The Damned 01 - White Wolf by David Gemmell Page B

stakes. Decado was still sitting his horse, which had been tethered nearby. At first the relief force had thought him to be alive. When they reached him they saw he had been strapped to his saddle, his back held upright by three lengths of wood. His swords had been sheathed at his side, his rings still upon his fingers. In one closed fist they found a small gold coin, bearing the Panthian crest.
    A rider brought the coin to Skilgannon. ‘It is the toll for the Ferryman,’
    he told the boy. ‘The Panthians wanted to ensure that he crossed the Dark River.’
    Skilgannon had been horrified. ‘Then what will he do now? You took the coin from him.’
    ‘Do not worry, lad. I buried him with another coin - one of ours. It is still gold and the Ferryman will accept it. I wanted you to have this one.
    The Panthians honoured him, and this is the symbol of that honour.’
    ‘ We are what we are, my son. And wolves is what we are.’

    Skilgannon the Damned was who he was, and who he would always be.
    Hearing movement behind him he looked back, and saw the runaway priests returning, moving sheepishly back into the main building. It is all a nonsense, he thought. In all likelihood only Cethelin truly believed in the all-healing power of love. The rest? Naslyn wanted redemption, Braygan safety. Anager and the other runaways had probably chosen the priesthood as one might choose between being a tailor or a bootmaker. It was just a profession.
    He could not find it in himself to hate Raseev Kalikan or the captain Seregas. At least there was purpose in their actions.
    Skilgannon had stood beside Cethelin, and almost convinced himself that he would stand passively by and let the mob do as they would. The world would not be a poorer place without me, he had thought. Yet when the foul baker had stabbed Cethelin something had snapped inside Skilgannon. The darkness had been released.
    Brother Anager crept alongside him, saw the bodies before the gates and made the sign of the Protective Horn. ‘What happened here, Brother?’
    he whispered.
    ‘I am not your brother,’ said Skilgannon.
    He walked back to his room and pulled the narrow chest from beneath the bed. From it he took a cream-coloured shirt of linen edged with white satin. It was collarless and sleeveless. He draped it across the bed and pulled clear a pair of leather leggings and a broad brown belt. These he laid alongside the shirt. Stripping off his blood-drenched robes, he tossed them to the floor and put on the clothes from the chest. He tugged on a pair of knee-length brown riding boots, then stood and stamped his feet.
    The boots felt tight after two years of wearing open sandals. Lastly he lifted clear a riding jacket of greased buckskin. This was also sleeveless, but long leather fringes, tipped with silver, had been placed over both shoulders. The silver was tarnished now and black, as were the silver rings
    - five on each side - which decorated the outer sides of his boots from knee to ankle. Donning the jacket, he strolled from the room without a backward glance.
    Brother Braygan was waiting in the courtyard. ‘It was a nasty gash,’ he told Skilgannon. ‘Naslyn stitched it. I think he will be fine.’
    ‘That is good.’
    ‘You are leaving us?’
    ‘How can I stay, Braygan? Even without the deaths they know who I am.

    Hunters will come, killers seeking bounty.’
    ‘So you really are the Damned?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘It is hard to believe. The stories must be ... exaggerated.’
    ‘No, they are not. Everything you have heard is true.’
    Moving away from him Skilgannon mounted the steps to Cethelin’s chambers. He found him upon his bed, Naslyn beside him. The black-bearded priest rose as he entered and left quietly. Skilgannon approached the bed and looked down at the grey face of the elderly abbot.
    ‘I am sorry, Elder Brother.’
    ‘As am I, Skilgannon. I thought my dream meant a candle of love. It did not. It meant a warrior’s flame. Now everything we