White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

woods to the north of the capital. Caphas had picked the spot with care, in a hollow

away from the road, so that his fire would not be seen. Although the civil war was now

ended, so great had been the losses on both sides that there were few troops now to

patrol the wildlands, where renegades and deserters looted and stole. The merchant

had thought long and hard about this journey, but with so many of his colleagues too

terrified to enter the lands of Naashan he had seen an opportunity for huge profits

from his goods, silks from Chiatze, and spices from Sherak and Gothir. Now, as the full

moon shone over the hollow, those profits seemed a long way away.

The rider emerged from the tree line above the camp and angled his horse down the

slope. The man’s hairstyle—the lower part of the head shaved clean, the upper hair

swept into a fierce crest—showed him to be a Naashanite swordmaster. Caphas began

to relax. It was unlikely such a man would prove to be a robber. There were far better

ways for skilled fighters to make money in this war-torn country than by waylaying

traveling merchants. The man’s clothes further reinforced this judgment. Though

functional in appearance—a dark leather jerkin, the shoulders edged with chain mail,

leather leggings and high riding boots also adorned with mail—they were richly made.

His black horse was Ventrian purebred. Such beasts were rarely seen on the open

market, but would sell privately for between two hundred and four hundred gold Raq.

The rider was quite clearly no thief. Thoughts of robbery drifted away, only to be

replaced by a fear of another kind.

The man dismounted and walked to the fire. He moved with the grace common to

all swordsmen, thought Caphas, who rose to greet him. Up close the rider was younger

than Caphas had first thought. In his twenties. His eyes were a piercing sapphire blue,

his face handsome. Caphas bowed. “Welcome to my fire,