David Gemmell - White Wolf - A Novel of Druss the Legend

Horses were screaming and rearing, and the cries of wounded men filled the air. Diagoras was under attack again. A blade tore into his side.

Diagoras stumbled. Before the death blow could be struck the Naashanite grunted and staggered back, twisting as he fell. Diagoras saw a crossbow bolt in his back.

Now the Naashanite archers turned on Garianne. Shafts struck the rampart wall close to where she was crouched. Rising she coolly shot a rider from the saddle then ran along the wall.

Diagoras forced himself to his feet. He felt light-headed. He saw Jared go down, a lance through his back. Then Nian hacked the lancer from his saddle and, dropping his sword, ran to his brother. Diagoras charged across towards them, slashing his sword across the face of one man, and plunging the blade through the chest of another. Nian hauled Jared to his feet. Tick up your sword!’ he heard Jared yell. Nian ran back towards the weapon. A black arrow materialized in his back. He stumbled and fell. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword and he half rose. Another arrow slammed into him. With a roar of pain Nian gained his feet. Turning he ran at the archer on the horse. The man tried to loose another shaft, but his mount reared. Then Nian was upon him. The longsword clove through the man’s side. As he fell from the saddle Nian brought the sword down on his skull. Jared was facing two men. He no longer had the strength to hold them back. One ran in. Jared weakly lashed his blade at the man. The blow was blocked. The second dived in, plunging a long dagger into Jared’s belly. Nian, seeing his brother’s plight, screamed at the top of his voice.

He charged the men, who fell back. Instead of chasing them Nian dropped his sword once more, and knelt beside his fallen brother. He kept shouting his name, over and over.

Diagoras could see Jared was dead. The two men Nian had attacked rushed in. One stabbed Nian in the neck, the other slashed his sword down onto Nian’s skull. Diagoras charged them. One tried to defend himself, and died with Diagoras’s sabre through his neck. The other backed away, and was joined by four others. They advanced on Diagoras.

‘Come on then!’ yelled the Drenai. ‘Which of you whoresons wants to die first?’

They stood for a moment, swords ready. Then, as one, they backed away a few steps, before turning and running back towards the tavern. Diagoras blinked sweat from his eyes, trying to make sense of their flight.

Then he heard sounds behind him. Slowly he turned.

A large group of heavily armoured horsemen were sitting their mounts.

Their armour was black, their helms full-faced, with high horsehair plumes. Each man carried a lance, and a sword, and a small round shield, bearing the sign of the Spotted Snake.

The line of horsemen parted and a woman rode in. Diagoras found his pain forgotten as he gazed on her. Her hair was raven dark, and held back in a single braid, through which silver wire had been entwined. She wore a white, flowing cloak, and silver chain mail. Her legs were bare above knee-length riding boots of black leather, embossed with silver. Lightly she leapt to the ground and approached Diagoras.

Stupidly he tried to bow, but his legs gave way. Stepping in, she caught him.

‘If this is a dream,’ he said, ‘I never want to wake.’

‘Where is Skilgannon?’ she asked.

Skilgannon stepped across the bodies of the two soldiers and moved forward warily. There were a number of doors on the landing, all of them open. Coming to the first room he stood outside, listening. Hearing nothing he took a deep breath and stepped quickly through the doorway.

The first man rushed at him from across the room, sword raised. In that moment Skilgannon heard a whisper of movement from behind. Dropping to one knee he reversed the Sword of Day, ramming it backwards. The curved blade sliced up through the second attacker’s belly and clove his heart. The Sword of Night slashed out, half severing the leg of the first man. The man screamed and pitched to the floor. Another soldier loomed in the doorway, holding a crossbow. Skilgannon rolled to his right as the string twanged. The bolt ripped into the carpeted floor. Rising swiftly Skilgannon leapt at the crossbowman, who dropped his weapon and ran for his life. Out on the landing several more soldiers had arrived.

Skilgannon tore into them, spinning and leaping, his blades flashing.

Blood-spattered, he ran on to the second staircase.

The howling of the Joining had ceased now, and Skilgannon guessed it had been cut down.

He ran up the stairs. Another crossbow bolt hissed by his head. Two swordsmen blocked his path. They died. The crossbowman tried another shot. Skilgannon dived forward, rolled on his shoulder, and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. The crossbowman grunted as the Sword of Day plunged into his heart.

A long corridor connected the third landing to the stairs Druss had taken. Skilgannon could hear the sounds of battle. Taking no time to check the rooms as he passed he sprinted along the corridor. He came to two open double doors, leading to a large dining area. Druss was battling furiously against a dozen opponents. Several bodies were already sprawled on the timber floor. The survivors were seeking to circle him, but the axeman spun and whirled, the huge axe glinting in the lantern light. Blood flowed from a cut on Druss’s face, and his jerkin had been slashed in several places. His leggings too were damp with blood. A soldier more daring than the rest darted in. His head bounced to the floor, a gush of blood pumping from his severed neck.

Skilgannon ran to Druss’s aid. Seeing this new enemy the soldiers tried to reform. Two went down swiftly under the slashing Swords of Night and Day. Another died, his spine smashed to shards by Druss’s axe. The remaining men broke and ran towards the double doors.

Skilgannon stepped in towards Druss. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘Hurt?’ responded Druss. ‘Pah! Scratches only.’ He was breathing hard and once more looked weary and grey in the face. Only days ago he had been close to death. Skilgannon looked at him, and shook his head. ‘Don’t be concerned about me, laddie,’ said Druss. ‘I can still climb the mountain.’

‘I don’t doubt it, axeman.’

‘Then let’s find Boranius.’

Druss hefted his axe once more, but Skilgannon paused. ‘The child will be with him, Druss,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘He will seek to make you suffer. It is likely he will kill her in front of you.’

‘I know that too.’ The old man’s eyes were cold now, like polished steel.

‘Let’s find the whoreson, and finish this.’

Together the two warriors headed for the final staircase.

IN THE ROOF HALL MORCHA WAITED WITH FIVE SWORDSMEN.

Boranius, bare-chested, and wearing his ornate mask of black iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair, the catatonic child Elanin in his lap. There was blood on Boranius’s chest, seeping from the four talon marks that scored his skin from shoulder to belly. The huge grey Joining lay on the floor before him, its own body pierced by a score of wounds. It was still breathing, and its golden eyes were open and fixed on Boranius. Its spine was severed and it could not move.

‘See the hatred there?’ said Boranius, with a harsh laugh. ‘How it would love to come at me again.’ A large pool of blood was spreading from beneath the dying beast. Boranius took hold of the child’s blond hair and tilted her head towards the Joining. ‘See there, little one. Daddy has come for you. Isn’t that sweet?’

Morcha looked away.

So, he thought, it all ends here. All the dreams, all the hopes, all the ambitions. He looked around at the decaying roof hall, then back at the blood-smeared man in the black mask. Boranius was stroking the child’s hair, but there was no reaction. Her eyes were open and unblinking.