Free The Damned 01 - White Wolf by David Gemmell Page A

within the besieged city. ‘All are traitors,’ she said. ‘Let their fate be an example for all time.’
    The troops had cheered. The civil war had been long and bloody and victory was at hand. Yet it was one thing to say the words, and quite another to be part of the slaughter. As a general Skilgannon had not needed to bloody his sword. And yet he had. He had run through the alleys of Perapolis, slashing and killing until his clothes and armour were drenched in blood.
    The following day he had walked through the now silent streets. Corpses were everywhere. Thousands had been killed. He saw the bodies of children and babes, old women and young girls. His heart had been sickened beyond despair at the sight.
    On the high tower wall Skilgannon stared up at the fading stars. If there was a supreme being - and this he doubted - then his sins would never be washed away. He was a damned soul, in a damned world.
    ‘Where were you when the children were being slaughtered?’ he asked, looking up into the vast blackness. ‘Where were your tears that day?’
    Something glinted in the distance and he saw another fire in the town.
    Some other poor soul was being tortured and killed. An empty anger swept through Skilgannon. Idly he touched the locket on the chain round his neck. Within it was all that was left of Dayan.
    Three days they had shared after his return from the war. Her pregnancy had not yet begun to show, but there was more colour in her cheeks, and a silken sheen to her golden hair. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, and the joy of her condition made her radiant. The first signs of problems began on a bright afternoon as they sat in the garden, overlooking the marble pool and the tall fountain. Sweat was gleaming on her pale features, and Skilgannon suggested they move to the shade. She had leaned heavily on him, then groaned. He had swept her into his arms and carried her inside, laying her down on a long couch. Her face had taken on a waxy sheen. She reached up and pressed her fingers into her armpit. ‘So painful,’ she said. Opening her dress he saw the skin of her left armpit was swollen and bruised. It seemed as if a large cyst was forming.
    Lifting her once more he carried her upstairs to the main bedroom, and helped her undress. Then he sent for the surgeon.
    The fever had begun swiftly. By the late afternoon large purple swellings had appeared in her armpits and groin. The surgeon arrived just before dusk. Skilgannon would never forget the man’s reaction when he examined Dayan. Full of quiet confidence, shrewd and resourceful, he had stepped inside the room and bowed to Skilgannon. Then he had walked to the bedside and drawn back the covers. It was in that moment that Skilgannon knew the worst. The surgeon had blanched, and taken an involuntary step backwards. All confidence fled from him. He continued to back away towards the door. Skilgannon grabbed him. ‘What is it? What is the matter with you?’
    The Black Plague. She has the Black Plague.’
    Pulling himself free of the shocked Skilgannon the surgeon had fled the palace. The servants had followed within hours. Skilgannon sat beside the delirious Dayan, placing water-cooled towels on her feverish body. He did not know what else to do.
    Towards dawn one of the huge purple swellings under her arm burst.
    For a time her fever dropped, and she awoke. Skilgannon cleaned away the pus and the blood, and covered her with a fresh sheet of white satin. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her, stroking the sweat-drenched blond hair back from her brow.

    ‘A little better. Thirsty.’ He helped her drink. Then she sagged back to the pillow. ‘Am I dying, Olek?’
    ‘No. I will not allow it,’ he said, forcing a lightness of tone he did not feel.
    ‘Do you love me?’
    ‘Who could not, Dayan? All who meet you are enchanted by you.’ It was true. He had never known anyone of such gentle disposition. There was no malice in Dayan, no hatred. She even treated