White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

sitting down beside him.

‘Thank you. Do you know where Greavas went?’

‘I expect he’s at the Park Gates tavern. They have rooms.’

‘He’ll hate me now.’

‘What you said was hateful, Olek. It hurt him dreadfully.’

‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘I know. Best you learn from this. Never, in anger, say what you don’t mean. Words can be sharper than knives, and the wounds sometimes never heal.’

An hour later, with the moon high, Skilgannon entered the Park Gates tavern. Greavas was sitting at a corner table alone. Even to the fourteen-year-old he seemed strangely out of place. Most of the men here were labourers or craftsmen, burly and bearded, toughened by years of labour. In his blue silk flared-sleeve shirt, grey roots showing in his dyed yellow hair, the slim former actor stood out like a beacon.

Skilgannon approached him. He saw the sorrow in Greavas’s eyes, and felt the burden of his guilt drag down like a rock on his heart. ‘I am so sorry, Greavas,’ he said, tears in his own eyes.

‘Perhaps I am a freak. Don’t worry about it.’ Greavas turned away and stared out of the window.

‘You are not a freak. You are my friend and I love you. Forgive me and come home. Please forgive me, Greavas.’

The actor relaxed. ‘Of course I forgive you, stupid boy,’ he said, rising from his chair.

It was then that Skilgannon realized that a silence had fallen over the small crowd in the tavern. He looked round to see a lean, sharp-faced man staring at him. His eyes were glittering with malice. ‘Bad enough to have the likes of him in here,’ he said to the company, ‘without having him parade his little bumboys in front of us.’

Skilgannon was stunned. Greavas came alongside him. ‘Time to go, Olek. I’ll come back for my things later.’

‘What you need is a thrashing,’ said the man, suddenly pushing himself towards Greavas.

‘And what you need is a bath,’ said Greavas. ‘Oh, yes, and perhaps to eat fewer onions. Your breath would fell an ox.’

The man’s fist lashed out. Greavas swayed, the blow sailing harmlessly past him. Off balance, the man stumbled into Greavas’s outstretched leg and fell heavily against the table, striking his chin, and hitting the floor.

He struggled to rise and fell again.

Greavas led the boy outside. ‘Can you teach me to do that?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Of course, dear boy.’

Once they reached the house gates Skilgannon paused. ‘I really am sorry, Greavas. Molaire says that sometimes word-wounds don’t heal. This will heal, won’t it?’

Greavas ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘This has already healed, Olek. How did you get that bruise on your face?’

‘Sperian hit me.’

‘Then perhaps you should apologize to him too.’

‘He hit me!’

‘Sperian is the kindest of men. Hitting you would have hurt him more deeply than that bruise hurts you. Go and find him. Make your peace.’

Sperian was in the garden, watering seed trays, when Skilgannon found him.

‘Did you bring him back?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I apologized and he forgave me.’

‘Good boy. Your father would be proud of that.’

‘I wanted to say…’

Sperian shook his head. ‘You don’t have to say anything to me, lad.

Here, give me a hand with these trays. I want them placed where the morning sun can warm the soil. We’ll put them on the well wall.’

‘I will never let you down again, Sperian. Not ever.’

The gardener gazed at him fondly, and said nothing for a moment. Then he patted his shoulder. ‘You take those two trays there. Be careful now.

Don’t want the dirt spilling out.’

Ten years later the memory of that night still brought a lump to his throat. Rising from the hillside Skilgannon took one last look out across the lowlands, then strolled back to where his companions waited.

Braygan was asleep, but the boy Rabalyn was sitting by the horses, his hands clutching the reins. ‘You can sleep now,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Did anyone try to steal the horses?’

‘No. I’ve kept watch, though. All the time.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘You did well, lad. I knew I could trust you.’

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.’