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

‘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 Skein 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.