Gemmell, David - Sipstrassi Tales 01 - Wolf In Shadow

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WOLF IN SHADOW

This novel is dedicated to the memory of 'Lady' Woodford, who believed in love, courage, and

friendship, and gave those who knew her fresh insights into the meaning of all three. Sleep well,

Lady.

And to Ethel Osborne, her sister, for a lifetime of love and care.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Nothing is created in a vacuum, and I am grateful to many people for their help in the creation of

WOLF IN SHADOW. My thanks to Elizabeth Reeves, my editor, for bringing me out of the mist;

to Peter Austin, for the wagon-master; and to Jean Maund, Stella Graham, Tom Taylor, Ross

Lempriere, Ivan Kellham and Tony Fenelon for invaluable assistance.

Thanks also to Jeremy Wells, for loyalty and friendship, in a world that rarely understands either.

FOREWORD

Of the many characters I have created over the years, few have captured the imagination of

readers as powerfully as Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man.

Alan Fisher, the award winning author of Terioki Crossing, and a fan of the film Casablanca, has

a phrase that sums up characters like Shannow. 'They walk out of Rick's Bar, fully formed and

real. The author doesn't have to work on them at all. There is no conscious act of creation. One

moment they don't exist - the next they stand before you, complete and ready.'

I remember the moment Shannow walked out of Rick's Bar.

It was at the end of a miserable, wet day in Bournemouth at the start of autumn in 1986. I was the

group managing editor of a series of newspapers stretching from Brighton to Portsmouth on the

south coast. The previous week I had a call from my father to tell me that my mother was in

hospital and that surgeons feared she had terminal cancer. They were right. A year before she had

suffered the amputation of her right leg, and fought back to make a dramatic entrance at a

Christmas Dance. This time there would be no fightback.

I had visited her in London, and then driven to Bournemouth for a business meeting, concluding

it at around ten that night. I was Staying in a small hotel of remarkable unfriendliness. The kind

of place - as Jack Dee once said - where the Gideons leave a rope! I hadn't eaten since the

previous evening and I called the night porter. He said the kitchen staff had gone home, but there

was a plate of olives someone had left at the bar. Nursing the olives and a very large glass of

Armagnac I returned to my room and opened the Olympia portable typewriter.

I was at the time preparing a Drenai novel, featuring the Nadir Warlord Ulric, which my

publishers had commissioned. According to the contract the book was to be called Wolf in

Shadow and was, loosely, a prequel to Legend. I had completed around sixty pages. They weren't

good, but I was powering on as best as I could.

Sitting by the window, looking out over Bournemouth's glistening streets, I tried to push the

events of the week from my mind. My mother was dying, I was waiting to be fired, and staff,

who had joined my team in good faith, were facing redundancy. After the fifth large Armagnac I

decided to continue work on the book. I knew I was drunk, and I also knew that the chances of

writing anything worthwhile were pretty negligible. But forcing my mind into a fantasy world

seemed infinitely more appealing than concentrating on the reality at hand.

The scene I was set to continue had a Nadir scout riding across the steppes. The intention was to

follow him to the top of a hill and have him gaze down on the awesome army camped on the

plain below.

I focused on the typewriter keys and typed the following sentences....

The rider paused at the crest of a wooded hill, and gazed down at the wide, rolling empty lands

beneath him. There was no sign of Jerusalem...

The walls of the mind came crashing in as I typed the word Jerusalem, thoughts, fears and regrets

spilling over one another, fighting for space. There followed a bad hour, which even Armagnac

could not ease.

But after midnight I returned to the page and stared down at it. It called out to me. Who is he, I

thought? What is he looking for, this Jerusalem Man?

And suddenly he was there. Tall and gaunt, seeking a city that had ceased to exist three hundred

years before. A lonely, tortured man on a quest with no ending, riding through a world of

savagery and barbarism.

The story flowed in an instant, and I wrote until after the dawn.

Through all the despair that followed in those next painful months I found a sanctuary in the

company of Jon Shannow. Through his eyes I could see the world clearly, and understand how

important it is to be strong in the broken places.

As a result Shannow will always be one of my favourite characters.

For a while back there he was the best friend I'd ever had.

David A. Gemmell Hastings, 1995

PROLOGUE

The High Priest lifted his bloodstained hands from the corpse and dipped them in a silver bowl

filled with scented water. The blood swirled around the rose petals floating there, darkening them

and glistening like oil. A young acolyte moved to kneel before the King, his hands outstretched.

The King leaned forward, placing a large oval stone in his palms. The stone was red-gold, and

veined with thick black streaks. The acolyte carried the stone to the corpse, laying it on the

gaping wound where the girl's heart had been. The stone glowed, the red-gold gleaming like an

eldritch lantern, the black veins shrinking to fine hairlines. The acolyte lifted the stone once

more, wiped it with a cloth of silk and returned it to the King before backing away into the

shadows.

A second acolyte approached the High Priest, bowing low. In his arms he held the red ceremonial

cape which he lifted over the priest's bald head.

The King clapped his hands twice and the girl's body was lifted from the marble altar and carried

down the long hall to oblivion.

'Well, Achnazzar?' demanded the King.

'As you can see, my lord, the girl was a powerful ESPer, and her essence will feed many Stones

before it fades.'

'The death of a pig will feed a Stone, priest. You know what I am asking,' said the King, fixing

Achnazzar with a piercing glare. The bald priest bowed low, keeping his eyes on the marble

floor.

'The omens are mostly good, sire.'

'Mostly? Look at me!' Achnazzar raised his head, steeling himself to meet the burning eyes of the

Satanlord. The priest blinked and tried to look away, but Abaddon's glare held him trapped,

almost hypnotized. 'Explain yourself.'

The invasion, Lord, should proceed favorably in the Spring. But there are dangers . . . not great

dangers,' he added hurriedly.

'From which area?'

Achnazzar was sweating now as he licked dry lips with a dry tongue.

'Not an area, Lord, but three men.'

'Name them.'

'Only one can be identified, the others are hidden. But we will find them. The one is called

Shannow. Jon Shannow.'

'Shannow? I do not know the name. Is he a leader of men, or a Brigand chief?'

'No, Lord. He rides alone.'

'Then how is he a danger to the Hellborn?'

'Not to the Hellborn, sire, but to you.'

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摘要：

WOLFINSHADOWThisnovelisdedicatedtothememoryof'Lady'Woodford,whobelievedinlove,courage,andfriendship,andgavethosewhoknewherfreshinsightsintothemeaningofallthree.Sleepwell,Lady.AndtoEthelOsborne,hersister,foralifetimeofloveandcare.ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSNothingiscreatedinavacuum,andIamgratefultomanypeoplefor...

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Gemmell, David - Sipstrassi Tales 01 - Wolf In Shadow

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