David Gemmell - Wolf in Shadow

'What do you want?' he whispered. 'You ain't my relief.'

'True,' said Shannow, moving casually towards him. The coat slipped from his arm to reveal the black muzzle of the Hellborn pistol, he cocked it and the noise seemed to echo in the corridor like cracking bones. The man's eyes widened as Shannow moved closer, pushing the muzzle up under his chin.

'Which room is Ridder's?' he whispered.

The sentry pointed over Shannow's shoulder.

‘Tell me,' said Shannow, without following the man's shaking finger.

‘Two doors down on the left.'

'And where are the prisoners who were brought in today?'

'I've no idea, I've only just come on. I've been asleep all day.'

'Would they be kept in the mine?'

'Probably.'

'How do I get there?'

'Jesus, man, I couldn't tell you that. There's a score of staircases and corridors and a pulley lift.

You could lose yourself in this place.'

'What's through the door behind you?'

'It's a store-room.'

'Be so kind as to open it.'

'Don't kill me — I've a wife. . children.'

'Get inside.' The man turned and opened the door; Shannow followed him in and struck him savagely on the back of the neck and the sentry fell forward without a sound. Shannow searched the room for cord but found none, so he removed the man's belt and tied his hands behind his back. Then he gagged him with a linen kerchief which he stuffed into his mouth, binding it with a piece of torn curtain.

Stepping out into the corridor, he moved silently to Ridder's room, cursing softly when he saw a light showing under the door. He opened it and stepped inside, finding himself facing a small altar before which knelt a slim man with a shock of white hair. The man turned. He was around fifty years old, with round dark eyes and a hatchet face which bore no trace of humour.

'Who in God's name are you, sir?' exclaimed Ridder, surging to his feet, his thin face reddening.

'You can ask him yourself,' said Shannow, levelling the pistol.

All colour fled from Ridder's face. 'You can't mean to kill me?'

'Just so, Pastor.'

'But why?'

'On a whim,' snarled Shannow. 'I have no time for Brigands.'

'Nor I. I am a man of God.'

'I think not.' Shannow moved forward swiftly and, with his left hand, took hold of the lapels of Ridder's black jacket, pulling the man to him. 'Open your mouth.'

The terrified man did so and Shannow slid the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth.

'Now listen to me, Pastor, and note every word. You are going to take me to the two men you brought in here today and then we are going to leave together, all four of us. It is your only chance for life — you understand?'

Ridder nodded.

'Now, in case you think that once we are away from here your men will help you, bear this in mind: I am not a man who is afraid to die — and I will take you on the journey to Hell with me.'

Shannow withdrew the pistol and sheathed it. 'Wipe the sweat from your face, Pastor, and let us go.'

Together the two men walked into the corridor and down several flights of stairs. Shannow was soon lost within the maze of the building as they passed one shadow-haunted corridor after another. The air was musty and several times they passed sentries who stood to attention as Ridder went by. At last they emerged into a dimly lit hall where six men sat at a table dicing for copper coins. All were armed with handguns and knives.

'Prepare the lift,' said Ridder and the men moved swiftly to a series of pulleys and ropes beside an open shaft. A burly man with huge forearms cranked an iron handle and after a few seconds a large box rose into view. Ridder stepped inside and Shannow followed; within the box was a handbell on a rope. With a sickening lurch the box descended into darkness; Shannow blinked sweat from his eyes as the lift continued its descent.

After what seemed a lifetime, they reached another level and Ridder rang the handbell. The lift stopped and the two men emerged into a dimly lit tunnel filled with the stench of human excrement.

Shannow gagged and swallowed hard. Ridder stood gesturing to a series of bolted doors.

'I don't know which one they are in. But they'll be here somewhere.'

'Open every door.'

'Are you mad? We'll be torn limb from limb.'

'How many people are down here?'

'About fifty people. And maybe sixty Wolvers.'

Shannow's jaw tightened, for there were only six doors. 'You keep twenty people locked up in each of these? And you call yourself a man of God?' Shannow's rage exploded and he struck Ridder on the side of the head, hurtling the man from his feet. 'Get up and open the doors — every God-cursed one of them!'

Ridder crawled to the first, then turned. 'You don't understand. This whole community needs the mine. They're my responsibility — caring for my flock. I wouldn't have used people if I hadn't been forced to. I used Wolvers, but the lung fever killed scores of them.'

'Open the door, Pastor. Let's see your flock.'

Ridder pushed the bolt clear and swung the door open. Nothing moved in the darkness within.

'Now the others.'

‘For God's sake. .'

'You talk of God down here?' shouted Shannow. A dark shape moved into the half light and he stepped back in shock. The creature was maybe five feet in height and covered with fur; its face was long, caricaturing a wolf or dog, but its eyes were human. It was naked and covered in sores.

More creatures came into sight, ignoring the two men. They limped to a chest by the far wall and stood apathetically, staring at nothing.

'What's in the chest?' asked Shannow.

'Their tools. They think it's work-time.'

'All the doors, Ridder!' The white-haired pastor stumbled from one dungeon to the next. From the last but one room the bloodied face of Batik could be seen above the smaller Wolvers.

'Shannow?'

'Over here, man. Quickly!'

Batik pushed his way through the milling slaves and Shannow handed him his percussion pistol.

'Stay down here with that creature,' he said, pointing at Ridder. 'I'll send the lift back. Try to get all of them to understand that they're free.'

‘They'll only be rounded up again — let's get out while we can.'

'Do as I say, Batik, or I'll leave you here. Where's Archer?'

'Unconscious. They beat him badly and we'll have to carry him out.'

'Get something arranged,' said Shannow, stepping into the lift.

'Easy for you to say,' snapped Batik. ‘I’ll just stay down here with the wolf beasts and arrange a stretcher!'

'Fine,' said Shannow, ringing the handbell. The lift lurched upwards and once more the journey seemed interminable, but finally he came into the light where the six men laboured at the winch and stepped out.

'Where's Meneer Ridder?' asked the burly man with the huge arms.

'He'll be along,' said Shannow, producing his pistol. 'Lower the lift.'

'What the Hell is this?'

'This is death, my friend, unless you do exactly as you are told. Lower the lift.'

'You think you can take us all?'

Shannow's gun exploded and a man was smashed back into the far wall, a bullet through his heart.

'You think I can't?' he hissed.

The burly man turned the winch as if his life depended on it…

Which it did.

Within an hour most of the slaves had been lifted to the next level, but as Batik pointed out several of the Wolvers refused to leave, sitting silently staring at the tool-chest. Batik was not even sure they had understood his urgings.

Shannow went below and saw them, crouched in a half-circle around the chest. It was not locked and he opened it; inside were a dozen pick-handles and a stack of blades. He handed them to the waiting Wolvers, who stood and moved into a line facing the black tunnel that led to the mine.