White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

‘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?