Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by David A. Gemmell
Copyright
Skilgannon the Damned had vanished from the pages of history. Taking his legendary Swords of Night and Day, he rode from the lands of Naashan. No-one knew where he had gone.
Three years later, as a mob intent on murder gathers outside a distant monastery, they are faced by a single unarmed priest. In a few terrifying seconds their world is changed for ever, and word spreads across the lands of the East. Skilgannon is back.
Now he must travel across a perilous, demon-haunted realm seeking a mysterious temple, and the ageless goddess who rules it. With assassins on his trail, and an army of murderous foes ahead, the Damned sets off on a quest to bring the dead to life. But he does not travel alone.
The man beside him is Druss the Legend.
David A. Gemmell’s first novel, Legend, was first published in 1984 and went on to become a classic. His most recent Drenai and Rigante novels are available as Corgi paperbacks; all are Sunday Times bestsellers.
Widely regarded as the finest writer of heroic fantasy, David Gemmell lived in Sussex until his tragic death in July 2006.
The Drenai books
Legend
The King Beyond the Gate
Waylander
Quest for Lost Heroes
Waylander II: In the Realm of the Wolf
The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
The Legend of Deathwalker
Winter Warriors
Hero in the Shadows
The Damned Books
White Wolf
The Swords of Night and Day
The Jon Shannow books
Wolf in Shadow
The Last Guardian
Bloodstone
The Stones of Power books
Ghost King
Last Sword of Power
Lion of Macedon
Dark Prince
The Hawk Queen books
Ironhand’s Daughter
The Hawk Eternal
The Rigante books
Sword in the Storm
Midnight Falcon
Ravenheart
Stormrider
Individual titles
Knights of Dark Renown
Morning Star
Dark Moon
Echoes of the Great Song
Anthologies
Drenai Tales Volume I
Drenai Tales Volume II
Drenai Tales Volume III
White Wolf is dedicated with love to
Linda, Karl, Kate, Jade and Andrew,
for the joy of the barbecue, and the gift of family.
And also to two men I have never met,
Ken and Malcolm, the Gemmell brothers.
SMOKE FROM THE burning buildings still hung in the air, but the rioting mobs of yesterday had dispersed now, as the two priests walked slowly down the hill towards the town. Heavy clouds were gathering over the eastern mountains, promising rain for the afternoon, and a cool wind was blowing. The walk from the old monastery buildings to the little town was one that Brother Braygan usually enjoyed, especially with the sunshine glinting from the white buildings, and glittering on the rushing river. The chubby young priest loved to see the colourful meadow plants, so small and ephemeral against the backdrop of the eternal, snow-capped mountains. Not so today. Everything seemed different. The beauty was still there, but now an underlying sense of menace and real peril hung in the air.
‘Is it a sin to be frightened, Brother Lantern?’ he asked his companion, a tall young man with eyes of cold and brilliant blue, upon whom the pale robes of the acolyte seemed out of place.
‘Have you ever killed a man, Braygan?’ Lantern’s reply was cold and disinterested.
‘Of course not.’
‘Or robbed, or raped or stolen?’
Braygan was shocked and stared up at his companion, his fears momentarily forgotten. ‘No.’
‘Then why do you spend so much time worrying about sin?’
Braygan fell silent. He never enjoyed working alongside Brother Lantern. The man said very little, but there was something about him that was wholly disturbing. His deep-set sapphire eyes were fierce, his lean face hard, his expressions unyielding. And he had sword scars upon his arms and legs. Braygan had seen them when they worked in the fields in the summer. He had asked about them, but Lantern had ignored him, as he ignored questions concerning the harsh and warlike tattoos upon his back, chest and arms: an eagle with outstretched wings and open talons between his shoulder blades, a large spider on his left forearm, and the snarling head of a panther upon his chest. When questioned about them Lantern would merely turn his cold eyes on the speaker and say nothing. Yet in all else he was an exemplary acolyte, working hard and never shirking his duties. He never complained, or argued, and attended all prayer and study meetings. When required he could quote verbatim from all sections of holy script, and knew also much of the history of the nations surrounding the Land.
Braygan turned his attention back towards the town, and his fear returned. The soldiers of the Watch had done nothing to stop the rioters. Two days ago the mob had attacked Brother Labberan and broken his arms when he went to teach at the church school. They had kicked and punched him, then struck him with rods of iron. Labberan was not a young man, and could easily have died.
The two priests came to the small bridge over the river. Braygan trod on the hem of his pale blue robe and stumbled. He would have fallen, but Brother Lantern’s hand grabbed his arm, hauling him upright.
‘Thank you,’ said Braygan. His arm hurt from the iron grip and he rubbed it.
There were some people moving through the rubble. Braygan tried not to stare at them – or at the two bodies hanging from the branches of a tall tree. They looked like foreigners, he thought. ‘I am frightened, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Why do people do such hateful things?’
‘Because they can,’ answered the tall priest.
‘Are you frightened?’
‘Of what?’
The question seemed ridiculous to Braygan. Brother Labberan had been beaten close to death, and there was hatred everywhere. In the capital, Mellicane, a group known as the Arbiters had grown in power. Priests there had been murdered, or accused of treason and hanged. Now a representative of the Arbiters had arrived in Skepthia, touring taverns and meeting halls, speaking out against the church and its priests. And the terror continued to grow.
Crossing the bridge, Braygan and Lantern moved past the smouldering buildings and on to the main street. Braygan was sweating now. There were more people here, and he saw several dark-garbed soldiers standing in a group by a tavern door. Some of the townsfolk stopped to stare at the priests as they made their way to the apothecary’s. One man shouted an insult.
Sweat dripped into Braygan’s eyes and he blinked it away. Brother Lantern had reached the apothecary’s door. It was locked. The tall priest tapped at the wooden frame. There was no answer. A crowd began to gather. Braygan tried not to look at the faces of the men. ‘We should go, Brother Lantern,’ he said.
Somebody spoke to Braygan, the voice angry. He turned to answer, but a fist struck him in the face and he fell clumsily to the ground. A booted foot caught him in the chest and he cried out, and rolled towards the wall of the apothecary’s.
Brother Lantern stepped across him, and blocked the path of Braygan’s attacker. ‘Beware,’ said Lantern softly.
‘Beware of what?’ asked the man, a heavily built and bearded figure, wearing the green sash of the Arbiters. It was the representative from Mellicane.
‘Beware of anger, brother,’ said Lantern. ‘It has a habit of bringing grief in its wake.’
The man laughed. ‘I’ll show you grief,’ he said. His fist lashed out towards Lantern’s face. The priest swayed. The blow missed him. The attacker stumbled forward, off balance, and tripped over Lantern’s outstretched leg, falling to his knees. With a roar of rage he surged upright and leapt at the priest – only to miss him and fall again, this time striking his face on the cobbles. There was blood upon his cheek. He rose more warily, and drew a knife from his belt.
‘Be careful,’ said Lantern. ‘You are going to hurt yourself further.’
‘Hurt myself? Are you an idiot?’
‘I am beginning to think that I might be,’ said Lantern. ‘Do you happen to know when the apothecary will be arriving? We have an injured brother and are in need of herbs to reduce his fever.’
‘You’re the one who’ll need the apothecary!’
‘I have already said that I need the apothecary. Shall I speak more slowly?’
The man swore loudly then rushed in. The knife lanced for Lantern’s belly. The priest swayed again, his arm seeming to brush against the charging man’s shoulder. The Arbiter surged past Lantern and struck the apothecary’s wall head first. Slumping down, he screamed as his knife blade gouged into his own thigh.
Lantern walked over and knelt beside him, examining the wound. ‘Happily – though I suppose that is arguable – you have missed the major artery,’ he said, ‘but the wound will need stitching.’ Rising, he turned towards the crowd. ‘Does this man have friends here?’ he called. ‘He needs to be attended.’
Several men shuffled forward. ‘Do you know how to treat wounds?’ Lantern asked the first.
‘No.’
‘Then carry him into the tavern. I will seal the cut. And send someone to fetch the apothecary. I have many duties today and cannot tarry here long.’
Ignored by the crowd Braygan pushed himself to his feet, and watched as the injured man, groaning in pain, was carried to the tavern. Lantern glanced back. ‘Wait for the apothecary,’ he said. ‘I will return presently.’ With that he strolled towards the tavern, the crowd parting for him.
Braygan felt light-headed and vaguely sick. He took several deep breaths.
‘Who was that?’ asked a voice. It was one of the black-armoured soldiers, a thin-faced man with deep-set dark eyes.
‘Brother Lantern,’ answered Braygan. ‘He is our librarian.’ The soldier laughed. The crowd began to drift away.
‘I do not think you will be further troubled today,’ said the soldier.
‘Why do they want to harm us? We have always sought to love all people, and I recognized many in the crowd. We have helped them when they were sick. In the famine last year we shared our stores with them.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘Not for me to say.’
‘Why do you not protect us?’ asked the priest.
‘Soldiers obey their rule, priest. The martial code does not allow us to obey only those orders we like. Were I you I would leave the monastery and journey north. It will not be long before it is attacked.’
‘Why would they attack us?’
‘Ask your friend. He seems to be a man who knows which way the wind will blow.’ He paused. ‘During the fight I saw he had a dark tattoo upon his left forearm. What kind was it?’
‘It is a spider.’
‘I thought so. Does he perhaps also have a lion or some such upon his chest?’
‘Yes. A panther.’
The soldier said nothing more, and walked away.
For three years now Skilgannon had sought to recapture that one perfect moment, that sense of total clarity and purpose. On rare occasions it seemed tantalizingly close, like a wispy image hovering at the corners of vision that danced away when he tried to focus upon it.
He had cast aside riches and power, and journeyed through the wilderness seeking answers. He had entered the priesthood here at the converted castle of Cobalsin, enduring three mind-rotting years of study and examination, absorbing – and largely dismissing – philosophies and teachings that bore no relation to the realities of a world cursed by the presence of Man.
And each night the dreams would haunt him. He would be wandering through a dark wood seeking the white wolf. He would catch a glimpse of its pale fur in the dense undergrowth and draw his swords. Moonlight would glisten on the blades, and the wolf would be gone.
Instinctively he knew there was a link between the swords and the wolf. The moment he touched the hilts the beast would disappear, and yet such was the fear of the wolf that he could not resist the lure of the blades.
The monk known as Lantern would awake with a start, fists clenched, chest tight, and roll from his narrow pallet bed. The small room with its tiny window would seem then like a prison cell.
On this night a storm was raging outside the monastery. Skilgannon walked barefoot along the corridor and up the steps to the roof, stepping out into the rain. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.
It had been raining that night too, after the last battle.
He remembered the enemy priest, on his knees in the mud. All around him were corpses, thousands of them. The priest looked up at him, then raised his thin hands to the storm. Rain had drenched his pale robes. ‘The tears of Heaven,’ he said.
It still surprised Skilgannon that he remembered the moment so powerfully. Why would a god weep? He recalled that he had laughed at the priest, and called him a fool. ‘Find yourself a god with real power,’ he had said. ‘Weeping is for the weak and the powerless.’
Now on the monastery roof Skilgannon walked through the rain and stared at the undulating landscape, gazing out towards the east.
The rain eased away, the clouds clearing. A bright, gibbous moon illuminated the glistening land. The houses in the town below shone white and clean. No rioting crowds tonight, no rabble rousers. The fires in the merchant district had been doused by the storm. The mob will gather again tomorrow, he thought. Or the next day.
What am I doing here, he wondered? The fool in the town had asked whether he was an idiot. The question dogged his thoughts. He had looked into the man’s eyes as he had stitched his wounded thigh. The glint of hatred shone there. ‘We will sweep your kind from the pages of history,’ the man had said.
Your kind.
Skilgannon had looked at him lying upon the tavern table, his face grey with pain. ‘You might kill the priests, little man. It will not be hard. They do not fight back. But the pages of history? I think not. Creatures like you do not have such power.’
A bitter wind rippled across the rooftop. He shivered – then smiled. Pulling open his soaked robes, Skilgannon let them fall to the floor. Standing naked in the moonlight he stretched the muscles of his arms and back, then moved smoothly into the Eagle pose, the left foot hooked behind the right ankle, the right arm raised, the left arm wrapped around it, the backs of the palms pressed together. Motionless he stood, in perfect balance. In this moment he did not look like a priest. His body was well muscled and lean, and there were old scars upon his arms and chest, from sword and spear. His breathing deepened. Then he relaxed. The cold did not touch him now, and he began to move smoothly through the exercises that had sustained him in another life: the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock and the Crow.
His muscles stretched, his body loose, he began a series of dance-like movements, leaping and twirling, always in perfect balance. Warm sweat replaced the cold sheen of rain upon his naked flesh.
Dayan’s face appeared in his mind. Not in death as he had last seen her, but bright and smiling as they swam together in the marble pool of the palace garden. His stomach tightened. His face betrayed no emotion, save for a tightness now around the eyes. Drawing in a deep breath he moved to the edge of the parapet and ran his hand along the foot-wide ledge. Water droplets clung to the smooth stone, making it greasy. The man known as Lantern vaulted to the ledge and stood some seventy feet above the hard rock upon which the monastery had been built. The narrow ledge ran straight for some thirty feet, before a sharp, right-angled turn.
He studied the ledge for a few moments, then closed his eyes. Blind now he ran forward then leapt high, twisting his body through a tight pirouette. His right foot landed firmly on the ledge and did not slip. His left caught the lip of the right angle. He swayed, then righted himself. Opening his eyes, he looked down once more on the rocky ground far below.
He had judged it perfectly. A small part of his mind wished that he had not.
Turning, he leapt lightly back to the roof and donned his robes.
If it is death you want, he told himself, it will be coming soon.
For two days the thirty-five priests remained mostly within the grounds of the old Cobalsin castle and its outbuildings, only venturing to the meadows east of the town. Here they tended the three flocks of rare sheep and goats from whose wool, and the garments they fashioned from it, the priests earned enough to support themselves and the headquarters of the church in the Tantrian capital, Mellicane.
The town itself remained ominously quiet. The bodies of the hanged foreigners were removed and the soldiers departed. Many among the priests hoped that the terror was at an end, and that life would soon return to normal. Spring was coming, and there was much to do, gathering the wild flowers to provide the dyes for cloaks and tunics, purchasing and preparing the secret blends of oils that would make the clothes they crafted waterproof, and help to maintain the depth of colour. The garments made here were highly prized by the nobles and the rich of the cities. Lambing season was also in full flow, and the spring cull was due. Merchants would soon be arriving to buy meat and deliver produce and supplies for the coming season.
The mood in the monastery was lighter than it had been for weeks, and the injured Brother Labberan had overcome his fever and – it was hoped – would soon be on the road to recovery.
Not everyone, however, believed the worst was over.
On the second morning Brother Lantern sought out the abbot.
‘We should leave and head west,’ he said. Abbot Cethelin, an elderly priest with wispy white hair and gentle eyes, beckoned Brother Lantern to follow him to his study in the high tower. It was a small room, sparsely furnished with two hard-backed chairs, a long writing desk and a single, narrow window, overlooking the town.
‘Why do you wish us to leave, Brother?’ asked the abbot, gesturing for Lantern to take a seat.
‘Death is coming, Holy Brother.’
‘I know this,’ answered the abbot softly. ‘But why do you wish us to leave?’
Brother Lantern shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but your answer makes no sense. This is merely a respite. The storm is coming. Even now the rabble rousers will be encouraging the townsfolk to come here and massacre us. Soon – tomorrow or the next day – crowds will begin to form outside. We are being cast in the role of enemy. We are being demonized. When they break through the gates they will cut us all down. They will rage through these buildings like a fire.’
‘Once again, Younger Brother, I ask: why do you wish us to leave?’
‘You want to die here?’
‘What I want is not the concern. This is a place of spiritual harmony. We exist to offer love and understanding in a world too often bathed in blood and hatred. We do not add to that suffering. Our purpose is enlightenment, Younger Brother. We are seeking to enhance the journey of our souls as they yearn to be united with the Source of All Things. We have no fear of death; it is merely another step of the journey.’
‘If this building was ablaze, Holy Brother, would you sit within it and wait for the flames to devour you?’
‘No, Lantern. I would take myself to a place of safety. That, however, does not equate with the situation we are facing. Fire is inanimate and non-discerning. We are ordered to offer love in the face of hate, and forgiveness in the face of pain. We cannot run away when danger threatens. That would be like saying we have no faith in our own philosophy. How can we obey our teachings if we run in the face of hate?’
‘It is not a philosophy I can share,’ said Lantern.
‘I know. That is one of the reasons you cannot find what you seek.’
‘You do not know what I seek,’ answered Lantern, a touch of anger in his voice.
‘The White Wolf,’ said the older man, softly. ‘But you do not know what it is, or why you seek it. Until you do, what you seek will always be lost to you. Why did you come here, Younger Brother?’
‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’ His keen blue eyes held to the abbot’s gaze. ‘How much do you know of me?’
‘I know that you are a man rooted in this world of flesh. You have a keen mind, Lantern, and great intelligence. I know that when you walk through the town the women admire you, and smile at you. I know how hard it has been for you to obey the rule of celibacy. What else do you wish to hear?’
‘I have tried to be a good priest,’ said the tall man, with a sigh. ‘I have immersed myself in this world of prayer and kindness. I thought that, as time passed, I would come to understand it. Yet I do not. Last summer we risked our lives in the plague to help these townspeople. Two of the men whose lives we saved took part in the beating of Brother Labberan. One of the women whose child we brought back from the brink of death was baying for her husband to break Labberan’s face. They are scum.’
The abbot smiled. ‘How simple love would be, Younger Brother, if we only had to bestow it on those who deserved it. Yet what would it be worth? If you gave a poor man a silver coin then that would be a gift. If you expected him to pay you back, then that would make it a loan. We do not loan our love, Lantern. We give it freely.’
‘And what will be achieved if you let them kill you? Will that add one spark of love to the world?’
The abbot shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. ‘How did you know of the White Wolf?’ asked Lantern. ‘It is only in my dreams.’
‘How do you know it is a wolf,’ countered the abbot, ‘when you have never seen it?’
‘That does not answer my question.’
‘I have a gift, Lantern. A small gift. For example, as we sit here now I can see you, but I also see glimpses of your thoughts and memories. They flicker around you. Two young women – very beautiful – one with golden hair, the other dark. They are opposites; one is gentle and loving, the other fierce and passionate. I see a slender man, tall with dyed yellow hair and a womanly face.’ Cethelin closed his eyes. ‘I see a weary man, kneeling in a garden, tending plants. A good man. Not young.’ He sighed and looked at Lantern. ‘You knew these people?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you carry them in your heart.’
‘Always.’
‘Along with the White Wolf.’
‘It seems so.’
At that moment came the sound of the bell, heralding morning prayer. The abbot rose.
‘We will talk again, Brother Lantern. May the Source bless you.’
‘And you, Elder Brother,’ answered Lantern, rising from his chair and bowing.
There was so much about the world that Braygan failed to comprehend. People mystified him. How could men gaze upon the wonders of the mountains, or the glories of the night sky, and not understand the pettiness of human ambition? Fearing death, as all men did, how could they so easily visit death upon others? Braygan could not stop thinking about the hanging bodies he had seen before the burning buildings. They had not merely been strung up by their necks. They had been beaten and tortured first. The young priest could not imagine how anyone could find pleasure in such deeds. And yet they surely had, for it was said there was much laughter in the crowd as the hapless victims were dragged to their places of execution.
The young priest sat at the bedside of Brother Labberan, spoon-feeding him vegetable broth. Occasionally he would stop and dab a napkin to Labberan’s mouth. The left side of the older priest’s face was swollen and numb, and the broth dribbled from his mouth to his chin.
‘Are you feeling a little stronger, Brother?’ asked Braygan.
‘A little,’ answered Labberan, his words slurred. Splints had been applied to both of his forearms, and his hands were also swollen and blue with bruises. There was an unhealthy sheen on the man’s thin face. Close to sixty years old Labberan was not strong, and the beating had been severe. Braygan saw a tear form, and slowly trickle down the old priest’s face.
‘Are you in pain still, Brother?’
Labberan shook his head. Braygan put aside the bowl of broth. Labberan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The young priest rose silently from the bedside and left the small room. He took the broth bowl to the lower kitchens and cleaned it. Several other priests were there, preparing the midday meal. Brother Anager approached him.
‘How is he?’ asked the little man. ‘Did my broth sit well with him? It was always his favourite.’
‘He ate well, Anager. I am sure he liked it.’
Anager nodded and seemed relieved. Small and round-shouldered, he had a nervous tic that caused his head to twitch as he spoke. It was most disconcerting to Braygan. ‘It was the boys, you know,’ said Anager. ‘They hurt him the worst.’
‘The boys?’
‘His boys. From the church school.’
Braygan was nonplussed. Two days a week Labberan would travel in to the community hall, offering lessons in writing and arithmetic. He would also tell stories of the Source and His wonders. Teaching children was Labberan’s joy. ‘Our future lies with the young,’ he would say. ‘They are the foundations. Only through the young can we hope to eradicate hatred.’
‘What about his boys?’ asked Braygan.
‘After Labberan was beaten by the mob some of the children came to where he lay and kicked him. You think it is over now, Brother Braygan?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so. Everything seems calmer.’
‘It is these Arbiters, you know,’ said Anager. ‘They stir up trouble. Is it true that Brother Lantern thrashed one of them?’
‘He did not thrash anyone. The man was clumsy and fell badly.’
‘It is said that there have been many killings in the capital,’ said Anager, blinking rapidly. He lowered his voice. ‘It is even said they might loose the beasts. What if they come here?’
‘Why would they allow the beasts to come here? The war is in the south and east.’
‘Yes. Yes, you are right. Of course you are. They won’t send beasts here. I saw one, you know. I went to the Games earlier this year. Ghastly. Huge. Four men went in against it. It killed them all. Horrible. Part bear, they said. Dreadful. A monstrosity. It is so wrong, Braygan. So wrong.’
Braygan agreed, and thought it best not to point out that priests were forbidden to watch blood sports.
He left the kitchens and made his way up to the lower hall and out into the vegetable gardens. Several of the brothers were working there. As Braygan arrived they asked after Brother Labberan. He told them he thought him a little better today, though a part of his mind considered that to be wishful thinking. Brother Labberan was a broken man in more ways than one. For an hour Braygan worked alongside them, planting tubers taken carefully from large brown sacks. Then he was summoned to the abbot’s study.
Braygan was nervous as he stood outside the door. He wondered which of his many errors had been pointed out to the abbot. He was supposed to have organized the mending of the chapel roof, but the new lead for the flashing had not arrived. Then there was the error with the dyes. It had not been his fault. The sack had split as he was adding the yellow. It should only have been two measures. More like ten had spilled into the vat. The result was a horrible, unusable orange colour, which had to be flushed away. It wouldn’t have happened had Brother Naslyn not borrowed the measuring jug.
Braygan tapped at the door, then entered. The abbot was sitting by a small fire. He bade Braygan take a seat. ‘Are you well, Younger Brother?’ he asked.
‘I am well, Elder Brother.’
‘Are you content?’
Braygan did not understand the question. ‘Content? Er . . . in what way?’
‘With your life here.’
‘Oh yes, Elder Brother. I love the life.’
‘What is it that you love about it, Braygan?’
‘To serve the Source and to . . . and to help people.’
‘Yes, that is why we are here,’ said the old man, looking at him keenly. ‘That is what we are expected to say. But what do you love about it?’
‘I feel safe here, Elder Brother. I feel this is where I belong.’
‘And is that why you came to us? To feel safe?’
‘In part, yes. Is that wrong?’
‘Did you feel safe when the man attacked you in the town?’
‘No, Elder Brother. I was very frightened.’
The abbot looked away, staring into the fire. He seemed lost in thought and Braygan said nothing. At last Cethelin spoke again.
‘How is Brother Labberan faring?’
‘He is not improving as fast as he should. His spirits are very low. His wounds are healing, though. I am sure that in a few days he will begin to recover.’
The abbot returned his gaze to the fire. ‘Brother Lantern thinks we should leave. He believes the mob will gather once more and seek to do us harm.’
‘Do you think that?’ whispered Braygan, his heart beginning to pound. ‘It cannot be true,’ he went on, before the abbot could answer. ‘No, it is getting calmer now. I think that the attack on Brother Labberan was an aberration. They will have had time to think about the evil of their deeds. They will understand that we are not enemies. We are their friends. Do you not think so?’
‘You come from a large town, don’t you, Braygan?’ said the abbot.
‘Yes, Elder Brother.’
‘Did many people own dogs there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were there sheep in fields close to the town?’
‘Yes, Elder Brother,’ replied Braygan, mystified.
‘I came from such a town. Men would walk their dogs close to the sheep, and there would be no trouble. Occasionally, though, a few dogs would gather together, and run loose. If they went into a field of sheep they would suddenly turn vicious and cause great harm. You have seen this?’
‘Yes, Elder Brother. The pack mentality asserts itself. They forget their training, their domesticity, and they turn . . .’ Braygan stammered to a halt. ‘You think the people in the town are like those dogs?’
‘Of course they are, Braygan. They have come together and indulged in what they are led to believe is righteous anger. They have killed. They feel empowered. They feel mighty. Like the dogs they are glorying in their strength. Aye, and in their cruelty. These have been harsh years – crop failures, plagues, and droughts. The war with Datia has sapped the nation’s resources. People are frightened and they are angry. They need to find someone to blame for their hardships and their losses. The church leaders spoke out against the war. Many have been branded as traitors. Some have been executed. The church itself is now accused of aiding the enemy. Of being the enemy. The mob will come, Braygan. With hatred in their hearts and murder on their minds.’
‘Then Brother Lantern is right. We must leave.’
‘You have not yet taken your final vows. You are free to do as you wish. As indeed is Brother Lantern.’
‘Then you are not leaving, Elder Brother?’
‘The Order will remain here, for this is our home and the people of the town are our flock. We will not desert them in their hour of need. Think on these things, Braygan. You have perhaps a few days to consider your position.’
ABBOT CETHELIN FELT heavy of heart as the young priest, Braygan, left the study. He liked the boy, and knew him to be good-hearted and kind. There was no malice in Braygan, no dark corners in his soul.
Cethelin moved to the window, pushing it open and breathing in the cool Tantrian mountain air.
He could taste no madness upon it, nor sense any sorcery within it. Yet it was there. The world was slipping into insanity, as if some unseen plague was floating into every home and castle, every croft and hovel. A long time ago, close to his home, Cethelin recalled seeing a host of rodents scampering towards the distant cliffs. He and his father had walked to the clifftops, and watched as the rodents hurled themselves into the sea. The scene had amazed the boy he had been. He had asked his father why these little creatures were drowning themselves. His father had no answer. It happened every twenty or so years, he had said. They just do it.
There was something chilling in that phrase. They just do it.
Mass extinction should have a better reason. Now, at sixty-seven, Cethelin still pondered the reasons behind the madness – not, this time, of rodents, but of men. Had it begun when Ventria invaded the Drenai? Or had that merely been a symptom of the madness? War had spread like an unchecked bush fire through the heartlands of this eastern continent. Civil war still raged in Ventria, as a result of the Ventrian defeat at Skeln five years before. Rebellions had spread throughout Tantria, only to be followed by war with the country’s eastern neighbours Dospilis and Datia – a war that continued still.
In Naashan to the southeast the Witch Queen’s forces had invaded Panthia and Opal, and even the peaceful Phocians had been drawn in to help defend against the invaders. To the northwest the Nadir had spread into Pelucid, crossing the vast deserts of Namib to raze and plunder the cities of the coast. War was everywhere, and in its wake came the carrion birds of hatred, terror, plague and despair.
Cethelin felt the last worst of all. To spend a lifetime offering love to all, only to see it brutally transformed and twisted – obscenely reshaped into a blind, unreasoning hatred – was hard to bear. His thoughts swung to Brother Labberan. The children he had nurtured had turned on him, kicking and screeching.
Cethelin took a deep breath, and fought for calm.
Kneeling on the bare boards of the study floor the abbot prayed for a while. Then he rose and walked down to the lower levels and sat for an hour at Labberan’s bedside. He spoke soothingly, but the old priest was not comforted.
Cethelin was tired by the time he climbed again to his own rooms, and he took to his narrow bed. It was still early afternoon, but Cethelin found that short naps at such times helped maintain his vigour. Not so today. He could not sleep, and lay upon his back, his mind unable to relax. He found himself thinking of Lantern and Braygan; opposites in so many ways. I should have sent Lantern across the water to found an order of the Thirty, he thought. He would have made a fine warrior priest.
A fine warrior priest.
A contradiction in terms, thought Cethelin sadly.
Unable to take comfort from rest he rose from his bed and made his way to the east wing of the monastery, moving past the kitchens and through the silent weaving rooms. Mounting the circular steps he climbed to the First Library. His right knee was aching by the time he reached the top, and he felt his heart thudding painfully. There were several priests present, studying ancient tomes. They rose as he entered and bowed deeply. He smiled at them, and bade them continue with their reading. Moving through the aisles, he ducked beneath the last arch and entered the reconstruction room. Here also there were priests, meticulously copying decaying manuscripts or scrolls. So engrossed were they in their work they failed to notice him as he continued through to the eastern reading room. Here he found Brother Lantern sitting by a window. He was reading a yellowed parchment.
He glanced up and Cethelin felt the power in his sapphire gaze. ‘What are you reading?’ asked the abbot, sitting opposite the younger man. He winced as he sat, then rubbed his aching knee. Lantern noticed his pain.
‘The apothecary said he would have some fresh juniper tisane for your arthritis within the month,’ Lantern told him, then suddenly smiled and shook his head.
‘We may yet have another month,’ said Cethelin, sensing the irony that caused the smile. ‘If the Source wills it.’ He pointed to the parchment and repeated his question.
‘It is a listing of little-known Datian myths,’ replied Lantern.
‘Ah. The Resurrectionists. I recall them. The stories are not Datian in origin. They come from the Elder Days, the days of Missael. The hero Enshibar was resurrected after his faithful friend, Kaodas, carried a lock of his hair and a fragment of bone to the Realm of the Dead. There the wizards grew Enshibar a new body and summoned his spirit back from the hall of heroes. It is a fine tale, and resonates through many cultures.’
‘Most myths contain a grain of truth,’ said Lantern warily.
‘Indeed they do, Younger Brother. Is that why you carry a lock of hair and a fragment of bone within the locket round your neck?’
For a moment only Lantern’s sapphire eyes glinted with anger. ‘You see a great deal, Elder Brother. You see into men’s dreams, and you see through metal. Perhaps you should be reading the dreams of the townsfolk.’
‘I know their dreams, Lantern. They want food for their tables, and warmth in the winter. They want their children to have better and safer lives than they can provide. The world is a huge and terrifying place for them. They are desperate for simple answers to life’s problems. They fear the war will come here and take away all that they have. Then the Arbiters tell them it is all our fault. If we were dead and gone everything would be fine again. The sun would shine on their crops, and all dangers cease. However, at this moment I am more interested in your dreams than theirs.’
Lantern looked away. ‘You do not believe in this . . . this hidden temple of the Resurrectionists?’
‘I did not say that I disbelieved. There are many strange places in the world, and a host of talented wizards and magickers. Perhaps there is one who can help you. On the other hand perhaps you should let the dead rest.’
‘I cannot.’
‘It is said that all men need a quest, Lantern. Perhaps this was always meant to be yours.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘If I asked a favour of you would you do it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do not be so swift, young man. I might ask you to put aside your search.’
‘Anything but that. Tell me what you need.’
‘As of this moment I need nothing. Perhaps tomorrow. Have you visited Labberan?’
‘No. I am not much of a comforter, Elder Brother.’
‘Go anyway, Younger Brother.’ The abbot sighed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘And now I will leave you to your reading. Try to locate the Pelucidian Chronicles. I think you will find them interesting. As I recall there is a description of a mysterious temple, and an ageless goddess who is said to dwell there.’
It was late when Skilgannon entered the small room where Brother Labberan was being tended. Another priest was already beside him. The man looked up and Skilgannon saw it was Brother Naslyn. The black-bearded monk had the look of a warrior. A laconic man, his conversation was mostly monosyllabic, which suited Skilgannon. Of all the priests he had to work alongside he found Naslyn the easiest to bear. The powerful brother rose, gently stroked Labberan’s brow, then moved past Skilgannon. ‘He’s tired,’ he said.
‘I will not stay long,’ Skilgannon told him.
Moving to the bedside he gazed down at the broken man. ‘How much do you remember?’ he asked, seating himself on a stool at the bedside.
‘Only the hatred and the pain,’ muttered Labberan. ‘I do not wish to talk of it.’ He turned his face away and Skilgannon felt a touch of annoyance. What was he doing here? He had no friendship with Labberan – nor indeed with any of the priests. And, as he had told Cethelin, he had never developed any talent as a comforter. He took a deep breath and prepared to leave. As he rose Labberan looked at him, and Skilgannon saw tears in the old man’s eyes. ‘I loved those children,’ he said.
Skilgannon sank back to the stool. ‘Betrayal is hard to take,’ he said. The silence grew.
‘I hear you fought one of the Arbiters.’
‘It was not a fight. The man was a clumsy fool.’
‘I wish I could have fought.’
Skilgannon looked into the old man’s face and saw defeat and despair. He had seen that look before, back on the battlefields of Naashan four years ago. The closeness of defeat at Castran had seemed like the end of the world. Retreating soldiers had stumbled back into the forests, their faces grey, their hearts overburdened with fear and disillusionment.
Skilgannon had been just twenty-one then, full of fire and belief. Against all the odds he had regrouped several hundred fighting men and led them in a counter charge against the advancing foe, hurling them back. He gazed now into the tortured features of the elderly priest and saw again the faces of the demoralized soldiers he had rebuilt and carried to glory. ‘You are a fighter, Labberan,’ he said softly. ‘You struggle against the evil of the world. You seek to make it a better and more loving place.’
‘And I failed. Even my children turned against me.’
‘Not all of them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When did you lose consciousness?’
‘In the street, when they were kicking me.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Then you do not recall being dragged into the schoolroom?’
‘No.’
‘You were taken there by some of your pupils. They pulled you inside, and locked the door. One of them then ran here to tell the abbot of your injuries. Because of the riot we could not reach you immediately. You were tended by some of the children. They covered you with blankets. It was very brave of them,’ he added. ‘Brother Naslyn and I came to you before the dawn and carried you back. Several of the children had remained with you.’
‘I did not know.’ Labberan smiled. ‘Do you know any of their names?’
‘The boy who brought us to you was called Rabalyn.’
Labberan smiled. ‘An unruly boy, argumentative and naughty. Good heart, though. Who else?’
‘A slender girl with black hair and green eyes. She had a three-legged dog with her.’
‘That would be Kalia. She nursed the hound back to health after it fought the wolves. We all thought it would die.’
‘I do not recall the others. There were three or four of them, but they left when we arrived. But the boy, Rabalyn, had a swollen eye. Kalia told me he got it when he fought the other boys attacking you. He beat them off. Well, he and the three-legged dog.’
The old man sighed, then relaxed and closed his eyes. Skilgannon sat for a while, until he realized the old priest was sleeping. Silently he left the room and walked out into the night. As he crossed the courtyard he saw Abbot Cethelin standing below the arch of the gate. Skilgannon bowed to him.
‘He feels better now, does he not?’ said the abbot.
‘I believe so.’
‘You told him about the children who helped him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Why did you not tell him? Or someone else?’
‘I would have, had you not. You still believe they are all scum, Lantern, these townspeople?’
Skilgannon smiled. ‘A few children helped him. Good for them. They will not however stop the mob when it comes here. But, no, I do not think they are all scum. There are two thousand people living in the town. The mob numbers some six hundred. I make little distinction, however, between those who commit evil and those who stand by and do nothing.’
‘You were a warrior, Lantern. Such men are not renowned for understanding the infinite shades of grey that govern the actions of men. Black and white are your colours.’
‘Scholars tend to overcomplicate matters,’ said Skilgannon. ‘If a man runs at you with a sword it would be foolish to spend time wondering what led him to such action. Was his childhood scarred by a cruel father? Did his wife leave him for another man? Was he perhaps misinformed about your intentions, and therefore has attacked you in error?’ He laughed. ‘Warriors need black and white, Elder Brother. Shades of grey would kill them.’
‘True,’ admitted the abbot, ‘and yet a greater understanding that there are shades of grey would prevent many wars beginning.’
‘But not all,’ said Skilgannon, his smile fading. ‘We are what we are, Elder Brother. Man is a hunter, a killer. We build great cities, and yet we live just like the wolf. The strongest of us dominate the weakest. We might call our leaders kings or generals, but the effect is the same. We create the wolf pack, and the very nature of that pack is to hunt and to kill. War, therefore, becomes inevitable.’
Cethelin sighed. ‘The analogy is a sad one, Lantern – though it is true. Why then did you decide to remove yourself from the pack?’
‘My reasons were selfish, Elder Brother.’
‘Not entirely, my boy. I pray that time will prove that to you.’
At fifteen Rabalyn didn’t care about wars and battles to the east, nor about who was right and who was wrong regarding the causes. These were enormous issues that concerned him not at all. Rabalyn’s thoughts were far more focused. The town of Skepthia was all he had ever known, and he thought he had learned the rules of behaviour necessary to survive in such a place. True, he often broke those rules, stealing occasional apples from Carin’s shop, or sneaking onto the estates of the absent lord to poach pheasants or hunt rabbits. If approached later and questioned he would also lie shamelessly, even though Brother Labberan taught that lies were a sin against Heaven. Broadly, however, Rabalyn had believed he understood how his small society operated. Yet in the last week he had witnessed appalling scenes that made no sense to him.
Adults had gathered in mobs, screeching and calling for blood. People who had worked and lived in the town were suddenly called traitors, dragged from their homes and beaten. The soldiers of the Watch stood by, doing nothing. Yet these same soldiers berated him for killing pheasants. Now they ignored the killing of people.
Brother Labberan was probably right to have called him an idiot. ‘Stupid boy, are you incapable of learning?’ It had always seemed such fun to irritate Brother Labberan. He would never raise a hand – not even to lightly slap a child. It did not feel like fun now in his memory.
Rabalyn rubbed at his swollen eye. It was still painful, but at least now he could see again, although bright sunshine still made the eye water. Todhe had caught him with a wicked blow just as he was pulling Bron away from the unconscious priest. With fury born of pain Rabalyn had pushed Bron to the ground, then swung and hammered a punch into Todhe’s face. The blow had been a good one, and had smashed the other boy’s lips against his teeth. Even so the powerful Todhe would have beaten him senseless had the dog not rushed in and bitten his calf. Rabalyn smiled at the memory. Todhe had screamed in pain. Kalia had called the dog back and Todhe had limped away with his friends. He had turned at the alleyway arch and screamed a threat back at Rabalyn: ‘I’ll get you for this – and I’ll see the dog is killed too.’
He and Kalia and several others had pulled Brother Labberan into the small schoolroom and locked the door. The old priest was in an awful state. Kalia had begun to cry, and this perturbed the three-legged hound, which started to howl.
‘What do we do when they come back?’ asked Arren, a chubby boy from the northern quarter. Rabalyn saw the fear in his eyes.
‘You ought to get home,’ he said.
Arren fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. ‘We can’t leave Brother Labberan,’ he said.
‘I’ll go to the castle,’ said Rabalyn. ‘The priests will come for him.’
‘I can’t fight Todhe,’ said Arren. ‘If he comes back he’ll be very angry.’
‘He won’t come back,’ said Rabalyn, trying to sound decisive. ‘Keep the door locked behind me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Did he mean what he said, do you think?’ asked Kalia. ‘About killing Jesper?’
‘No,’ lied Rabalyn. ‘Wait for me. And find some blankets to cover old Labbers. He’s shivering.’
With that Rabalyn set off through the town, heading out towards the old bridge and the long climb to the monastery. He heard the mob off to the west, and saw the flames starting. Then he ran like the wind.
He had been taken to the abbot, told him about old Labbers. The abbot ordered food brought for him and instructed him to wait. The hours wore on. A monk gave him a cold poultice to hold over his eye, and then at last a tall, frightening priest had come and sat beside him. Black-haired and hard-eyed, the man had introduced himself as Brother Lantern. He had questioned Rabalyn about the attack, then he and another monk had walked with Rabalyn back to the schoolroom, skirting the rioting mob.
That had been two days ago, and no-one had heard since whether old Labbers was alive or dead. Todhe and his friends had twice tried to ambush Rabalyn, but he had been too swift for them, darting away into alleyways and scaling walls.
Now he sat high on the northern hillside, near the old ruins of the watchtower. Kalia’s crippled dog was squatting beside him. Todhe’s father, the councilman Raseev, had put out an order for the hound to be killed. Kalia had brought Jesper to Rabalyn. The girl was distraught and Rabalyn had reluctantly agreed to hide the hound and brought him up to the watchtower. He didn’t know what to do next. A three-legged dog was not easy to hide.