White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

Within moments he had drifted into a shallow sleep.

He was walking through a shadow-haunted forest, and furtive sounds were coming from the undergrowth. Spinning on his heel he caught a glimpse of white fur. His hands reached for his swords…

Skilgannon awoke in the pre-dawn and rose from the bed. His eyes felt gritty and he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Stripping off his shirt he moved to the rear of the room, where there was a jug of water and an enamelled bowl. He filled the bowl and splashed water to his face, then opened a small flap in his belt and removed a folded razor knife. Flipping it open he shaved slowly and carefully. Back home in Naashan he would have had a servant prepare heated towels to lay upon his face. Then the man would rub warm oils into the stubble before shaving him. Here he had no mirror, and shaved slowly by feel. At last, satisfied, he cleaned and dried the razor before folding it and returning it to the hidden pouch in his belt.

As dawn broke he saw smoke in the east of the city. Pushing open the window, he leaned out. He could just make out the distant sounds of uproar. He guessed the cause. Food riots among the poor.

When he turned away from the window he saw that Garianne was still sleeping. He gazed down at her face. She looked much younger asleep, no more than a girl. Donning his shirt and jerkin, and looping the Swords of Night and Day over his shoulder, he left the room and walked downstairs.

Servants were already busy in the kitchens and Skilgannon smelt fresh-baked bread. Druss was nowhere to be seen. Skilgannon sat at a table by a harbour window and stared out over the sea. He felt a yearning to be aboard a ship, travelling towards distant horizons; to step ashore where no-one had ever heard of the Damned. Even as the thought came to him he recognized how stupid it was. You cannot run from what you are.

His thoughts swung to the Old Woman, and he felt the familiar surge of distaste and fear. Jianna had used the hag more and more during the civil war. Several enemies had been slain using demonic spells. It was actions such as these that had led to her being known as the Witch Queen.

Shivas strolled towards him, wiping flour from his hands. ‘You are too early for breakfast,’ he said. ‘I can get you a drink, though.’

Skilgannon looked up at the wiry tavern owner. ‘Just some water.’

‘I am making some herbal tisane. A local apothecary prepares the ingredients for me. Most refreshing. Camomile and elderflower I can recognize, but there are other subtle flavours I cannot place. I recommend it.’

Skilgannon accepted the offer. The concoction was delicious, and he felt fresh energy flow through his tired body. Some time later Shivas returned.

‘Now you look better, young man. Good, is it not?’

‘Wonderful. Could I have another?’

‘You could — if you want to find yourself singing sweet songs and dancing on my table. Trust me, one is enough. Now, I have some smoked fish for breakfast, with a side order of onion bread. Both are delicious.

Especially with three eggs, whisked with butter and seasoned with a little pepper.’

Smoke from the riots was now drifting across the water. ‘You’d think the city would have seen enough bloodshed,’ muttered Shivas.

‘Starvation brings out the worst in people,’ said Skilgannon.

‘I suppose it would. I shall fetch you some breakfast.’

After Shivas had gone Skilgannon’s thoughts returned to the Old Woman. If she truly knew the location of the Resurrectionists he would be foolish to ignore her summons. Idly he fondled the locket round his neck.

Do you really believe, he asked himself, that Dayan can be returned to life through a fragment of bone and a lock of hair? And supposing that she can, what will you do? Settle down with her on some smallholding and raise sheep? She is… was… a Naashanite aristocrat, raised in a palace, with a hundred servants to furnish all her needs. Would she live happily on a dirt farm? Would you? You were a general. The most powerful man in Naashan. Would you be content as a farmer, a tiller of soil?

Skilgannon drained the last of his tisane.

Shivas returned with his breakfast and Skilgannon ate mechanically, the exquisite flavours wasted on him, as his mood darkened.

Druss wandered into the tavern and sat opposite him. ‘Sleep well, laddie?’ he asked.

‘Well enough,’ answered Skilgannon sharply, feeling his irritation mount.

‘Not a morning person, I see.’

‘What does that mean?’ he snapped.

‘Beware of the tone, boy,’ said Druss softly. ‘I like you. But treat me with disrespect and I’ll bounce you off these walls.’

‘You’ll trip over your guts the moment you try,’ hissed Skilgannon.

Druss’s eyes blazed. Then he saw the empty tankard. Lifting it to his nose he drew in a deep breath.

‘Drinking makes you disagreeable, you said. How do narcotics affect you?’

‘I don’t take them.’

‘You just did. Most men who sip Shivas’s tisanes merely sit around with happy grins on their faces. You, it seems, slide in the opposite direction.

I’ll have some water brought out for you. Drink it. We’ll talk when the opiates have worn off.’

Druss left the table and walked into the kitchen. A serving girl brought a jug of water and a large blue cup. Skilgannon drank deeply. A mild headache began at his temples. He saw Druss leave the kitchen and climb the stairs.

Suddenly tired, Skilgannon leaned forward, resting his head on his arms. Colours swirled before his eyes. He found himself staring at the blue cup. Light from the window was gleaming upon its glazed surface.

Skilgannon closed his eyes. The bright shimmering blue remained in his mind, swirling like the ocean. His thoughts drifted free, skimming across the blue like a seabird — flowing back to the day when blood and horror tore into his life, changing it for ever.

It had begun so well, so innocently. Sashan was holding his hand as they walked in the park at dusk. They had strolled together to the market, and eaten a meal at a riverside tavern. It had been a good day. Spies no longer watched the house, and Skilgannon had begun to believe that his plan had succeeded. The festival was only a week away now, and soon he would take Sashan from the city to seek her destiny among the mountain tribes. This thought was disturbing, and caused his stomach to tighten.

‘What is wrong, Olek?’ she asked him, as they passed a gushing fountain.

‘Nothing.’

‘You are gripping my hand more tightly.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said, loosening his grip. The only time they touched was when they were outside. Skilgannon enjoyed these walks more than any other pleasure he had ever experienced.

Night was falling as they approached the park gates. Two men with fire buckets were moving along the walkways, lighting the tall, bronze lanterns which lit the paths. Skilgannon saw an old woman sitting on a bench. ‘You wish your fortunes told, young lovers?’ she asked. Her voice grated on Skilgannon. She was extraordinarily ugly, and her clothes were ragged and filthy. He was about to refuse her offer when Sashan released his hand and moved to sit beside the crone.

‘Tell me my future,’ she said.

‘There are many futures, child. Not all are written in stone. Much depends on courage, and luck, and friends. Even more depends on enemies.’

‘Do I have enemies?’ asked Sashan, the question sounding innocent.

Skilgannon was growing ill at ease.

‘We should go, Sashan. Molaire will be angry if the meal goes cold.’

‘Molaire will not be angry, Olek Skilgannon,’ said the old woman. ‘I promise you that.’

‘How is it you know my name?’

‘Why would I not? The son of the mighty Firefist. Did you know that your father is now a demigod among the Panthians?’

‘No.’

‘They worship courage above all else, Olek. You will need all the courage your blood line can supply. Do you have such courage?’