane?’

Skilgannon looked at him, then smiled. ‘I shall leave as soon as possible.’

‘Can I go with you?’

‘What about your parents?’

‘They don’t care about me. Never did, really. I only said I was looking for them so you wouldn’t leave me behind.’

‘Ah,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Very wise — for I would have.’

‘What will you do now you are not a monk?’

‘You are full of questions, Rabalyn. Are you not tired after a day in the saddle?’

‘A little, but it is very peaceful sitting here. So what will you do?’

‘Head north towards Sherak. There is a temple there — or it might be there. I don’t know. But I will seek it.’

‘And become a monk again?’

‘No. Something even more foolish.’

‘What?’

‘It is a secret,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘All men should have at least one secret. Maybe I will tell you one day. For now, though, go and sleep. I need to think.’

Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet and walked back to where Braygan lay. The young priest was snoring softly. Rabalyn lay down, his head resting on his arm.

And dreamed of riding through clouds on the back of a golden horse.

Skilgannon watched the lad walk away, and, for the first time in many weeks, felt a sense of peace settle on his troubled soul. He had not been so different from Rabalyn. As a youngster his mind was also full of questions, and his father had rarely been home to answer them. Why did men fight wars? Why were some people rich and some poor? If there was a great god watching over the world why were there diseases? Why did people die so unnecessarily? His mother had died in childbirth, bearing a sickly daughter. Skilgannon was seven years old. The baby had followed her two days later. They were buried in the same grave. Then — as now — Skilgannon had no answers to his questions.

He was tired, and yet he knew sleep would not come. Lying down on the soft earth he stretched out on his back, his arms behind his head, his hands pillowing his neck. The stars were brilliantly bright, and a crescent moon shone. It reminded him of the earring Greavas wore. He smiled at the memory of that sad, strange man, and recalled the winter evenings when Greavas had sat by the fireside and played his lyre, singing songs and ballads of glorious days gone by. He had a sweet, high voice, which had served him well in his days as an actor, playing the part of the heroine.

‘Why don’t they just have women playing women?’ the boy Skilgannon had wanted to know.

‘It is unseemly for women to perform in public, my dear. And if they did what would have become of my career?’

‘What did become of it?’ asked the eleven-year-old.

‘They said I was too old to play the lead, Olek. Look at me. How old do I look?’

‘It is hard to tell,’ the boy had said.

‘I could still pass for twenty-five, don’t you think?’

‘Except for the eyes,’ said the boy. ‘Your eyes look older.’

‘Never ask a child for flattery,’ snapped Greavas. ‘Anyway, I gave up the playhouses.’

Decado had hired Greavas to teach Skilgannon to dance. The boy had been horrified.

‘Why, Father? I want to be a warrior like you.’

‘Then learn to dance,’ Decado had told him, on a rare visit home.

Skilgannon had become angry. ‘All my friends are laughing at me. And at you. They say you’ve brought a man-woman to live with you. People see him walking with me in the street and they shout out insults.’

‘Whoa there, boy. Let’s deal with this one thing at a time,’ said Decado, his expression darkening. ‘First the dancing. If you want to be a swordsman you’ll need balance and co-ordination. There is no better way of honing that than to learn to dance. Greavas is a brilliant dancer and a fine teacher. He is the best. I always hire the best. As to what your friends say, why should either of us care about that?’

‘But I do care.’

‘That is because you are young, and there is a great deal of foolish pride in the young. Greavas is a good man, kind and strong. He is a friend to this family, and we will brook no insults to our friends.’

‘Why do you have such strange friends? It embarrasses me.’

‘When you speak like this it embarrasses me. You listen to me, Olek.

There will always be men who select their friends for reasons of advancement, either socially, militarily or politically. They will tell you to avoid a certain man’s company because he is out of favour, or his family is poor. Or, indeed, because his life is lived in a manner some people find unbecoming. As a soldier I judge my men by what they can do. By how much guts they have. When it comes to friends all that matters is whether I like them. I like Greavas. I think you will come to like him too. If you don’t that is too bad. You will still learn to dance. And I will expect you to stand up for him with your friends.’

‘I won’t have any friends left if he stays,’ snapped the eleven-year-old.

‘Then you won’t have lost anything worthwhile. True friends stand with you, regardless of the ridicule of others. You’ll see.’

The following weeks had been hard for Skilgannon. At eleven years old the respect of his peers was everything to him. He responded to the jeers and the jibes with his fists, and soon only Askelus remained his friend. The boy he most admired, the thirteen-year-old Boranius, tried to reason with him.

‘A man is judged by the company he keeps, Olek,’ he said, one afternoon, in the physical training area. ‘Now people think you are a catamite, and that your father is a pervert. The reality is immaterial. You must decide what means most to you — the admiration of your friends, or the loyalty of a servant.’

At that tender age Skilgannon longed to be able to side with his peers.

Yet the most important person in his young life was his father, whom he loved. ‘Will I lose your friendship also, Boranius?’

‘Friendship carries responsibilities, Olek. Both ways. A true friend would not wish to put me in a position to be scorned. If you ask me to stand alongside you, then of course I will.’

Skilgannon had not asked him, and had avoided the young athlete’s company after that.

Askelus remained. Dark-eyed and brooding, he said nothing about the situation. He called at Skilgannon’s home, and together they walked to school.

‘Are you not ashamed to be seen with me?’ asked Skilgannon one day.

‘Why would I be?’

‘Everyone else is.’

‘Never liked the others much anyway.’ It was then that Skilgannon discovered that — apart from the loss of Boranius — he felt the same. Added to this, his father proved to be right. He had begun to appreciate and like Greavas. And this despite the man’s mocking tone during dance lessons.

He had taken to calling Skilgannon ‘Hippo’.

‘You have all the inherent grace of a hippopotamus, Olek. I swear you have two left feet.’

‘I am doing my best.’