Damned - White Wolf Part 12

'What is wrong?'

'I am wet through, and now I have to mount that fearsome beast.'

Skilgannon felt a flicker of irritation, but he quelled it. 'We should reach the outskirts of Mellicane within two days,' he said. 'Then you can put your time as a rider behind you.'

This thought seemed to cheer Braygan and he pushed himself to his feet. Rabalyn was already hefting his saddle towards his horse.

Two hours later they were riding along a ridge within half a mile of deep woods which masked the trail through the mountains. Below, a straggling line of refugees were trudging slowly on.

Skilgannon was about to heel his horse down the slope when he saw a group of cavalrymen coming from the east. 'Are they our soldiers?' asked Braygan.

The warrior did not answer. The advancing riders spurred their mounts. There were five of them, three with lances and two carrying sabres. The refugees saw them and began to run.

One elderly woman stumbled. As she struggled to rise a lance clove between her shoulder blades. 'Oh, sweet Heaven!' cried Braygan. 'How can they do this?'

The refugees were fleeing in terror now, streaming towards the woods. A few small children, their parents panicked and gone, stood where they had been left.

Skilgannon reached for his swords.

As he did so a black-garbed figure emerged from the trees below. He was powerfully built, wearing a sable leather jerkin, with shining silver steel upon the shoulders. On his head was a black helm, also decorated with silver. In his hands was a glittering double-bladed axe. He ran onto the open ground. The hors.e.m.e.n saw him and wheeled to charge. The first of the lancers bore down on the warrior. He did not run away. Instead he ran directly at the galloping horse. Throwing up his hands he shouted at the top of his voice. Unnerved, the horse swerved. The warrior moved in, and the great axe smashed into the chest of the rider, hurling him from the saddle. A second horseman rode in. The axeman leapt to the rider's left, away from the deadly lance. Then the axe hammered into the neck of the horse.

Instinctively it reared - then fell. The rider tried to scramble free of the saddle, but the blood-smeared axe clove into his temple, shattering both helm and skull.

'By Heaven, now that is a fighting man,' said Skilgannon.

Heeling his horse forward, he rode down the slope. Two more of the riders had closed in on the axeman. Both carried sabres. The remaining lancer held back, waiting for his moment. That moment would never arrive. Hearing the thundering hooves of Skilgannon's gelding he swung his mount. The lance came up. Skilgannon rode past on the rider's left, the golden Sword of Day slicing through his throat. Even as his victim fell from the saddle Skilgannon was bearing down on the riders circling the axeman. His aid was not needed.

The axeman charged in. One horse went down. Hurdling the rolling beast the warrior suddenly hurled his axe at the second rider, the upper points of the twin blades piercing his chest and shattering his breastbone. The rider of the fallen horse lay on the ground, his leg pinned beneath the saddle.

Ignoring him, the axeman dragged his weapon clear of the corpse and stared up at Skilgannon. The warrior was not young, his black beard heavily streaked with silver. His eyes were the colour of a winter sky, grey and cold. The warrior glanced back to the lancer Skilgannon had killed, but said nothing.

Behind him the last rider had freed himself, and was now on his feet, a sword in his hand.

'You have one enemy left,' said Skilgannon. The axeman turned. The swordsman blanched and took a backward step.

'Run away, laddie,' said the axeman, his voice deep and cold. 'And remember me the next time you think of killing women and children.'

The soldier blinked in disbelief, but the axeman had already turned away. He glanced back towards the east, then swung towards where the four children still stood, horrified and un- moving. The warrior, his axe resting on his shoulders, strolled over to them.

'Time to be moving on,' he told them, his voice suddenly gentle. Scooping up a small girl he sat her on his hip and walked off towards the dense woods. The three other children waited for a moment. 'Come on,' he called.

And they followed him.

Skilgannon sat his horse watching the man. The remaining rider sheathed his blade and walked to a riderless horse. Stepping up into the saddle he cantered away.

Braygan and Rabalyn came down the slope. 'That was incredible,' said Rabalyn. 'Four of them. He killed four of them.'

A group of women came running from the trees, knives in their hands.

'They are attacking us!' screamed Braygan. The sudden noise startled his horse and it reared. Braygan clung to the saddle pommel. Skilgannon helped him steady the mount.

'They are starving, you idiot!' Skilgannon told him. 'They're coming for meat.'

'Meat?'

'The dead horses. Now let's get into the woods. The enemy could return at any time.'

They camped a half-mile inside the woods. All around them refugees began to prepare fires. The women looked gaunt and hungry, the children listless and silent. Skilgannon found a spot a little away from the nearest refugees. Braygan slumped to the ground and began to ferret inside the food sack, drawing out some salt biscuits.

'Put them back and give me the sack,' said Skilgannon.

'I'm hungry,' said the priest.

'Hungrier than them?' asked Skilgannon, gesturing towards where several women were sitting with their children.

'We don't have much left.'

Skilgannon looked at him, then sighed. 'We are only days from the church, little man.

Have you lost your faith so swiftly? Give me the sack.'

Braygan looked crestfallen. 'I am sorry, Brother Lantern,' he said. 'You are right. A little hardship has made me forget who I am. I will take the food to them. And gladly.' Braygan pushed himself to his feet, dropped the salt biscuits back into the sack, and walked across to the nearest refugees.

'Shall I unsaddle the horses?' asked Rabalyn.

'Yes. Then give them a rub down. After that resaddle them. We may need to leave here swiftly.'

'Braygan is a good man,' said the youth.

'I know. I am not angry at him, Rabalyn.'

'Then why are you angry?'

'That is a good question.' He suddenly smiled. 'I failed in the one career I desired, and was too successful in the one I hated. A woman who loved me with all her heart is dead. A woman I love with all my heart wants me dead. I own two palaces, and lands you could not ride across in a week. Yet I am hungry and weary and soon to sleep on a wet forest floor.

Why am I angry?' He shook his head and laughed. 'The answer eludes me, Rabalyn.'

The light was beginning to fade. Skilgannon patted the youth on the shoulder and started to walk away. 'Where are you going?' asked Rabalyn.

'Look after the horses. I'm going to scout a while.'

He wandered away through the trees, heading back the way they had come. After a while he left the refugees behind, though if he glanced back he could still see the twinkling light of their campfires.

The crescent moon was bright in a cloudless sky as he climbed the last hill before the valley. In the bright moonlight he could see the stripped carca.s.ses of the dead horses.

There was no sign of any pursuit. He sat down at the edge of the trees and stared out towards the east.

'I don't think they'll come tonight, laddie,' said a deep voice.

'You move silently for a big man,' said Skilgannon, as the axeman emerged from the shadows of the trees.

The man chuckled. 'Used to make my wife jump. She swore I always crept up on her.' He sat down beside Skilgannon, laying his great double-bladed axe on the ground. Removing his helm he ran his fingers through his thick black and silver hair. Skilgannon glanced down at the helm. It had seen much use. The folded iron sections showed many dents and scratches, and the silver motifs, two skulls alongside a silver axe blade, were worn down. A small edge of one of the silver skulls had been hacked away.

'If the enemy had come did you plan to take them all on by yourself ?' asked Skilgannon.

'No, laddie. I guessed you'd be along.'

'Aren't you a little old to be tackling cavalrymen?'

The axeman glanced at Skilgannon and grinned. But he did not reply, and they sat for a while in companionable silence. 'Your accent is not Tantrian,' said Skilgannon at last.

'No.'

'Are you a mercenary?'

'I have been. Not now. You?'

'Just a traveller. How long do you plan to wait?'

The axeman thought about the question. 'Another hour or two.'

'I thought you said you didn't think they'd come.'

'I've been wrong before.'

'They'll either send no-one, or a minimum of thirty men.'

'Why thirty?' asked the axeman.

'The survivor is unlikely to admit his party was defeated by one old man with a big axe. No offence intended.'

'None taken.'

'He'll say there were a group of soldiers.'

'If that is true why would they choose to send no-one - which was the first of your predictions?'

'They are driving refugees towards Mellicane. That is their main purpose. To swell the numbers in the city, and create food shortages. They don't need to hunt down enemy soldiers here.'

'Makes sense,' admitted the axeman. 'You sound like an officer. I see you have a Naashanite tattoo. I'll bet there's a panther or some such on your chest.'

Skilgannon smiled. 'You know our customs well.'

'We old folk are an observant bunch.'

The young warrior laughed aloud. 'I think you lied when you said no offence was taken.'

'I never lie, laddie. Not even in jest. I am old. d.a.m.n little point in getting upset when someone mentions it. I turn fifty in a couple of months. Now I get aches in the knees and aches in the back. Sleeping on hard ground leaves me stiff.'

'Then what are you doing sitting here waiting for thirty cavalrymen?'

'What are you doing here?' countered the axeman.

'Maybe I came to find you.'

'Maybe so. I think, though, that you came because you don't like seeing women and children hunted by cowards on horses. I think you came here to show them the error of their ways.'

Skilgannon chuckled. 'You would have liked my father,' he said. 'There were no shades of grey with him, either. Everything was black and white. You remind me of him.'

'Is he still alive?'

'No. He led a suicidal charge against a Panthian regiment. It allowed some of his men to escape. My father didn't try to escape. He rode straight at the Panthian King and his bodyguard. His was the only body the enemy did not mutilate.'

'They strapped him to his horse, and left a gold coin in his hand,' said the axeman softly.

Skilgannon was surprised. 'How did you know?'

'I've lived most of my life among warriors, laddie. The talk around campfires is mostly about everyday matters, a good horse or dog. Sometimes it's about the farms we'll all have one day when the fighting is done. When a hero dies, though, the word comes to those campfires. Your father was Decado Firefist. I've met men who served with him. Never heard a bad word said about him. I never met him - though we both served in Gorben's army. He was cavalry and I've never liked horses overmuch.'

'Were you with the Immortals?'

'Aye, for a while. Good bunch of lads. No give in them. Proud men.'

'Were you at Skein?'

'I was there.'

Another silence deepened. Skilgannon saw the axeman's eyes narrow. Then he sighed.

'Past days are best laid to rest. My wife died while I was at Skein. And my closest friend. It was the end of an era.' He picked up his helm, wiped his hand round the rim and donned it. 'Think I'll find a place to sleep,' he said. 'I'm beginning to sound maudlin. And d.a.m.n I hate that.' Both men rose. The axeman put out his hand. 'My thanks to you, youngster, for coming to an old man's aid.'

Skilgannon shook his hand. 'My pleasure, axeman.'

Then the warrior swept up his axe and walked away.

Skilgannon stayed where he was. The meeting with the axeman, with its easy camaraderie, had warmed him. It had been a long time since he had relaxed so much in the company of another human being. He wished the man had stayed longer.

He sat quietly on the slope. Hearing his father's nickname of Firefist had opened long locked doors in the halls of his memory. The days immediately after news of Decado's death reached them had been strange. Skilgannon, at fourteen, had at first refused to believe it, convincing himself it was a mistake, and that his father would ride home at any moment. Messages of condolence arrived from the court, and soldiers visited him, talking of his father's greatness. At the last he had to accept the truth. It tore a gaping hole in his heart, and he felt he would die of it. He had never been so alone.

Decado left a will, instructing Sperian and Molaire to share custody of the boy until his coming of age at sixteen. He had also left two thousand raq - a colossal sum - lodged with a Ventrian merchant he trusted, who had invested it for him. Sperian, who had always been poor, suddenly found himself with access to capital beyond his dreams. Lesser men would have been tempted to appropriate some of it. Decado, however, had always been a fine judge of character. Sperian proved himself worthy of that trust from the start.

Untutored in economics, and unable to write, he engaged Greavas to help him manage the funds, and also tried to take an interest in Skilgannon's schooling. This was difficult for him, since he understood little of what the boy had to study. Skilgannon did not make it easy at first. His heart was full of bitterness, and he would often rail at Sperian or Greavas, ignoring their instructions. His studies began to suffer, and he was, at the end of the term, demoted to the second cla.s.s. Instead of accepting that this was a result of his own folly, he shouted at Greavas that he was being victimized because one of his guardians was a freak.

Greavas had packed his bags and left the same night.

Skilgannon had stormed around the house, his anger uncontrollable. Sperian found him sitting in the garden. The servant was furious.

'You should be ashamed of yourself,' he said.