Even up to the last battle we believed we would conquer. A sudden shiver rippled through him. The day, begun in high spirits, had ended with Morcha and five others carrying the mutilated Boranius from the field.
Now, years later, Boranius was mutilated again, and once more Skilgannon was coming.
Codis had been right. The only sensible course was to ride away now.
And yet he could not.
In a world of shifting values Morcha believed in loyalty. He had pledged himself to Boranius, and he would stand by him.
Have you seen enough?” asked Ustarte. Skilgannon struggled to open his eyes. His body felt as if it had been without sleep for a month. Every muscle ached. He could not raise himself from the chair. Ustarte’s gloved hand stroked his face. “Humans without training find the journey of the spirit exhausting,” she said. “Drink a little of our water. It will help.” It was all Skilgannon could do to raise the goblet to his lips. His hand trembled. He drank, then fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.
“I feel I have aged twenty years,” he said.
“It will pass when you have rested. Sleep a little. I will come back in a while.”
Skilgannon needed no urging. He fell asleep immediately, deep and dreamlessly. When he awoke the new dawn was breaking. Ustarte was standing by the balcony’s edge, the sunlight glinting on her red and gold gown.
“Do you feel better?”
“I do, lady. It was the best sleep I have had in years.”
“You did not see the White Wolf?”
He smiled. “It seems my curse to meet people who know my dreams. But, no, the wolf did not come to me. I almost slew it the last time.”
“It is as well that you did not.”
He sat up and drank some more water. “I feel it would stop it disturbing my sleep.”
“Indeed it would. Which is why you must not.”
“You think I need troubled dreams?”
“I think you need to understand the nature of the wolf. Has it ever attacked you?”
“No.”
“It is you who hunt the wolf, yes?”
“That is true. Whenever I see it I draw my swords. Usually it disappears. The last time, though, it padded toward me.”
“It did not charge? Its fangs were not bared?”
“No. It just walked toward me. I raised my swords to kill it, but Diagoras woke me.”
“The swords again. Did you know that the Old Woman conjured demons and trapped them within the blades?” Skilgannon shook his head. “The demons give them power. It is a trade, however. Slowly the demons will exert an influence over you. They will corrupt you, increasing your angers and your hatreds. It is they who wish to kill the White Wolf. That is why whenever you see it in your dreams they leap to your hands.”
“Why do they need to kill the wolf?”
“That is for you to answer, Olek. The White Wolf is usually driven from the pack. He is different, and the other wolves fear him. So this wolf stands alone. He has no mate, no pack to follow or to lead. Does he remind you of anyone?”
“The wolf is me.”
“Yes—or rather your soul. He is all that is good in you. The swords need him dead before they can overcome you. Did the journey to the citadel help you?”
“I believe that it did. The troops there are demoralized. The Nadir have fled. More will desert as the days pass. They fear Druss. Merely knowing he is coming is filling the soldiers with terror.”
“And you, Olek Skilgannon. They fear you mightily.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“I sense you knew one of those we saw. You even have affection for him.”
“I knew him years ago. And, yes, I liked him then. Strange to see a man like him following a monster like Boranius.”
She laughed then. “You humans amuse me. When someone is evil you need to demonize them. He is a monster, you say. No, Olek, he is merely a man who has given in to the evils of his nature. All of you have a potential for evil, and for good. Much depends on the stimuli applied. The soldiers you led into Perapolis butchered and raped, mutilated and destroyed other humans. Then they went home to their wives and their sweethearts, and raised children and loved them. You are all monsters, Olek. Massively complex and uniquely insane. You teach your children that to lie is wrong. But your lives are governed by small lies. The peasant does not tell the lord what he truly thinks of him. The wife does not tell the husband she saw a man in the marketplace who made her loins burn. The husband does not tell his wife he went to the whorehouse. You follow a god of love and forgiveness, and yet you rush into war bellowing, ‘The Source is with us.’ Need I go on? Boranius is evil. That is true. Yet in all his life he has not ordered as many innocents slain as you.”
“I cannot argue with you, lady,” said Skilgannon, sadly. “I cannot undo the past. I cannot bring them back.”
“You can give them peace,” she said, softly.
He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “By letting Garianne kill me? You said yourself that she is probably unhinged, and that there are no ghosts inside her head.”
“I could be wrong.”
He laughed then. “One problem at a time, lady. First we need to rescue the child. After that I will consider the problem of Garianne. Where is Druss?”
“He is with Rabalyn. The boy is recovering well.”
“And Diagoras?”
“He and the twins are in the lower gardens with Garianne. Diagoras has discovered much in common with Nian. They argue wonderfully about the nature of the stars.” Ustarte turned and stared out over the red mountains. “There is something else you should know, Olek. The Old Woman has cast a concealing spell over the lands to the northeast of the citadel. I cannot penetrate it.”
“The northeast?” he repeated. “The lands of Sherak?”
“Not all of Sherak. Even she is not that powerful. No, it is merely a . . . mist, if you like . . . over a small area.”
“Her purposes are a mystery to me,” he said, “save that she wants Boranius dead.”
“There is something more,” said Ustarte. “I know that she hates Druss. Twice he has thwarted her.”
“She is none too fond of me,” said Skilgannon, “though, to my knowledge, I have done nothing to cause her harm.”
“She has sent Garianne to kill you. Of that I have no doubt. So, at the very least, she requires three deaths. Boranius is obviously the most important. Otherwise Garianne would already have tried to slay you. The Old Woman’s actions are most odd. She slew the Nadir shaman with a fire spell. His body became a living candle. This is powerful magic, Olek. To achieve it, while in spiritual form, is awesome indeed. What it means, though, is that, if she desired it, she could kill you and Druss in precisely the same manner. Or indeed Boranius. The question then is: Why does she not? Why this elaborate quest?”
“Our deaths alone are not sufficient,” said Skilgannon.
“I don’t understand.”
“Take Boranius, for example. You might ask why, when he kills, he does it so slowly. He takes pleasure in torture and pain. The Old Woman is no different. To merely kill us holds no attraction for her. Druss is a proud man. He wants to rescue the child. Imagine how he would feel if that rescue were to fail. Worse, if he were to arrive and watch her die.”
Ustarte shuddered. “I do not want to understand such depths of evil. If what you say is true, then what is it she requires of you?”
“That is more simple, I think. I fear Boranius, more than I fear death. It would please her to see Boranius cut me to pieces.”
“And the concealment spell she has cast?”
He fell silent for a while, thinking the problem through. “Someone else is coming,” he said, at last. “If she wants Boranius to kill Druss and myself, then she will need another weapon to dispose of Boranius. More warriors drawn into her web.”
“And knowing this you will proceed against the citadel?”
“The child is the key to it all,” he said. “That
is the beauty of her plan. We cannot now walk away. This she would have known. Even if we survive—which is doubtful—the child will be slain before our eyes.”
Ustarte took a deep breath. “We do not usually take part in the affairs of this world,” she said. “I shall make an exception now. I will help you, Olek.”
Diagoras was enjoying the conversation with Nian. They had moved from the nature of the stars and the planets to the fundamental complexities of nature. So engrossed did the Drenai officer become that he quite forgot, for a while, that Nian was under sentence of death. Jared, meanwhile, sat back, taking little part in the discussion. He watched his brother, his expression showing a mixture of admiration and sadness. Garianne was sitting by the banks of a stream that flowed through the indoor garden. She was staring at the water as it bubbled over a bed of glistening white rocks.
Nian walked over and kissed her golden hair. “It is good to see you again, my friend,” he said.
“We are happy that you have come back,” she told him. Nian looked over her shoulder at the stream, then walked to the edge of the water, squatting down and pushing his hand into the pool at the base of the stream. Then he rose and examined the five-foot-high waterfall that bubbled from the rocks by the north wall.
“What do you find so fascinating?” asked Diagoras, moving to join him.
“Do you not see? Watch the waterfall.” Diagoras did so.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“The pink rose petals swirling on the water’s surface.”
“What about them? They are coming from the rose bushes on the other side of the stream,” said Diagoras, indicating the small, floribunda bushes.
“Yes, they are. How then are they also falling from the waterfall, which appears to be coming from the rock wall?”
“Obviously there are more rose bushes above us somewhere.”
Nian shook his head. “I think the water just comes down the waterfall, and then is drawn back from the pool to go round again and again. Intriguing.”
“Water does not flow uphill, Master Nian,” Diagoras pointed out. “It is impossible.”
Nian chuckled. “Master Diagoras, you are sitting in a temple that magic has made invisible, which is run by creatures half human and half beast, who have brought Rabalyn back from the dead, and have brought me back to the living. And you speak of the impossibility of water flowing uphill?”
Diagoras gave an embarrassed laugh. “Put that way I can only agree with you.”
Garianne rose lithely to her feet. “Hello, Uncle,” she called. Diagoras saw Druss striding across the garden. The Drenai grinned.
“Ah, that is better, Druss. Now you look like the man I knew.” It was true. Druss’s gray eyes were sparkling and his skin glowed with health.
“And I feel it, laddie. The water here is almost as good as Lentrian Red—and that is saying something. Have you seen Skilgannon?”
“No. He went off with the priestess last night. I’ve not seen him since.”
“They are making a journey of the spirit,” said Nian. “It is called Soaring by some. It is a feat said to have been first mastered by the Chiatze thousands of years ago. The spirit is loosed from the body and can travel vast distances. I believe Ustarte is using her powers to allow your friend Skilgannon to examine the citadel.”
Diagoras looked doubtful. Nian laughed. “Truly, my friend. I would not lie to you.”
“I believe you, laddie,” said Druss. “My own wife had that talent. It is good to see you looking well.”
“You have no idea how good it is to be myself. All I have had for these past few years are snatches of coherence, and odd memories of foolishness, or downright stupidity. It embarrasses me to think of what I became.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” said Druss. “You were a good companion, and a faithful friend. That counts for much.”
Nian smiled and reached out to shake Druss by the hand. “I thank you for that,” he said, “though, truth to tell, I would sooner be dead than live as I did. And, though Jared has not admitted it thus far, I fear that death is waiting for me rather sooner than I would like.” He glanced at his twin. “Not so, brother?”
Jared said nothing and looked away. Nian returned his gaze to Druss. “You will tell me the truth, axman. I am a good judge of men, and you are no liar.”
Druss nodded. “They couldn’t remove your cancers. That is the truth of it.”
“How long do they give me?”
“A month. Maybe less.”
“As I thought. Jared’s long face was proof enough. You will understand, I hope, why I will not be traveling with you on your quest? I would like to stay here. There are books in the library that are filled with wonders. I’d like to read as many of them as I can before I die.”
“Of course,” said Druss. “I wish they could have helped you, Nian. You’re a good man. You deserved better.”
“It has always been my belief that this stage of our existence is merely the beginning of a great journey. I am saddened—and a little frightened—to be facing the second stage so early. But I am also excited by the prospect. I wish you well, Druss. I hope you rescue the child.”
“I usually do what I set out to do.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Nian turned to Diagoras and Garianne. “Excuse me, my friends, I have a little reading to catch up on.”
As he walked away Jared rose to follow him. Nian placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No, brother. Stay here with your friends. I need a little solitude.” With that he left the gardens.
The following morning the travelers assembled outside the temple. The beast that was Orastes was awake now, and clambered up on the back of the wagon, staying close to Druss, who was in the driving seat. Skilgannon, Diagoras, and Garianne were all mounted, and the priestess Ustarte was standing beside Skilgannon’s gelding.
“I will watch over you all,” she said. “When the enemy is close I will lay a spell over you. It will confuse those who gaze upon you, in much the same way as the temple deceives the eye. I will not be able to hold the spell for more than a few minutes. But it should suffice. When you are stopped, say you are travelers bound for the market town. Say you are looking for work.”
“I thank you, lady, for all you have done for us,” said Skilgannon.
“It was little enough. We will meet again, I think, Olek. Perhaps then I can do more.”
As Skilgannon swung his horse the gate of the temple opened. Jared came out, leading his horse, followed closely by Nian. Diagoras rode back to them.
“I’m glad you changed your mind, Nian,” he said. “I would have missed your company.”
“Going to citadel,” said Nian, happily. “Chop up the bad people.” Seeing that Jared had mounted, Nian scrambled on to his own mount.
Reaching out, he took hold of the sash at his brother’s belt.
Morcha had slept for no more than three hours of the last forty-eight. Everything was falling apart. Eighteen men had deserted, and morale among those remaining was low. Boranius himself seemed unconcerned. He spent most of his time in the Roof Hall, high in the citadel, his bandaged face now permanently covered by the ornate black mask. Morcha had tried to interest him in the scouting reports, and the slow erosion of their fighting force. Boranius just shrugged.
“Let them all go. I care not,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
This morning he had found Boranius stripped to the waist and practicing with his swords. Morcha had stood and watched. The man was extraordinarily lithe, his movements lightning fast. At the rear of the hall sat the Nadir woman. On the floor before her was the Drenai child, Elanin. She was crouched down, hugging her knees and swaying slightly, her head cocked to one side, her blue eyes staring sightlessly into the distance.
Morcha and the rest of the men had been told the child was being held for ransom. Morcha was beginning to doubt it. No message had been sent to Earl Orastes at Dros Purdol. It was mystifying.
Boranius saw Morcha and paused, sheathing the Swords of Blood and Fire. They were handsome blades, the ivory hilts superbly crafted.
“Well?” asked Boranius, draping a towel over his sweat-drenched chest. “Are our guests close?”
Morcha strode forward, then began to refer to the sheaf of notes he carried. “It is most odd, lord. The enemy has been sighted in several places, some of them thirty miles apart. Our best Nadir scout sent word he saw Druss in the mountains, at the camp of Khalid Khan. I sent out twenty men to set up an ambush.” Morcha shuffled through the notes. “Now I have had word he and the others have been sighted far to the west. I have sent two more riders to scout the high pass, and have another ten bowmen positioned at the only entrance to the lowlands. An hour ago a rider came in saying he had seen them going in to the Temple of Ustarte.”
“They will come, regardless of your efforts, Morcha. I know this in my soul.”
“With respect, lord, there are only four routes to the citadel. All of them are now watched. We will have word when they approach.”
“They will come,” repeated Boranius. “I shall kill Skilgannon. It is my destiny.”
“Are your wounds still troubling you?”
“The surgeon has done well. My face is numb to pain. See that his body is removed from my quarters. I don’t want it starting to stink.”
“You killed him? Why?”
“Why not? I had no further need of him.” Boranius strode to a window and gazed down at the land below. “At dusk bring twenty of our best swordsmen into the citadel. The rest can man the walls. Their screams will alert us when the enemy attack. Go now. I need to practice.”
Morcha bowed and left him. In his own office on the ground floor he sat by a window and went through the reports. There was increased movement into the market towns, but this was to be expected at this time of year. Many of the poorer hill people traveled down seeking work. No armed men had been reported traveling the roads. There were no reports from the east. This was hardly surprising, since it was the one direction that the enemy could not have taken. Having been spotted with Khalid Khan it would have been impossible for them to cross the high peaks. They would first have to travel past the citadel. Even so Morcha made a mental note to send a rider to find out why the daily report had not been made. Maybe the eastern scouts have also deserted, he thought. Morcha swore softly, and returned to studying the reports.