Damned - White Wolf Part 4

'They left to find work in Mellicane years ago. Said they'd send for me and my sister. They didn't. My sister died last year when the plague struck. Me and Aunt Athyla thought we'd get it, but we didn't. Brother Labberan gave us herbs and such. Told us to clean out the house and keep the rats away.'

'It was a harsh time,' said Cethelin.

'The Arbiters say the priests caused the plague.'

'I know. Apparently we also caused the war, and the harvest failures. Why is it that you don't believe the stories?'

The youth shrugged. 'Old Labbers, I expect. Always talking about love and such. Can't see him causing plagues. Makes no sense. Still, no-one cares what I think.'

Cethelin looked into Rabalyn's dark eyes. He saw strength there, and compa.s.sion. In that moment he also caught a glimpse of Rabalyn's memories: a woman being beaten by a harsh man, a small child fading towards death as Rabalyn sat by the bedside weeping. 'I care, Rabalyn. Old Labbers - as you call him - cares. I shall take care of the dog until such time as you return for him.'

'Jesper's not my dog. Belongs to Kalia. She brought him to me and asked me to hide him.

When all this blows over I'll get her to come and see you.'

'Walk with care, young man.'

'You too, Father. Best lock this gate, I'd say.'

'A locked gate will not keep out a mob. Goodnight to you, Rabalyn. You are a good lad.'

Cethelin watched as the boy sped off. The dog gave an awkward bound as if to follow him.

Cethelin called to him softly. 'Here, Jesper! Are you hungry, boy? Let us go to the kitchen and see what we can find.'

Rabalyn returned the way he had come, wading across the shallows of the river and making his way through the trees and up the old watchtower hill. From here he could see the fires burning in the northern quarter. It was here that most of the foreigners had settled, including fat Arren and his family. There were merchants from Drenan, and a few shops run by Ventrian traders. The mob, however, were more concerned with those whose family ties were in the east, in Dospilis or Datia. Both these nations were now at war with Tantria.

Rabalyn squatted in the ruins, his keen eyes scanning the area at the base of the hill. He doubted Todhe and his friends would be waiting for him now, not with another riot looming. They would be out chanting and screaming at those they now dubbed traitors.

Many of the houses in the northern quarter were empty. Scores of families had left in the last few days, heading west towards Mellicane. Rabalyn could not understand why any foreigners had chosen to stay.

A cool wind blew across the hilltop. Rabalyn's leggings and shoes were wet from wading the river and he shivered with the cold. Time to be getting home. Aunt Athyla would be worried, and she would not sleep until he was safe in his bed. The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also ma.s.sively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repet.i.tive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: 'Are you going to be warm enough?' If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: 'I don't know about that. It's enough to have food on the table today.' Her days were spent cleaning other people's sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create b.a.l.l.s of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold. Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.

The riots had unnerved her. When the first killings had taken place Rabalyn had run home and told her. At first she had disbelieved him, but when the truth was established Athyla refused to talk of it with the boy. 'It will all settle down,' she said. 'Best not to get involved.'

That evening she had sat with her b.a.l.l.s of wool, looking old and grey. Rabalyn had moved alongside her. 'Are you all right, Aunt?'

'We don't have any foreign blood,' she said. 'It will be all right. Everything will be all right.'

Her face was drawn and tight, just as it had been when Lesha had died - a mixture of bafflement and sorrow.

Rabalyn left the hilltop and made his way down towards the town.

The streets were deserted. He could hear the mob far off, chanting and screaming. The wind changed and he smelt smoke in the air. Pausing in a darkened alleyway arch he peered out across the short open stretch between the houses and his aunt's little cottage.

No-one was in sight, but Rabalyn decided to take no chances. Squatting down in the shadows he scanned the area. There was a dry stone wall running along the north side of the cottage, and a line of scrub bushes around the gate. Rabalyn waited silently. Just as he was convinced there was no danger he saw someone rise briefly from behind the bushes and creep across to the wagon outside the baker's house. It looked like Todhe's friend Bron. A touch of anger flared in Rabalyn. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were still wet. He wanted nothing more than to get inside the cottage and warm himself by the fire.

Backing down the alley he ran through Market Street, cutting through the smith's yard.

Searching around he found a foot-long rod of rust-speckled iron in a pile of discarded metal. Hefting it he crept on, climbing a low wall and emerging between two lines of houses. From here he could see two young men crouched behind the miller's wagon. One was indeed Bron. The other was Cadras, whose father worked for Todhe's family as a general servant. Cadras was a decent enough lad, neither malicious nor vengeful. But he was malleable and followed Todhe's lead in everything. Rabalyn waited. After a while Bron ducked down and crept back to the hedge outside Aunt Athyla's cottage. Rabalyn saw Todhe emerge and haul Bron down. The iron rod felt heavy in Rabalyn's hand. It was comforting to be armed, and yet he did not want to use the weapon. Todhe's father, Raseev, virtually ran the council and any harm to his son would be swiftly, and harshly, punished.

Rabalyn decided to outwait them.

Which might have worked had a fourth youth not crept up behind Rabalyn and leapt upon him, pinning his arms.

'He's over here!' shouted the youth. Rabalyn recognized the voice as that of Archas, Bron's older brother. Rabalyn leaned forward, then threw his head back into Archas's face. The hold round his chest loosened. Rabalyn squirmed clear, then spun and hit Archas across the cheek with the iron rod. The youth was thrown from his feet.

Rabalyn could hear the others pelting towards him. He should have run, but his blood was up now, and a raging fury swept through him. With a cry he leapt to meet them. The iron rod cracked against Bron's skull, causing the youth to stumble. Rabalyn ducked to his right and swung the rod again - this time at Todhe. The big youth threw up his arm to protect his head. The rod hammered against the upraised limb causing Todhe to scream in pain. A fist struck Rabalyn in the back. He stumbled and swung towards the new a.s.sailant. It was Cadras. Rabalyn hit him in the belly, then leapt in and head-b.u.t.ted him. Cadras cried out and fell. Rabalyn backed away from them, holding the rod high. Todhe was already running away. Bron had struggled to a sitting position and was looking dazed. Suddenly he leaned forward and vomited. Cadras pushed himself to his knees and put a hand to his smashed nose. Blood was running over his mouth and chin. Rabalyn stood looking at them both. Beyond the injured pair Archas was lying unconscious. Dropping the iron rod Rabalyn moved to where the youth lay on his face. Gently turning him he was relieved to hear Archas groan. 'Lie still,' said Rabalyn. 'Gather your wits.'

There was blood on Archas's face, and a huge lump over his left eye.

'I feel sick,' said Archas.

'Best you sit up,' said Rabalyn, helping the youth to the wall. Bron struggled over, then slumped down beside his brother. Neither of the young men spoke and Rabalyn left them there.

He had tackled four attackers and defeated them. He should have felt uplifted and empowered. Instead his heart was heavy, and fear of retribution clung to him.

Skilgannon made his way to the high battlements, and felt a moment of irritation when he saw that he was not alone. Brother Naslyn was already there, leaning on the crenellated wall. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and powerful. Turning, he saw Skilgannon and nodded a greeting. 'A fine night, Brother Lantern,' he said.

'What brings you to the old tower?' asked Skilgannon.

'I wanted to think.'

'Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.' Skilgannon turned away.

'No, do not leave, Brother. I was hoping you would come. I have seen you here exercising. I know some of the moves. We practised them in the Immortals.'

Skilgannon looked at the man. It was not hard to imagine him in the black and silver armour of the Emperor's elite regiment. Invincible in battle, they had carried Gorben to victory after victory for decades. They had been disbanded after the defeat at Skein. 'Were you there?' asked Skilgannon. Such was the awesome reputation of that dreadful battle, and its aftermath, that the question could have referred to nothing else.

'Aye. I was there.' He shook his head. 'The world ended,' he said, at last.

Naslyn was a quiet, solitary man. He needed to talk now, but only in his own time.

Skilgannon began to stretch, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Naslyn joined him, and together they quietly moved through the familiar routines of the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peac.o.c.k and the Crow. It had been some time since Naslyn last practised the moves, and it took him a while to rediscover his balance. Then they faced one another, bowed, and began to shadow fight, spinning and leaping, hands and feet lancing out, the blows landing on target areas lightly. Skilgannon was faster than the heavier man, but Naslyn moved well for a while until fatigue overtook him. At the last he stepped back, and bowed once more. Sweat covered his face and dripped from his short black beard. They stretched once more, then sat quietly on the battlements.

'I still dream of it,' said Naslyn, after a while. 'It was one of those impossible moments where, when you replay it in your mind, you are convinced the outcome will be different.'

He turned towards Skilgannon. 'We couldn't lose, Lantern. We were the best. Not only that but we outnumbered the enemy ten - perhaps twenty to one. There was no way they could stand against us. No way.'

'The Drenai are fine warriors, they say.'

'Aye, they are,' snapped Naslyn. 'But that's not why they won. Three men were responsible for our downfall that day. And the odds against what happened are so enormous they are incalculable. The first was Gorben, bless him. I loved that man - even though the madness was on him at the end. We had taken losses in the eastern battles and he promoted fresh recruits to our ranks. One of these was a young soldier named Eericetes - may his soul be cursed to wander for eternity, the coward.' He fell silent and stared out at the silhouetted mountains.

'Who was the third?' asked Skilgannon, though he knew the answer.

'The Silver Slayer. Druss. They call him Druss the Legend now. Man, but he earned it that day. We struck their line like the hammer of Heaven. It buckled and d.a.m.n near broke. And then just as victory was in our grasp . ..' Naslyn shook his head in remembered disbelief '.. .

Druss charged. One man, Lantern. One man with an axe. It was the pivotal moment. He was unstoppable. The axe blade clove into our ranks and men fell. He couldn't have stood for long. No one man could. But then the coward Eericetes threw down his shield and ran.

Around him other new recruits panicked and did the same. Within a dozen heartbeats the line broke and we were all retreating. Unbelievable. We were the Immortals, Lantern. We didn't run. The shame of it burns like fire in my heart.'

Skilgannon was intrigued. Tales of Druss the Legend had abounded in Naashan, ever since the death of the champion Michanek. 'What was he like? Is he a giant?'

'No taller than me,' said Naslyn, 'but more heavily built. It wasn't his size, though. It was the sheer power he radiated. Him and that d.a.m.ned axe.'

'They say he fought alongside the Immortals years ago,' said Skilgannon.

'Before my time, but there were some who remembered him. They told incredible tales of his skill. I didn't believe them then. I do now. The retreat was awful. Gorben went totally mad and demanded his generals kill themselves for the dishonour. Instead they killed him.

Ventria was finished then. And look at us now, tearing ourselves apart.'

'Why did you become a priest?'

'I was sick of it all. The slaughter and the battles.' Naslyn laughed grimly. 'I thought I could put right the evils of my youth.'

'Perhaps you can.'

'I might have. But I didn't survive Skein to be slaughtered by angry peasants. They'll be coming, you know. With clubs and scythes and knives. I know what I'd do. I'd fight, by Heaven. I don't want that.'

'So what will you do?'

'I'm thinking of leaving. I wanted to talk to you first.'

'Why me? Why not the abbot?'

'You don't talk much, Lantern, but I know a warrior when I see one. You've been in battles.

I'll wager you were an officer - and a good one. So I thought I'd get your advice.'

'I have none to give, my friend. I am still undecided.'

'You are thinking of staying, then?'

Skilgannon shrugged. 'Maybe. I truly do not know. When I came here I gave my swords to the abbot to dispose of. I had no wish to be a fighter any more. In the town yesterday I wanted to kill a loudmouthed braggart who struck Braygan. It took all of my control to hold back. Had my swords been close to hand I would have left his head on the cobbles.'

'We are not such good priests, are we?' offered Naslyn, with a smile.

'The abbot is. Many of the others are. I do not want to see them slaughtered.'

'Is that why you are thinking of staying, so that you can defend them?'

'It is in my mind.'

'Then I will stay too,' said Naslyn.

CHAPTER THREE

CETHELIN AWOKE WITH A START, THE COLOURS OF THE VISION filling his mind.

Lighting a lantern he moved to his small writing desk, spread open a section of parchment and took up a quill pen. As swiftly as he could before the vision faded he wrote it down.

Then he sat back, exhausted and trembling. His mouth was dry and he filled a goblet with water. In the days of his youth he could hold the visions in his head, examining them until all was revealed. Now he could barely sketch out the broadest lines of them before they dissolved.

He stared down at what he had written. A gentle hound, scarred by fire, had become a snarling wolf, dangerous and deadly. The beast had lifted its head and lightning had forked up from its mouth, striking the sky with great power and causing a ma.s.sive storm. The sea reared up in a huge tidal wave and swept towards a rocky island. Atop the island was a shrine. The last word Cethelin had scrawled was Candle. He remembered then that a single candle was burning on the beach of the island, its tiny flame bright against the onrushing darkness of the colossal wave.

Cethelin could make no sense of the hound-wolf, but he knew that the tide always represented humanity. The angry sea was the mob in the town, and the shrine was the church. Lantern was right.

The mob would be coming with hatred in their hearts. Could a candle of love turn them from thoughts of murder? Cethelin doubted it.

The three-legged hound limped in from the bedroom and sat beside the abbot. Cethelin stroked its head. 'You are not a wolf, my boy,' he said. 'And you have chosen a poor place to seek safety.'

Rabalyn entered the small cottage and closed the door quietly, inserting the wooden plug that locked the latch. He wandered through to the small living room. Aunt Athyla was dozing in the chair by the fire. In her lap were several b.a.l.l.s of brightly coloured wool, and by her feet lay around a dozen knitted squares. Rabalyn moved through to the kitchen and cut himself some bread. Returning to the fire he took up the bra.s.s toasting fork, thrust a slice of bread onto it, and held it close to the coals. There had been no b.u.t.ter for some weeks now, but the toasted bread still tasted fine to a young man who had not eaten that day. He glanced across at Aunt Athyla as he ate. A large woman in her late fifties, she had never married, and yet she had been a mother to two generations of the family. Her own parents had died when she was just fifteen - only a little younger than Rabalyn was now.

Athyla had worked to raise four sisters and a brother. They were all gone now, and only rarely did she hear from any of them. Rabalyn's own mother had deserted the family eight years ago with her husband, leaving two children in the care of the time-worn spinster.

He gazed fondly at the sleeping woman. Her hair was mostly grey, and her legs were swollen with rheumatism. Her knuckles too were slightly deformed by arthritis, yet she laboured on daily without complaint. Rabalyn sighed. When he was younger he had dreamed of becoming rich and repaying Aunt Athyla for her kindness, perhaps buying her a fine house, with servants. Now he knew such a gift would bring her no joy. Athyla did not desire servants. He wondered if she truly desired anything at all. Her long life had been filled with duties and responsibilities she had not asked for, yet had accepted. She had only one piece of jewellery, a small silver pendant that she unconsciously stroked when worried. Rabalyn had asked her about it and she just said someone had given it to her a long time ago. Aunt Athyla did not engage in long conversations and her reminiscences were abrupt and to the point. As were her criticisms. 'Just like your mother,' she would say, if Rabalyn left any food upon his plate. 'Think of those starving children in Panthia.'

'How do you know they are starving in Panthia?' he would ask.

'Always starving in Panthia,' she would say. 'It's a known fact.'

Old Labbers had later explained that forty years earlier a severe drought had struck the nations of the southeast. Cadia, Matapesh and Panthia had suffered crop failures and there had been great hardship. Scores of thousands had died in Panthia, the worst hit of all.

Now, however, the Panthians were among the richest of nations. Aunt Athyla listened as Rabalyn explained all this to her. 'Ah, well, that's nice,' she said. Some days later, when he refused to finish a meal that contained a disgusting green vegetable he loathed, she shook her head and said: 'Those little children in Panthia would be glad of it.'

It had irritated him then, but he smiled as he thought of it now. It was easy to smile and think fond thoughts when Athyla was asleep. As soon as she was awake the irritation would return. Rabalyn couldn't stop it. She would say something stupid and his temper would flare. Almost daily he made promises to himself not to argue with her. Most altercations ended the same way. His aunt would begin to cry and call him ungrateful. She would point out that she had beggared herself to raise him, and he would reply: 'I never asked you to.'

His leggings were still damp, and he stripped them off and hung them over a chair near the fire. Returning to the kitchen, he filled the old black kettle with water from the stone jug and carried it back to the living room. He added fuel to the coals, then hung the kettle over the flames. Once the water was boiling he made two cups of elderflower tisane, sweetening them with a little crystallized honey.

Athyla awoke and yawned. 'h.e.l.lo, dear,' she said. 'Have you had something to eat?'

'Yes, Aunt. I made you some tisane.'

'How is your eye, dear? Better now?'

'Yes, Aunt. It's fine.'

'That's good.' She winced as she leaned forward towards where Rabalyn had left her tisane.

Swiftly leaving his chair he pa.s.sed her the cup. 'Not so much noise tonight,' she said. 'I think all this unpleasantness is over now. Yes, I'm sure it is.'

'Let us hope so,' said Rabalyn, rising from his chair. 'I'm going to bed, Aunt. I'll see you in the morning.' Leaning over he kissed her cheek, then made his way to his own room. It was tiny, with barely s.p.a.ce enough for the old bed and a chest for his clothes.