White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

with your leave — enjoy a little silence.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rabalyn, with a smile. Settling down by the fire he tried to stay awake. He wanted to savour this night, to fill his mind with it so that not even the smallest detail would ever be lost to him.

‘Was your father a king?’ he asked sleepily.

‘No. He was a common man, like me.’

‘I’m glad.’

Rabalyn was almost asleep when the wind changed. He heard distant howling, and what sounded like a scream of pain.

‘There’s others fighting tonight,’ said Druss. ‘May the Source be with them.’

The sound of the old man’s voice comforted the youth.

And he slept.

Elanin was a bright child, and, until recently, happy and contented.

When her mother arrived for one of her infrequent visits to Dros Purdol she had been pleased to see her. When Mother said she was going to take her on a trip to sea, to meet her father in Mellicane, she had been delighted. She hoped, as children do, it meant that Mother and Father were getting back together, and would be friends again.

But it had all been a lie.

Father hadn’t been in Mellicane. Instead Mother had brought her to a huge palace, and there she had met the awful Shakusan Ironmask. The meeting had not, at first, been frightening. Ironmask was a big man, wide- shouldered and powerful. He was not wearing the mask that gave him his name. His face was handsome, though strangely discoloured from the bridge of his nose down to his chin. One of the servants back at Dros Purdol had a purple birthmark too, on the side of his face. But this was far worse.

Mother said that he was going to be her new father. This was just so silly, and Elanin had laughed. Why would she need a new father? She loved the one she had. Mother had said that Father didn’t want her any more, and had instructed she was now to live with her mother. At this Elanin became angry. She knew in her heart this was yet another lie and she had told her mother so. It was then that Ironmask had struck her on the face with the flat of his hand. No-one had ever hit her before, and Elanin had been more shocked than hurt. The force of the blow knocked her to the floor. Ironmask loomed over her. ‘In my home you will treat your mother with respect,’ he said. ‘Or you will suffer for it.’ Then he had left.

Mother had knelt by her, helping her to her feet, and stroking her blond hair. ‘There, you see,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t make him angry. You must never make him angry.’ It was then that Elanin saw her mother was frightened.

‘He is a horrible man,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to stay here.’

Mother looked suddenly terrified, and swung to see if the comment was overheard. ‘Don’t speak like that!’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Promise me you never will again.’

‘I won’t promise you. I want my father.’

Things will get better. Trust me, they will. Oh, please, Elanin. Just try to be nice to him. He can be charming and wonderful and generous. You’ll see. It is just that he has a… terrible temper. There is a war, you see, and he is under a great deal of strain.’

‘I hate him,’ said Elanin. ‘He hit me.’

‘Listen to me,’ said her mother, drawing her in close. ‘This is not Drenai land. The customs here are different. You must be polite to Shakusan. If not he will hurt you. Or me.’ The fear in her mother’s voice reached through Elanin’s anger.

In the days that followed she was careful around Ironmask, avoiding contact where possible, and remaining quiet and softly spoken where not.

Before long she began to notice how timid the servants were. They did not joke and laugh as her own servants did back in Purdol. They moved silently, bowing whenever they saw her or her mother. One of the serving girls brought her some breakfast on the fifth day. Elanin saw that the girl -

who could have been no more than fifteen — had lost two fingers from her right hand. The stump of one was covered by a badly stitched flap of skin and there was dried blood around it. The girl was quiet and avoided eye contact, so Elanin did not ask her about her injury. The same day she noticed that several of the servants had lost fingers.

That night she was awoken by the sound of screaming coming from far below. Elanin scrambled from her bed and ran into the room Mother shared with Ironmask. He was not there, and Mother was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and weeping.

‘Someone is screaming, Mother!’ cried Elanin. Mother had hugged her, and said nothing. Later, when they heard Ironmask approaching, Mother sent Elanin running back to her own room.

She had lain in her bed, dreaming of being rescued. Much as she loved Father she knew that Orastes was not strong enough to take her and Mother from Ironmask. He was a wonderful man, but so much of his life was spent in fear. The officers at Dros Purdol bullied him, and treated him with contempt. Even Mother, when she visited, would talk disparagingly of him when others were present. This always hurt him, but he did nothing to stop her. None of this mattered to Elanin, who loved him more than she could express. No, when she dreamed of rescue in those early days, she thought of Uncle Druss. He was the strongest man in the world. Last year, when she and Father visited him on his farm in the mountains, he had straightened a horseshoe for her with his hands. It was like a magic trick, and when she returned to Purdol no-one believed her. No-one was that strong, she was assured.

She hoped that Father would send Uncle Druss to Mellicane.

When Rabalyn awoke the sky was bright and clear, a glorious blue that lifted the heart. He yawned and stretched. The axeman looked at him and grinned. ‘I tell you, laddie, if sleeping ever catches on as a sport I’ll wager everything I have on you becoming champion.’

Rabalyn rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked.

‘I dozed a mite.’ Druss looked away, towards the trees, his eyes narrowing.

‘Is there something out there?’ asked Rabalyn, fear rising.

‘Not something. Someone. Been there a while now,’ answered Druss, his voice low.

‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘She’s there.’

‘She?’

Druss swung back to the youth. ‘When she comes in don’t question her.

Sometimes she’s a strange lass.’ The axeman added fuel to the fire, then rose and stretched his huge arms over his head. ‘Damn, but my shoulder aches,’ he said. ‘Must be rain coming.’ As he spoke a young woman emerged from the trees. Over one shoulder she carried a small pack, and in her hand, held by the ears, were two dead hares. Rabalyn watched her.

She was tall and slim, her movements graceful. Her long honey-gold hair was pulled back from the brow and bound into a single braid that hung between her shoulders. Her clothes were dark, an ankle-length cloak over a jacket of sleek black leather, the shoulders adorned with beautifully fashioned mail rings, blackened to prevent them gleaming in the light. Her trews were also of leather, though dark brown. She wore knee-length, fringed moccasins, and a short sword in a black scabbard. Rabalyn looked at her face. She was strikingly attractive, though her expression was grim and purposeful. Striding to the fire she dropped her pack, and tossed the hares to the ground. Without saying a word she drew a small curved knife and began to skin them. Druss wandered away into the trees, leaving Rabalyn alone with the woman. She ignored him, and continued to prepare the meat. From the pack she took a small pan, laying it by the fire.

Rabalyn sat quietly as she sliced meat into it. Druss strode in, carrying his helm upturned. Walking to the fire he offered it to the woman. Rabalyn saw it was full of water. Taking it, the woman emptied the contents into the pan, and placed it over the fire.

Then she settled back and glanced at the bodies of the beasts. ‘The fourth one is dead,’ she said. Rabalyn jerked as she broke the odd silence.

‘We killed it last night.’ Her voice was hard and cold. ‘We were lucky. It was already wounded and weak.’

‘The boy struck it with my axe,’ said Druss.