White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

Diagoras leaned back in his chair. ‘From what you have told me Ironmask has seventy men with him. From everything we learned of the man while he was here in Mellicane he is hard and ruthless. His men likewise. The stronghold in Pelucid contains a hundred more, mostly Nadir. Ferocious fighters, as you know. They also take delight in torturing prisoners. One hundred and seventy enemies, Druss. How much time do you think Rabalyn will have, to become this fine man?’

Druss said nothing. Diagoras pushed himself to his feet. ‘Very well, Druss. I’ll make enquiries about a wagon, and purchase some supplies. It will take a couple of days. We’ll need to wait until the situation in the city has calmed down. I’ll see you back here tomorrow evening.’

The young Drenai officer wandered out into the gathering dusk. The air was fresh and cool, a light breeze blowing in from the sea. Several whores were standing at the quayside, ready for the evening trade. Ignoring them, he strolled to the edge of the quay and thought of the trip ahead. You could have been going home, he thought. Back to Drenan and a life of idle pleasure. Instead he was to journey into a perilous wilderness. Druss had called him an intelligent man. There was little intelligence involved in this adventure. But it was an adventure, and Diagoras had found little excitement in his life these last four years. Skein Pass had been terrifying, and there was indeed a large part of him that wished he had never been there. On the other hand it had been the most exciting time of his life. The prospect of death had loomed over him like a storm crow, bringing with it the intense knowledge of the sweetness of life. Every breath was joyful, every moment cherished. And when, in the end, they had won, and he had survived, he experienced a surge of elation and exhilaration unparalleled in his young life. Nothing since had even come close to such a feeling.

Just then, from a window above him, he heard a young woman cry out in ecstasy. Well, almost nothing, he thought, with a smile. The smile faded as he realized the woman was probably the lovely Garianne.

‘I could make those sounds for you,’ said a voice. Diagoras turned. One of the whores, a girl with long dark hair, had moved nearer to him. Her face was pretty, though her eyes were tired and dull. ‘I have a room close by,’ she said, giving a practised smile.

Diagoras took her hand and kissed it. ‘I am sure you would, my sweet.

And I am sure it would be a wonderful experience to treasure. Sadly, though, duty calls. Another time, perhaps.’

Her smile became more natural. ‘You are very gallant.’

‘Only in the presence of beauty,’ he said.

In the room above the woman cried out again. Diagoras suddenly chuckled, and took the young whore by the arm. ‘Duty can wait,’ he said. ‘I yearn for a little time in your company.’

‘You’ll not regret it,’ she promised him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FOR AN HOUR NOW RABALYN HAD SAT ON A BENCH BEHIND

THE Crimson Stag, watching Druss chop logs. Using a long-handled, single-bladed axe Druss worked methodically, with an extraordinary economy of effort. With each stroke the timber split and fell apart. Druss would tap the chunks to the left, knocking them from the large round he used as a chopping block, and then thunk the axe blade lightly into a fresh round, lifting it to the block. With a flick of his wrist he would free the axe blade, raise it and bring it down, splitting the new round. It was rhythmic and impressive to see. When the timbers to Druss’s left began to pile up Rabalyn would leave his seat and carry them to the wood store by the tavern wall, stacking them carefully.

As the first hour ended Druss took a break. He was bare-chested, and his body gleamed with sweat. Rabalyn had known strong men back at the village. Usually their bodies were sculpted, the muscles of their chest and belly in sharp relief. Not so with Druss. He was merely huge. His waist was thick, his shoulders bunched with muscle. There was nothing remotely aesthetic about the man. He just radiated power.

‘Why are you doing this work?’ asked Rabalyn, as the axeman took a deep draught of water.

‘I don’t like to be idle.’

‘Is Shivas paying you?’

‘No. I do it for pleasure.’

‘I can’t see how chopping wood is pleasurable.’

‘It relaxes me, laddie. And it keeps me strong. You’ll hear men talk about skill with sword or knife, axe or club. Most people believe it is that skill which makes a warrior great. It is not. Great warriors are men who know how to survive. And to survive a man needs to be strong. He needs stamina. There are many men out there who are faster than me. More skilful. There are few who can outlast me.’

Rabalyn looked at the big man, seeing the old scars on his chest and arms. ‘Have you always been a warrior?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It is my one great weakness,’ said Druss, with a rueful grin.

‘How can it be weak? That makes no sense.’

‘Don’t ever be fooled by appearances, boy. Strong men build for the future: farms, schools, towns and cities. They raise sons and daughters, and they work hard, day in day out. See that wood there? The tree it came from is around two hundred years old. It started out as a seed, and had to send roots into the hard earth. It struggled to survive — to live long enough to make its first leaf. Slugs and insects ate away at it, squirrels chewed on its soft bark. But it struggled on, making deep roots and a stronger heart.

For two hundred years its falling leaves fed the earth. Its branches became the home of many birds. It gave shade to the land beneath it. Then a couple of men with axe and saw brought it down in less than an hour.

Those men are like warriors. The tree is like the farmer. You understand?’

‘No,’ admitted Rabalyn.

Druss laughed. ‘Ah, well, one day maybe you will.’

Rising from the bench, he began to work again. Rabalyn helped him for another hour. Then Skilgannon arrived, and Druss laid down the axe. He still did not seem tired. Skilgannon laid his swords on the ground and stripped off his shirt, exposing the ferocious panther tattoo on his chest.

Taking up the axe he lifted a fresh round to the chopping block and split it expertly. Rabalyn sat back, fascinated by the difference in the way the two men worked. Druss was all power and economy. Skilgannon brought a touch of artistry to the labour. Every so often, as the axe swung up, he would twirl it, causing sunlight to flash from the blade. His movements were smooth and supple. Though less strong than Druss he powered through the work with great speed. Where Druss’s axe blade would occasionally bite into the chopping block and need to be wrenched clear, Skilgannon would strike each blow with just the right amount of force.

The rounds would split, the axe blade coming to rest almost gently on the block.

Both men made the work look easy, and yet when Rabalyn tried it the swinging axe would bury itself in a round and need to be wrestled clear, or else he would miss with his swing, the blade bouncing from the block and jarring his shoulders. ‘Keep at it, laddie,’ said Druss encouragingly. ‘It’ll come.’

By the time Rabalyn had successfully sliced around thirty rounds his shoulders and arms were burning with fatigue. Druss called a halt and they moved to the well nearby. Druss drew up a bucket of water and drank.

‘We should be ready to leave in a day or two,’ he told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon donned his shirt and swung his swords to his back. ‘A man at the tavern told me that there are horses for sale in the northern quarter of the city. He said I should seek out a man named Borondel.’

Druss thought for a moment. ‘The northern quarter is mostly Naashanite. Will it be safe for you?’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘Nowhere is safe. But we do need horses. Diagoras says the Drenai have none to spare.’

‘Did you ask Shivas about this Borondel?’

‘Yes. He is a horse trader.’

‘But you are not convinced. I see it in your eyes, laddie.’

‘No. It seems too… convenient that a man should seek me out and ask if I’m looking for mounts.’

‘I’ll go with you.’