White Wolf by David Gemmell Page B

“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 honored him, and this is the symbol of that honor.”
    “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 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-colored 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. Tugging on a pair of knee-length brown riding boots he 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 outside 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 the abbot’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 gray 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 set out to do here is sullied. We are the priests who killed to save ourselves.”
    “Would you sooner have died out there?”
    “Yes, Skilgannon, I would. Or rather, the priest that I am would. The man that I am is grateful for a few more days, months, or years of life. Go to the closet over there. At its base you will find a bundle wrapped in an old blanket. Fetch it here.”
    Skilgannon did as he was bid. As he touched the bundle he knew instinctively