Free White Wolf by David Gemmell

to a greater role in the future in Mellicane.
    When the Arbiters had spoken against the church, Raseev had spotted an opportunity not only to advance himself politically, but also to wipe away his debts. The church owned much of the property in the town and also made loans to aid local businesses. Raseev had taken out three large loans in the past four years, in order to promote and build his business interest. Two of his ventures—timber felling and mining—had failed miserably, leaving him to face large losses. The church men were doomed anyway, so why should he not come away from their destruction with increased financial benefit?
    The problem was that he had not been able to stir up the people sufficiently to attack the church directly. Many of them recalled how the priests had helped them during the time of plague and drought. The attack on the old teacher by some of Raseev’s hired men had also been viewed with distaste by many—though no one had spoken out directly. And when that other priest had caused the Arbiter to stab himself, some had even laughed at his misfortune.
    But now there was a way forward.
    People’s sympathies were with Raseev following the death of Todhe, and word had been spread that the killer had taken refuge in the church, and that the abbot had refused to hand him over to the authorities for trial. This was not true, but it was believed to be, and that was what counted.
    Raseev stayed in his house that night, the body of his son laid out in a back room and dressed in his best clothes. He could hear his wife weeping and wailing over the stupid lout. How strange women are, he thought. Todhe was useless in every way. He was dull, vicious, and a constant trial to Raseev. At least in death he could achieve something.
    Several of Raseev’s most trusted supporters were out now, stirring the crowds, calling for the church to be stormed and the killer taken.
    Antol the Baker was a bitter, vengeful man, and he would lead the crowd. Others who worked closely with Raseev would have weapons hidden, which would be drawn as soon as they were in the church buildings. Once the killings began the mob would rage through the church environs. Those priests who were not slain would flee. Then Raseev would locate the church treasury and seize its assets. It would also be a good time to find and destroy their records.
    He took a deep breath and began to work on a speech. The murders of the priests could not be overlooked, and he would be forced to speak out against the dangers of hatred, and to have the speech recorded and placed in the council records.
    Political winds had a habit of changing, and, at some point in the future, Raseev could then point out that he had been against the violence.
    Taking up a quill pen he began to make notes. “The deaths of so many scar us all,” he wrote. Then he paused. From the back room the sound of sobbing increased.
    “Will you stop that wailing!” he shouted through the walls. “I am trying to work in here.”
    For Skilgannon the night had been long and sleepless, his mind haunted by painful memories, and laden with the guilts of his life. He had led men into battle—and for this he felt little shame—but he had also taken part in the razing of towns and the awful butchery that accompanied it. He had allowed himself to be swept along on a tide of hatred and vengeance, his sword dripping with the blood of innocence. Those memories would not go away.
    When the queen had addressed her troops before the last battle—the dreadful siege at Perapolis—she had ordered that no one should be left alive, not one man, woman, or child within the rebel 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