White Wolf by David Gemmell

will be different.”
    He turned toward 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 damn 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 ax. It was the pivotal moment. He was unstoppable. The ax 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 damned ax.”
    “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 dishonor. 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, Lantern. 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 Skeln 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 anymore. 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.

3
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    Cethelin awoke with a start, the colors