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

‘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?