White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

‘Sadly I believe that is true. I had hoped to complete your studies by the summer. I now see I have taken on a lifetime commitment.’

Yet week by week Skilgannon had improved, and the exercises Greavas set him strengthened his legs and upper body. Soon he could leap and twirl and land in perfect balance. The dancing also improved his speed, and he won two races at school. The last was his greatest joy, for his father was there to see him, and he beat Boranius in the half-mile sprint. Decado had been delighted. Skilgannon’s joy was tempered by the fact that Boranius had run with his ankle heavily strapped, following an injury sustained the previous week.

That evening Decado had once more set off to the Matapesh borders, and Skilgannon had sat with Greavas in the west-facing gardens. Two other servants had sat with them.

Sperian and his wife, Molaire, had served Decado for five years then.

Molaire was a large, middle-aged woman, with sparkling eyes and deep auburn hair, touched now with silver. Constantly good-natured she would, at times like this, chatter on about the flowers and the brightly coloured birds that nested in the surrounding trees. Sperian, who maintained the gardens, would sit quietly staring out over the blooms and the pathways, making judgements about which areas to prune, and where to plant his new seedlings. Skilgannon enjoyed these evenings of quiet companionship.

On this night Sperian commented on the medal Skilgannon wore. ‘Was it a good race?’ he asked.

‘Boranius had an injured foot. He would have beaten me otherwise.’

‘It is a lovely ribbon,’ said Molaire. ‘A very pretty blue.’

‘I fear he does not care about the colour of the ribbon, my dear,’ said Greavas. ‘His mind is on the victory, and the defeat of his opponents. His name will now be inscribed on a shield hung in the school halls. Olek Skilgannon, Victor.’

Skilgannon had blushed furiously. ‘No harm in a little pride,’ said Sperian softly. ‘As long as you don’t get carried away by it.’

‘I won a prize once,’ said Greavas. ‘Ten years ago. I was playing the maiden, Abturenia, in The Leopard and the Harp. A wonderful piece.

Comic writing at its very best.’

‘We saw that,’ said Molaire. ‘Last year in Perapolis. Very amusing. I don’t remember who played Abturenia, though.’

‘Castenpol played it,’ said Greavas. ‘He wasn’t bad. The delivery was a little halting. I would have been better.’

Sperian chuckled. ‘Abturenia is supposed to be fourteen years old.’

‘And?’ snapped Greavas.

‘You’re forty — at the least.’

‘Cruel man! I am thirty-one.’

‘Whatever you say,’ replied Sperian, with a grin.

‘Did you ever see me perform?’ Greavas asked, switching his attention to Molaire.

‘Oh, yes. It was the second time we stepped out, wasn’t it, Sperian? We went to see a play at the Taminus. Something about a kidnapped princess and the errant king’s son who rescues her.’

‘ The Golden Helm,’ said Greavas. ‘Difficult part to play. All that screaming and wailing. I remember it. I had a beautiful wig made just for me. We played forty successive nights to full houses. The old King himself complimented me. He said I was the best female lead he had ever seen.’

‘No mean feat for a two-year-old,’ said Sperian, with a wink at Skilgannon. ‘That being twenty-nine years ago this spring.’

‘Leave the poor man alone,’ said Molaire. ‘He doesn’t need your teasing.’

Sperian glanced at Greavas. ‘I tease him because I like him, Mo,’ he said, and the moment passed. Greavas smiled and fetched his lyre.

Skilgannon often remembered that evening. The night was warm, the air scented with jasmine. He had the victor’s medal round his neck, and he was with people who loved him. A new year was about to begin, and the future seemed bright and full of hope. His father’s successes against the forces of Matapesh and Panthia had brought peace to the heartlands of Naashan, and all was well with the world.

Looking back now, with the jaded eyes of manhood, he shivered.

Where joy exists despair will always beckon.

Skilgannon was moving through a dark forest. His legs felt heavy and weary. Danger was close. He could sense it. He paused. He heard the stealthy sound of something moving through the undergrowth. He knew then it was the White Wolf.

Fear surged through him, and his heart fluttered in panic. The trees were silent now. Not a breath of wind stirred in the forest. He wanted to draw his swords. He could almost feel them calling to him. Clenching his fists he tried to quell the terror. ‘I will meet you without swords!’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself!’

In that moment he felt its hot breath upon his back. With a cry he spun round. For a moment only he caught sight of white fur. Then it was gone — and he realized the Swords of Night and Day were once more in his hands. He could not recall drawing them. A voice came to him then -

as if from a great distance. He recognized it as the boy, Rabalyn.

Skilgannon opened his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Rabalyn.

Skilgannon sat up and took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Was it a nightmare?’

‘Of a kind.’ The sky was pale with the pre-dawn, and Skilgannon shivered. Dew had seeped through his clothes. He rose and stretched.

‘I had good dreams,’ said Rabalyn brightly. ‘I dreamed I was riding a golden horse through the clouds.’

Skilgannon moved across the open ground to where Braygan was preparing a fire. ‘Best move that beneath a tree,’ said the warrior. ‘The branches will disperse the smoke. Make sure the wood is dry.’

‘There is very little food left,’ said Braygan. ‘Perhaps we should seek a village today.’ The little priest looked tired and drawn, and his blue robes were now filthy. The beginnings of a beard were showing on his chin, though his cheeks were still soft and clear.

‘I doubt we will find anyone living in a village so close to the war.

Tighten your belt, Braygan.’

Skilgannon took up his harness and carried it out to where the horses were hobbled. Wiping down the back of his steeldust gelding, he bridled and saddled it. As he mounted the horse gave several cursory bucks and leaps, jarring Skilgannon’s bones. Rabalyn laughed.

‘They won’t all do that, will they?’ asked Braygan nervously.

‘Do not eat too much,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I’ll scout ahead and be back within the hour.’

Heeling the gelding forward he rode away from the pair. In truth he was relieved to be alone, and looked forward to the time he could part company for good. A mile from the camp he dismounted just beneath the crest of a tall hill. Leaving the gelding with trailing reins he crept forward to the top and scanned the countryside below. There was a wooded valley, but he could see a ribbon of road, with many refugees upon it. Some were pulling carts, but most were walking, bearing what little they could carry in sacks or packs. There were few men, the majority being women with children. They were still days from Mellicane.

The sky darkened. Skilgannon looked up. Heavy black clouds were looming over the mountains. Lightning forked across the sky. A rumble of thunder followed almost instantly. His gelding snorted and half reared.

Skilgannon patted its sleek neck, then stepped up into the saddle. ‘Steady now,’ he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. The rain began, light at first. Skilgannon unstrapped his hooded cloak from the back of the saddle and settled it into place, careful to stop the cloth billowing and spooking the horse. Then he swung back towards the south.

Within minutes he had to pick out a different trail. The rain was slashing down now, drenching the ground, and making the simple slopes he had ridden treacherous and slippery. It took more than an hour to reach the campsite. He found Braygan and Rabalyn huddling against the cliff face, beneath a jutting overhang of rock. There was nothing to be done now but wait out the storm. Skilgannon could not risk two inexperienced riders tackling the hill slopes with thunder booming and lightning blazing. He dismounted and tethered the gelding, then pulled his