White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

‘No, sir. Brother Lantern told me Druss was at Skein, with the Immortals.’

‘I think you misheard, lad. Druss was with the Immortals once. At Skein he fought with the Drenai. It was Druss who broke the last charge and turned the battle. He broke the Immortals, by God. That’s not just a man we’re talking about. That’s Druss the Legend.’

‘Does that mean he’s our enemy?’ asked Rabalyn, concerned.

Jared shrugged. ‘Not mine. Neither Nian nor me would be here had it not been for Druss. And I certainly don’t want him for an enemy. I’m pretty good with this longsword, son. I’d fancy myself against just about anyone. Not against Druss, though. Nor that Skilgannon either, come to that. How did you come to be travelling with him, Rabalyn?’

Rabalyn told them the story of the riot at the church, and of how Brother Lantern had quelled it.

‘There’s no accounting for people,’ said Jared. ‘Who would have thought it? The Damned became a priest. There’s always something to surprise you in this life.’ Beside him Nian began to moan. Rabalyn glanced at the man. His face was grey, and sweat was gleaming on his skin.

‘Hurts, Jared,’ he whimpered. ‘Hurts bad.’

‘Lie down. Come on, just lie down for a while.’ He swung to Rabalyn.

‘Get some water.’

Rabalyn ran off and borrowed a small bucket from a family. He filled it at the stream, then made his way back to the twins. Jared dipped a cloth in the water and began to bathe his brother’s head. Then he opened a pouch at his side, took a pinch of pale grey powder, and sprinkled it into Nian’s mouth. Drenching the cloth, he squeezed drops of water onto Nian’s lips. After a while the groaning ceased and the man slept.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘He’s dying,’ said Jared. ‘Go tell Skilgannon we’ll have to wait here at least another hour.’

People had begun to gather around the unconscious Nian. Some women from the column enquired what was wrong, but Jared waved them away.

Garianne came over and sat beside Nian, gently stroking his cheek.

Rabalyn hesitated for a moment, watching her, but then he stood and walked away, up the hillside to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking.

The older warrior looked round as Rabalyn approached, and smiled at him. ‘Is it Nian? Don’t look so downcast, boy. He’ll come round.’

‘Jared says he’s dying.’

‘Aye, but not today.’

‘What is wrong with him?’

‘There is a sickness in his head,’ said Druss. ‘A surgeon told Jared there’s a cancer growing there. It is destroying Nian’s mind.’

‘Couldn’t they give him medicine, or something?’

‘That’s why they’re heading for Mellicane. There’s said to be a healer there.’

Rabalyn turned to Skilgannon. ‘Jared says we have to wait until Nian wakes up.’

‘Aye. He’ll sleep for an hour — maybe two,’ added Druss.

‘It will be dusk by then,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I have no idea how far the beasts have moved, or whether they’ll come back after nightfall.’

‘I was thinking that myself. We’re no more than two hours from Mellicane now. Give him an hour. If he hasn’t woken I’ll carry him. The boy can take my axe and walk beside me.’

Skilgannon offered no objection. ‘I’m going to make a sweep to the north and see how the land lies,’ he said. ‘If I am not back in an hour then lead them on towards the city. I’ll meet you on the way.’

With that he loped off down the hillside. Rabalyn watched him go.

‘What if there are any beasts out there?’ he asked Druss.

‘Well, Rabalyn, he’ll either kill them or die.’

As he approached the trees around a half-mile from the base of the hill Skilgannon slowed. The short run had warmed and loosened his muscles, but he had no wish to race headlong into a pack of the beasts. His eyes felt gritty, his body weary. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had last slept, and the previous night had been long and bloody.

The attacks by the beasts had been sustained and cunning. The creatures had darted in from different directions, as if operating to a plan.

Several times during the night he had seen the colossal grey one he had first spotted emerging from the reeds the previous afternoon. It seemed to Skilgannon that this one beast was directing the others. After a while he had watched for it. If he glimpsed it to the south of the circle, then it would be from that direction the next attack would come.

Looking back on the night of terror Skilgannon realized that the beasts had not set out to kill all of the refugees. They had been hunting food, and once they had gathered enough bodies they had withdrawn. Like a wolf pack.

He pushed on into the trees, and climbed towards a hilltop, scanning the ground as he moved. There were many deep paw prints, but all were heading away from the city. At the top of the hill were several tall oaks. He climbed one of them and scanned the land. To the far north he could just make out the spires of Mellicane, and the tents of the besieging armies of Datia and Dospilis. Out towards the east he saw riders. There was no sign of Joinings. A great weariness settled over him, and he wedged himself against two thick branches, rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

He was walking through a moonlit forest. The White Wolf was near.

He could hear its stealthy movements in the undergrowth. Skilgannon’s heart was beating fast. He clenched his fists to avoid reaching for his swords. A low snarl came from behind him. Spinning on his heel he swung to face the threat.

There was nothing there. Then he saw that — once again — he had unconsciously drawn the Swords of Night and Day, the blades glittering in the moonlight. Casting them from him he cried out: ‘Where are you?’

Then he awoke.

The sun had scarcely moved in the sky. He had not slept for more than a few minutes. Even so he felt refreshed, and considered rejoining the refugees. But it was peaceful here, high in the tree, and he realized how much he had missed his own company. There was a time he had enjoyed having people close by; the days when Greavas, Sperian, and Molaire had cared for him, when Malanek had taught him the dance of blades. Long painful years had flowed by since then. The days of Bokram and the terror.

The days of Jianna.

The horror had been ahead of him on the morning he set off to find Greavas. The sun had shone bright in a clear, cloudless sky, and the strength and arrogance of youth had filled him with confidence.

Skilgannon, at sixteen, had begun the day by walking to the Royal Park.

During the stroll through the lanes and shops of the city centre he had taken time to pause at the stalls and — while appearing to study merchandise — had identified the men following him. There were two, one tall, lean and sandy-haired, the other shorter, with a long, dark moustache that overran his chin. Skilgannon, upon reaching the park, had stretched his muscles and begun to run. The paths through the park were beautifully paved with white stone, angling through flower beds, and past artificial lakes and statue gardens. Many people were strolling, or sitting on the stone benches. Some had even spread blankets and were picnicking.

Skilgannon continued on at an even lope. As the path bent he had glanced back to see the two men toiling after him. There was no sense of danger. It was like an adventure for the young man. He took them through four miles of slow jogging, and then steadily increased the pace. At the last he came almost full circle, back to the marble gymnasium and bathhouse set beside the western gates of the park. Here he slowed and finally sat upon a wide bench. The two followers, sweat-drenched and weary, stumbled to where he sat.

‘Good morning,’ said Skilgannon.

The man with the drooping moustache nodded at him. The taller man forced a smile.

‘A hot day for a run,’ said the youth. ‘Are you in training?’

‘Always,’ said the sandy-haired man.

‘I am Olek Skilgannon.’ Rising, he offered his hand.