Damned - White Wolf Part 10

'I am merely enjoying the sunshine and a sip of water from a well. I am at war with no- one.'

'The whole world is at war,' snapped one of the riders, a young beardless man with long black hair, wrapped tightly into two braids.

'Tantria is not the world,' said Skilgannon. 'It is merely a small nation.'

'Shall I kill him, sir?' asked the rider, looking towards the blond warrior. The man's eyes held to Skilgannon's gaze.

'No. Water the horses,' he said, dismounting and loosening his saddle girth. Skilgannon walked away from them and sat quietly on a fence rail. The leader, leaving his horse with the black-haired rider, moved to join him. 'Where are you from?' he asked.

'South.'

'Where are you heading?'

'Mellicane.'

The city will fall.'

'I expect you are right. I'll not be there long.'

The rider eased himself up onto the fence rail, and glanced back towards the smouldering farmhouse. 'I was not with that group,' he said. 'Though I could have been. What is your business in Mellicane?'

'I am escorting a priest who wishes to take his vows there, and a boy seeking lost parents.'

'Not a Naashanite messenger then?'

'No.'

'I see you sport the Spider on your arm. Naashanite custom, is it not?'

'Yes. I served the Queen for a number of years. Now I do not.'

'You realize I should either kill you or take you back to our camp?'

'You do not have enough men with you to attempt it,' said Skilgannon softly. 'Otherwise that is precisely what you would do.'

The rider smiled. 'Exactly so. Would you explain to me how a warrior like yourself became engaged in so small a mission?'

'A man I owed asked it of me.'

'Ah, I see. A man should always honour his debts. We are nothing without honour. There is talk of a Naashanite army preparing to come against us. You think there is truth in the rumour?'

Skilgannon looked at the man. 'You know there is.'

'Aye,' muttered the soldier sadly. 'The Witch Queen has played us all for fools. Together we could have withstood her. Now we have more than decimated our armies. And for what?

Datia and Dospilis together are not strong enough to hold Tantria. How soon will they come, do you think?'

'As soon as Mellicane falls,' said Skilgannon. 'It is no more than a guess. I have no contact now with Naashan.'

The soldier stretched, then climbed to his feet and replaced his horsehair-crested helm. He tightened the chin strap then offered his hand to Skilgannon. 'Good luck with your mission, Naashanite.'

Skilgannon stepped down from the fence and accepted the handshake. The rider gripped him hard. Then his left hand swept out from behind his back. A thin-bladed dagger flashed upward towards Skilgannon's throat. Instead of trying to pull away Skilgannon threw himself forward, his forehead slamming into the bridge of the soldier's nose. The dagger thrust missed Skilgannon's throat, the blade causing a shallow cut to the skin at the back of his neck. Still gripping the rider's right hand Skilgannon spun to his left, lifting the trapped arm and twisting it. The man cried in pain. Skilgannon dropped him, leapt back and drew the Swords of Night and Day.

The other two soldiers ran forward, swords drawn. Their captain scrambled to his feet.

'You are a skilled fighter, Naashanite. You realize that I had to make the attempt to kill you? My men here would have reported me had I merely let you go. No hard feelings, eh?'

'You are a stupid man,' Skilgannon told him, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. 'I had no wish to kill you. You could have lived. Your men could have lived.' Even as he spoke he leapt forward. The first of the soldiers - the young man with black, braided hair - managed to parry the thrust from the golden blade, but the silver sword opened his throat to the bone. The second soldier charged in - only to have his chest skewered by a single thrust. Skilgannon dragged clear his blade and stepped back as the body toppled towards him.

The leader backed away. Skilgannon cleaned his blades and sheathed them. Then he looked at the rider. Slowly the man drew his cavalry sabre.

'I have struggled for years to put this vileness behind me,' said Skilgannon. 'A man like you can have no understanding of how hard that was.'

'I have a wife and children,' said the man. 'I don't want to die. Not here. Not so uselessly.'

Skilgannon sighed. 'Then walk away,' he said. 'I will take your horses. By the time you send men after us we will be long gone.' With that he walked past the rider towards the waiting mounts.

For a moment it seemed the soldier would let him go. Then, seeing Skilgannon's back, he raised his sabre and darted forward.

Skilgannon spun. A shining circle of serrated metal tore through the rider's throat. Blood gouted from the wound. The man choked and stumbled, falling to his knees.

With scrabbling fingers he tried to close the wound. Skilgannon walked past him, gathered up the circle of steel, then returned to kneel by the dying man. The fallen rider began to tremble violently, then with one last gasp he died.

Skilgannon wiped the steel weapon clean on the dead man's sleeve, then rose and walked to the horses.

'You seem very sad,' said Rabalyn, moving to sit opposite Braygan at the dining table. The deserted house was cheerless, as if yearning for the people who had fled it in fear.

'I am sad, Rabalyn. It hurts my heart to see such violence. That family back there were not soldiers. They grew crops and they loved one another. I cannot understand how people can commit such acts of evil.'

Rabalyn said nothing. He had killed Todhe, and killing was evil. Even so he now knew how such acts began. Rage, grief and fear had propelled him into the murder of Todhe. And Todhe himself had been angry with him, which is why he had set fire to the house . . . Lost in thought Rabalyn sat quietly at the table.

Braygan stared around the large room. It had been carefully constructed, originally of logs, but the inner walls had been plastered. The floor was hard-packed earth, but someone had etched designs upon it, spirals and circles that had then been dusted with powdered red clay, creating crimson patterns. Everything about the room spoke of care and love. The furniture had not been crafted by a trained carpenter, but had been carved and adorned by someone trying hard to master the skills; someone willing to add small individual touches to the pieces. A clumsy rose had been carved into the back of one of the chairs, and what might have been an ear of corn had been started on another. A family had tried to make a life here, filling the room with evidence of their love. Initials had been carved into the beam above the hearth. 'I think I would like the people who lived here, Rabalyn,' he said. 'I hope they are safe.'

Rabalyn nodded, but still said nothing. He didn't know these people, and, truth to tell, he didn't much care if they were safe or not. Rising, he wandered about the house, seeking any food that might have been left behind. In a deep larder he found some pottery jars with cork stoppers. Removing one he looked inside. It was filled with honey. Rabalyn dipped his finger into it and licked it greedily. The silky sweetness on his tongue was beyond pleasurable. Aunt Athyla had used honey in her baking, but Rabalyn's favourite snack was to toast stale bread over the fire, then smear it with honey. Finding a wooden spoon, he sat down in the kitchen and scooped out several spoonfuls. After a while the sweetness began to cloy on his tongue. Putting aside the jar he walked outside to the well, and drew up a bucket of water. Drinking deeply, he washed away the sugary taste. Then he saw Brother Lantern riding towards the house. He was leading two other horses.

Rabalyn walked out to meet the warrior. The horses looked huge, quite unlike the s.h.a.ggy ponies to be seen back in Skepthia. Rabalyn stepped aside as they pa.s.sed. They loomed above him and he reached out to stroke the flank of the nearest. Its chestnut-coloured coat gleamed and its powerful muscles rippled under his hand.

Skilgannon rode past Rabalyn without a word and dismounted at the house, tethering the horses to a post. Rabalyn followed him as he walked inside. Braygan looked up. 'Did you discover any more victims?' he asked.

'No. We have horses. Do you ride?'

'I once rode a pony around a paddock.'

'These are not ponies. These are war horses, highly trained and intelligent. They will expect equal intelligence from you. Come outside. It will not be safe to stay here long, but we will risk a short training period.'

'I would just as soon walk,' said Braygan.

'There are three dead Datians back there,' said the warrior, 'and they will be discovered before long. Walking is no longer an option. Follow me.'

Once outside he gestured to Rabalyn, and helped him mount the chestnut gelding the boy had stroked moments earlier. 'Kick your feet from the stirrups,' said Skilgannon.

Rabalyn did so, glancing down as the warrior adjusted the height of each stirrup. 'Gently take hold of the reins. Remember that the horse's mouth is tender, so no savage jerking or pulling.' He led the horse away from the others, then glanced back at Rabalyn. 'Do not grip with your legs. Sit easy. Now merely walk him around for a while.' Releasing his hold on the bridle Skilgannon moved back to where Braygan was standing.

'These horses don't like me,' said Braygan.

'That is because you are standing there staring at them. Come forward. Keep your movements slow and easy.' He helped the priest to mount, then adjusted his stirrups, repeating the advice he had given to Rabalyn.

Lastly Skilgannon sprang easily into the saddle of a steeldust gelding and rode alongside the two nervous novices. 'The horse has four gaits,' he said, 'walk, trot, canter and gallop.

Walking, as we are now doing, is simple. You just sit lightly in the saddle. The trot is not so simple. The horse will break into what is known as a two-time gait.'

'What does that mean?' asked Braygan.

'The horse will step from one diagonally opposite pair of legs to the other. Near-fore and off-hind together, then off-fore and near-hind. This will create a bouncing effect and your backsides will be pummelled until you learn to move with the rhythm. Stay tall in the saddle. Do not slouch.'

They spent an hour in the open fields behind the farmhouse. Rabalyn learned swiftly, and even cantered his mount briefly at one point. For Braygan the entire exercise was a nightmare.

'If I strapped a dead man to the saddle he'd show more rhythm than you,' said the warrior.

'What is wrong with you?'

'I am frightened. I don't want to fall off.'

'Kick your feet from the stirrups.' Braygan did so. 'Now let go of the reins.' Once more Braygan obeyed him. Skilgannon suddenly clapped his hands and yelled. Braygan's horse reared then broke into a run. The movement was so sudden that the priest fell backwards, turning a somersault before striking the soft earth. Shakily he climbed to his feet. There,'

said the warrior. 'Now you have fallen off. As ever the fear of it was not matched by the actuality.'

'You could have broken my neck.'

'True. The one certainty about riding, Braygan, is that - at some time - you will fall off. It is a fact. Another fact you might like to consider, in your life of perpetual terror, is that you will die. We are all going to die, some of us young, some of us old, some of us in our sleep, some of us screaming in agony. We cannot stop it, we can only delay it. And now it is time to move on. I'd like to reach those far hills by dusk. We can find a campsite in the trees.'

CHAPTER SIX

RABALYN ENJOYED THE DAY'S RIDE MORE THAN HE COULD EXPRESS. HE knew that he would always remember it with enormous affection. If he was lucky enough to live until he grew old he would look back to this day as one of the great, defining moments of his life. It was an effort not to let the horse have its head and ride off at ferocious speed towards the distant hills. As he sat in the saddle he could feel the power of the beast beneath him. It was awesome. As Brother Lantern had instructed him he chatted to the gelding, keeping his voice low and soothing. The gelding's ears would flick back as he spoke, as if listening and understanding. Rabalyn patted its sleek neck. At one point he drew rein and let the others ride on for a while, then gently heeled the gelding into a run.

Exhilaration swept through him as he settled into the saddle, adjusting his rhythm so that there was no painful bouncing. He and the horse were one - and they were fast and strong.

No-one could catch them.

As he approached the others he tried to rein in. But the gelding was at full gallop now and swept on by them, ignoring his commands. Even then, with the horse bolting, Rabalyn felt no fear. A wild excitement roared through him. Dragging on the reins he began to shout: 'Whoa, boy. Whoa!' The horse seemed to run even faster.

Brother Lantern's steeldust came galloping alongside. 'Don't drag on the reins, boy,' he shouted. 'It will only numb his mouth. Gently turn him to the right. As he turns keep applying gentle tugs to the reins.' Rabalyn followed the orders. Slowly the gelding began to angle to the right. He slowed to a canter and then a trot. Finally, at the gentlest of tugs the gelding halted, alert and waiting for the next instruction.

'Well done,' said the warrior, drawing rein a little way from Rabalyn. 'You will be a fine rider.'

'Why did he bolt? Was he frightened of something?'

'Yes, but he doesn't know what. You have to understand, Rabalyn, that a horse in the wild uses its speed to avoid danger. When you pushed him to the gallop ancestral memories took over. He was running fast, therefore he was in danger. Panic can set in very fast in a horse. That is why the rider must always be in control. When he broke into that run you relaxed and gave him his head. Thus, left to his own devices, he panicked.'

'It was a wonderful feeling. He is so fast. I bet he could have been a racer.'

'He is a young war horse,' said the man, with a smile, 'skittish and a little nervous. A Ventrian pure blood would leave him for dead in a flat race. On a battlefield the Ventrian would be a liability. It is not as agile and its fleetness can be a hazard. But, yes, he is a fine mount for a young man in open country.'

'Should I give him a name, Brother Lantern?'

'Call me Skilgannon. And, yes, you can call him what you will. If you have him long enough he will come to recognize it.'

Braygan approached them at an awkward trot, the young priest bouncing in the saddle, his arms flapping. 'Some men are not made to ride,' said Skilgannon softly. 'I am beginning to feel sorry for that horse.' With that he swung his mount and continued on their way.

By late afternoon they were climbing ever higher into wooded hills. Through breaks in the trees, Rabalyn could see a vast plain below them to the northwest. He saw also columns of people walking, and occasionally mounted troops. They were too far away to identify as friend or foe. Rabalyn didn't care which they were. His gelding was faster than the winter wind.

That night they camped at the base of a cliff. Skilgannon allowed no fire, but the night was warm and pleasant. A search of the saddlebags produced two wooden-handled brushes and Skilgannon showed Braygan and Rabalyn how to unsaddle the mounts and then groom them. Lastly he led the horses out a little way to where the gra.s.s was thick and green. Then, with short ropes also from the saddlebags, he hobbled them and left them to feed.

Braygan was complaining about his sore legs and bruised backside, but Skilgannon paid no attention, and soon the young priest wrapped himself in a blanket and settled down to sleep. The night sky was clear, the stars brilliantly bright. Skilgannon walked a little way from the camp and was sitting alone. Normally Rabalyn would not disturb him, but the man had - for the first time -spoken in a friendly way after Rabalyn's horse bolted. So, with just a hint of trepidation, Rabalyn walked across to where the warrior was sitting. As he came up Skilgannon glanced round. His gaze was once more cold and distant.

'You want something?'

'No,' said Rabalyn, instantly turning away.

'Come and join me, boy,' said Skilgannon, his voice softening. 'I am not the ogre I appear.'

'You seem very angry all the time.'

'That would be a fair judgement,' agreed Skilgannon. 'Sit down. I'll try not to snap at you.'

Rabalyn sat on the ground, but could think of nothing to say. The silence grew, and yet Rabalyn found it comfortable. He looked up at the warrior. He no longer seemed so daunting.

'Is it hard being a monk?' he asked, after a while.

'Is it hard being a boy?' countered Skilgannon.

'Very.'

'I fear that answer could be given by any man, in any position. Life itself is hard. But, yes, I found it especially difficult. The studies were easy enough, and quite enjoyable. The philosophy, on the other hand, was exquisitely impenetrable. We were ordered to love the unlovable.'

'How do you do that?'

'You're asking the wrong man.'

'That is blood on your neck,' said Rabalyn.

'A scratch from an idiot. It is nothing.'