David Gemmell
White Wolf
The Damned — Book 1 (Drenai Tales — 10)
PROLOGUE
CAPHAS THE MERCHANT WAS FRIGHTENED AS THE STRANGER
approached his campfire in the woods to the north of the capital. Caphas had picked the spot with care, in a hollow away from the road, so that his fire would not be seen. Although the civil war was now ended, so great had been the losses on both sides that there were few troops left to patrol the wildlands, where renegades and deserters looted and stole. The merchant had thought long and hard about this journey, but with so many of his colleagues too terrified to enter the lands of Naashan he had seen an opportunity for huge profits from his goods: silks from Chiatze and spices from Sherak and Gothir. Now, as the full moon shone over the hollow, those profits seemed a long way away.
The rider emerged from the tree line above the camp, and angled his horse down the slope. The man’s hairstyle — the lower part of the head shaved clean, the upper hair swept into a fierce crest — showed him to be a Naashanite swordmaster. Caphas began to relax. It was unlikely such a man would prove to be a robber. There were far better ways for skilled fighters to make money in this war-torn country than by waylaying travelling merchants. The man’s clothes further reinforced this judgement.
Though functional in appearance — a dark leather jerkin, the shoulders edged with chain mail, leather leggings and high riding boots also adorned with mail — they were richly made. His black horse was Ventrian pure bred. Such beasts were rarely seen on the open market, but would sell privately for between two hundred and four hundred gold raq. The rider was quite clearly no thief. Thoughts of robbery drifted away, only to be replaced by a fear of another kind.
The man dismounted and walked to the fire. He moved with the grace common to all swordsmen, thought Caphas, who rose to greet him. Up close the rider was younger than Caphas had first thought. In his twenties.
His eyes were a piercing sapphire blue, his face handsome. Caphas bowed.
‘Welcome to my fire, sir,’ he said. ‘It is good to find company in such bleak surroundings. I am Caphas.’
‘Skilgannon,’ said the man, offering his hand.
A deep, sickening terror struck Caphas. His mouth was suddenly dry.
Aware that Skilgannon was staring at him he managed to say: ‘I… was about to prepare a small meal. You would be most welcome to share it.’
‘Thank you.’ Skilgannon’s blue eyes scanned the campsite. Then he raised his head and sniffed the air. ‘Since you are not the person wearing the perfume I suggest you invite the women to join us. There are wild beasts in the woods. Not as many wolves as once there were, but still some bears and the occasional panther.’ He swung away from Caphas and walked to the fire. It was then that the merchant saw the strange ornament he carried slung across his back. It was around five feet in length, slightly curved, the centre polished black. At each end were set beautifully sculpted ivory sections. Ornate and exquisite, it would — had he not heard the man’s name — have seemed to Caphas to serve no purpose.
Swinging the ornament from his back, the stranger placed it on the ground beside him as he sat down by the fire.
Caphas turned towards the dark woods. His heart was heavy.
Skilgannon knew the girls were there, and if he intended rape or murder they would not escape him. ‘Come in, Lucresis. Bring Phalia. It is all right,’
he called, praying it was true.
A slender, dark-haired young woman moved out of the trees, holding the hand of a girl of around seven. The child broke clear of her sister’s grip and ran to her father. Caphas put a protective arm around her, and drew her towards the fire. ‘My daughters, Phalia and Lucresis,’ he said.
Skilgannon glanced up and smiled.
‘Always wise to be wary,’ he said. ‘The girls are very beautiful. They must take after their mother.’
Caphas forced a smile. ‘Ah yes, she was the beauty. No doubt of it.’ He was dismayed to see Lucresis staring boldly at the handsome young man.
She tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. She knew she was beautiful. So many young men had told her so.
‘Lucresis! Come and help me fetch the pots and pans from the wagon,’
he ordered, his voice showing his stress. Confused by his fear, the young woman followed him. As he reached the wagon he hissed at her, ‘Stop making eyes at him.’
‘He is very handsome, Father.’
‘That is Skilgannon the Damned. You want nothing to do with him. We will be lucky to escape this with our lives,’ he added, keeping his voice to a whisper. He handed her several pots.
Lucresis glanced back at the man by the fire. He was chatting to little Phalia, who was giggling at his words. ‘He won’t hurt us, Father.’
‘Do not judge a man by his looks. If only ugly men committed crimes it would take no effort at all to find offenders. I have heard tales of his excesses. Not just on the battlefield. It is said he once had a large house, and all the servants were trained whores. He is not the sort of man I would want near my daughter — had I a choice in the matter. Which I don’t,’ he concluded miserably.
‘I wish I had a choice,’ said Lucresis.
Returning to the fire, Caphas prepared a broth. The smell of it hung in the air, rich and tempting. Occasionally he would stir the contents of the large pan, then take a sip before adding a little pepper and spice. Finally he sprinkled rock salt into the pot. ‘I believe it to be ready,’ he said.
After the meal Skilgannon put his plate to one side. ‘You are a truly talented cook, Master Caphas.’
‘Thank you, sir. It is a hobby of mine.’
‘Why do you have a spider on your arm?’ asked little Phalia, pointing to the black tattoo on Skilgannon’s left forearm.
‘Do you not like it?’
‘It is very ugly.’
‘Phalia, that was rude!’ snapped Caphas. ‘It is the mark of an officer, dear heart,’ he added swiftly, realizing he had shocked the child. ‘The fighting men of Naashan adorn themselves in this way. An officer who has
… defeated… eight enemies in single combat is awarded the Spider.
Generals have panther tattoos upon their chests, or eagles if their victories are great.’ He knelt beside the child. ‘But you should not make such comments.’
‘I’m sorry, Father. But it is ugly.’
‘Children say what they think,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘It is no bad thing. Be calm, merchant. I mean you no harm. I shall spend the night in your camp and be on my way in the morning. Your life is safe — as is the honour of your family. And, by the way, the house you told your daughter of was not mine. It was owned by a courtesan who was, shall we say, a friend.’
‘I did not mean to offend, sir.’
‘My ears are very keen, merchant. And I am not offended.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
They heard the sound of horses in the distance. Skilgannon rose and waited.
Within moments a column of cavalry rode into the clearing. Caphas, who had journeyed in Naashan throughout the years of civil war, knew them for the Queen’s Horse, black-clad warriors in heavy helms. Each carried a lance, a sabre, and a small round shield decorated with a spotted snake. At the head of the column was a civilian he recognized: Damalon, the Queen’s favourite. His hair was long and blond, his face lean. The fifty riders sat their mounts silently, while Damalon leapt lightly to the ground.
‘It has been a long ride, general,’ he said to Skilgannon.
‘And why did you make it?’ asked the warrior.
‘The Queen wants the Swords of Night and Day returned.’