Winter Warriors

by David Gemmell

  'You cannot. His death is but hours away, and on the fastest horse you could not reach the army within a day. By this time tomorrow the Drenai army will be destroyed, and Skanda will be strapped to the altar.'

  'Sweet Heaven! There must be something I can do.'

  'You can save the third king.'

  'There is no king greater than Skanda.'

  'There is his unborn son. If destiny allows him to live he will be a greater man than his father. But Kalizkan plans to destroy him.'

  'I could not get into the palace. They are searching for me everywhere.'

  'If you do not then all is lost.'

  Dagorian awoke in a cold sweat. As he saw the solid walls of the house relief swelled within him. It was a dream. He laughed at his foolishness, and fell asleep once more.

  Wrapped in his cloak against the night cold Nogusta leaned back against the tree and fed another stick to the fire. Bison was snoring softly, the sound strangely comforting in the quiet of the night. Nogusta drew one of his ten diamond-shaped throwing knives from the black baldric draped across his chest and idly twirled the blade through his fingers. The silver steel gleamed in the moonlight.

  Ushuru would have loved this place of high, lonely beauty, the vast expanse of the mountains, the wildness of wood and forest. She would have been happy here. We would have been happy here, he corrected himself.

  Time had not eased the grief. Perhaps he had not wished it to.

  His mind flew back, ghosting over the years, seeing again the huge living-room. They had all been laughing and joking, sitting around the hearth. His father and his two brothers had just returned from Drenan, where they had negotiated a new contract with the army for a hun­dred horses, and the celebrations were in full flow. He could still see Ushuru sitting on the couch, her long legs drawn up beneath her. She was Grafting a dream-deceiver for Nogusta's youngest nephew. A web of twisted horse hair, woven around a sapling circle that would hang over his bed. Nightmares were said to be drawn to the deceiver, and trapped in the web, leaving the sleeper free of torment. The twenty-year-old Nogusta moved to her side, placing his arm over her shoulder. Lightly he kissed her cheek.

  'It is a fine piece of work,' he told her.

  She smiled. 'It will confuse the sleep demons.'

  He grinned. She had learned the western tongue well, but her translations were always too literal. 'Do you miss the lands of Opal?' he asked her, in the ancient tongue.

  'I would like to see my mother again,' she told him. 'But I am more than content.'

  She continued to weave the web. 'Of what does Kynda dream?' he asked her.

  'Fire. He is surrounded by fire.'

  'He burned his fingers last week at the forge,' Nogusta told her. 'Children learn by such painful mistakes.' Even as the thought came to him a bright picture formed in his mind. A small child tumbling down a steep slope. As she fell her foot became trapped under a jutting tree root, snapping her leg. Nogusta stood.

  'What is it, my love?' asked Ushuru.

  'A child hurt in the hills. I'll find her.'

  He kissed her once more, this time upon the lips, then left the house. The memory burned at him now with exquisite pain. He had been twenty years of age, and would never kiss her again. The next time he saw her, less than ten hours distant, she would be a corpse, her beauty destroyed by knives and fire. Kynda's nightmares would have come true, flames roaring through his bedroom.

  But this he did not know as he set out to find the village child. When he came upon her she was un­conscious. Freeing the child he splinted the leg then carried her back to the village. He had been surprised to find no search parties, and it was just after dawn when he entered the village from the north.

  A crowd surged out from the meeting hall as he approached. The girl was awake now. Her father -Grinan the baker - ran forward. 'I fell down, daddy,' she said. 'I hurt myself.' Nogusta saw that the baker's shirt was smeared with soot. He thought it strange. Grinan took his daughter from Nogusta's arms. Then he saw the splint.

  'I found her by Sealac Hollow,' said Nogusta. 'Her leg is broken, but the break is clean. It will mend well.'

  No-one spoke. Nogusta knew the villagers had little love for his family, but even so their reaction was strange, to say the least. Then he saw that a number of the men in the crowd also had scorch marks upon their clothes.

  From the back of the crowd came Menimas, the noble­man. He was a tall thin man, with deep-set dark eyes, and a moustache and beard trimmed to a perfect circle. 'Hang him!' he said. 'He is a demon worshipper!'

  At first the meaning of the words did not register. 'What is he saying?' Nogusta asked Grinan. The man avoided his eyes. He looked down at his daughter.

  'Did this man take you away, Flarin?' he asked her.

  'No, daddy. I fell down in the woods. I hurt my leg.'

  Menimas stepped forward. 'He has bewitched the child. Hang him, I say!' For a moment no-one moved, then several men ran at Nogusta. He downed two of them with a left and right combination, but weight of numbers overpowered him and he was wrestled to the ground. They bound his arms and dragged him to the oak on the market square. A rope was thrown over a high branch, and a noose fastened around his neck.

  He was hoisted up, the rope burning into his throat. He heard Menimas scream: 'Die, you black bastard!' Then he passed out.

  Somewhere within the darkness he became aware of sensation; warm air being forced into his lungs. He could feel the flow of it, his chest rising to accommodate it. Then he felt the warmth of a mouth upon his own, push­ing more air into his starved lungs. Gradually other sensations followed; a burning pain on the skin of his throat, the cool of the ground beneath his back. Strong hands pushed down upon his chest, and he heard a commanding voice. 'Breathe, damn you!'

  The warm air had stopped flowing now, and Nogusta, growing short of oxygen, sucked in a huge, juddering, breath.

  He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground, staring up at the leaves of the oak. The rope still hung from a thick branch, but it had been hacked in two. The face of a stranger swam into sight. Nogusta tried to speak, but his voice was a croak. 'Say nothing,' said the grey-eyed man. 'Your throat is bruised, but you will live. Let me help you stand.' Nogusta struggled to his feet. There were soldiers in the square, and twelve villagers were standing by under guard.

  Nogusta touched his throat. The noose still hung there. He lifted it clear. The skin below was raw and bleeding. 'I . . . rescued . . . a child,' he managed to say. 'And . . . they attacked me. I . . . don't know why.'

  'I know why,' said the man. Turning to Nogusta he laid a slender hand on his shoulder. 'Last night these people burned your home. They killed your family.'

  'My family? No! It cannot be!'

  'They are dead, and I am sorry for your loss. I cannot tell you how sorry. The killers believed . . . were led to believe . . . that your family kidnapped the child for . . . some blood rite. They are simple and stupid people.'

  The pain in his throat was forgotten now. 'They didn't kill them all? Not all of them?'

  'Yes. All of them. And though it will not bring them back you will see justice now. Bring the first!' he ordered. It was the baker, Grinan.

  'No, please!' he shouted. 'I have a family. Children. They need me!'

  The pale-eyed soldier stepped in close to the pleading man. 'Every action a man takes has consequences, peasant. This man also had a family. You have com­mitted murder. Now you will pay for it.' A woman out­side the ring of soldiers screamed for mercy, but a noose was placed over Grinan's head and he was hauled into the air, his feet kicking out.

  One by one the twelve villagers with fire-blackened clothes were brought forward and hanged.

  'Where is Menimas?' asked Nogusta, as the last man died.

  'He fled,' said the soldier. 'He has friends in high places. I doubt he will be convicted.'

  Leaving the village to bury its dead the soldiers and Nogusta returned to the burnt-out estate. Nogusta was in deep
shock now, his mind swimming. The seven corpses had been wrapped in blankets and laid out in a row before the ruins. One by one he went to them, open­ing the shrouds, and staring down at the dead. The child Kynda was unmarked by fire, and his tiny hand was clutching the dream-deceiver made by Ushuru. 'Smoke killed him,' said the officer.

  One by one Nogusta dug the graves, refusing all offers of help.

  When they were all buried the pale-eyed officer returned. 'We have rounded up some of your horses. The rest escaped into the mountains. The tack room was largely intact and I have had a horse saddled for you. I need you to come with me to the garrison to make a report on the . . . incident.'

  Nogusta did not argue. They rode for most of the day, and camped that night at Shala Falls. Nogusta had spoken to no-one during the ride. Now he lay within his blankets, his emotions numbed. It was as if he could feel nothing. He kept seeing Ushuru's face, and her smile.

  Two of the soldiers were talking nearby, their voices low. 'Did you see it?' said one. 'It was horrible. I've never seen the like. Don't want to again. Made me feel sick.'

  Even through the numbness Nogusta felt grateful for the sympathetic reaction in the soldier.

  'Yes, it was gross,' said his companion. 'The White Wolf blowing air into a black man's mouth! Who'd believe it?'

  Even now - more than thirty years later - Nogusta felt a cold anger rising in him at the memory. Still, anger is a better emotion than sorrow, he thought. Anger is alive and can be dealt with. Sorrow is a dead creature and sits like a weight that cannot be released.

  He rose and wandered away into the trees, gathering more dead wood for the fire. You should sleep, he told himself. There will be killers coming. You will need all your strength and skill.

  Returning to the fire he fed it then settled down under his blanket, his head resting on his saddle.

  But sleep would not come, and he rose again. Bison groaned and woke. Pushing back his blanket the giant pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to a nearby tree, where he urinated noisily. Retying his leggings he turned and saw Nogusta sitting by the fire.

  'Didn't find any gold today,' he said, squatting down beside the black man.

  'Maybe tomorrow.'

  'You want me to keep watch?'

  Nogusta grinned. 'You never could keep watch, Bison. By the time I lie down you'll be asleep.'

  'I do find it easy to sleep,' admitted Bison. 'I was dreaming about the Battle at Purdol. You, me and Kebra on the wall. Have you still got your medal?'

  'Yes.'

  'I sold mine. Got twenty raq for it. Wish I hadn't now. It was a good medal.'

  'You can have mine.'

  'Can I?' Bison was delighted. 'I won't sell it this time.'

  'You probably will, but it doesn't matter.' Nogusta sighed. 'That was the first great victory. It was on that day we realized the Ventrians could be beaten. I re­member it rained all that day, lightning in the sky, thunder over the sea.'

  'I don't remember much about it,' admitted Bison. 'Except that we held the wall and the White Wolf supplied sixty barrels of rum for the army.'

  'I think you drank most of it.'

  'That was a good night. All the camp whores gave it away for free. Have you slept?'

  'Not yet,' said Nogusta.

  Bison tugged at his white walrus moustache. He could see his friend was unhappy, but did not have the courage to broach the subject. Nogusta and Kebra were both thinking men, and much of what they spoke of sailed high above Bison's head. 'You ought to sleep,' said Bison, at last. 'You'll feel better for it.' At the thought of sleep he yawned. Then he wandered back to his blankets. Nogusta settled down again and closed his eyes.

  In that moment he experienced a sudden vision. He saw ten riders moving slowly across green hills, white-topped mountains behind them. Nogusta looked at the riders. The sun was high, the ten riders hooded against its glare. They rode into a wood. One of them pushed back his hood and removed a helm of black iron. His hair was long, and ghost white, his face grey, his eyes blood red. An arrow flashed from the trees. The rider threw up his hand, and the shaft sliced through it, driving on to pierce the flesh of his face. He dragged it clear. Both wounds healed instantly.

  The vision changed. Suddenly it was night, and two moons hung in the sky, one a crescent, the other full. And he saw himself standing by the tree line on a hillside beneath alien stars. A woman was walking towards him. It was Ushuru. And she was smiling.

  This vision also faded, and Nogusta found himself floating high above a plain. He saw the Drenai infantry commit themselves to an attack on the Cadian centre. Skanda was leading the charge. As the Cadians reeled back a trumpet sounded and Skanda signalled to Malikada for the cavalry to attack the right. But Malikada did not move, and the cavalry remained, hold­ing to the hill.

  Nogusta could see the despair in Skanda's eyes; the disbelief and the dawning realization of betrayal and defeat.

  And then the slaughter began.

  Nogusta awoke in a cold sweat, his hands trembling. Bison and Kebra were asleep, and the dawn light was creeping above the mountains. Pushing aside his blankets the black warrior rose soundlessly. Kebra stirred and opened his eyes.

  'What is wrong, my friend?'

  'Skanda is dead. And we are in peril.'

  Kebra pushed himself to his feet. 'Dead? That cannot be.'

  'He was betrayed by Malikada and the Ventrians. They stood by while our comrades were slaughtered.' Slowly, remembering every image, he told Kebra of his visions.

  The bowman listened in silence. 'The betrayal and the battle I can understand,' he said, when Nogusta had finished. 'But demonic riders with eyes of blood? What is that supposed to mean? It can't be real, can it? Any more than walking with Ushuru beneath two moons.'

  'I do not know, my friend. But I think the riders will come. And I will face them.'

  'Not alone you won't,' said Kebra.

  Chapter Six

  All her life Ulmenetha had known many fears. Her mother's sickness and death had filled her with a terror of cancer that caused awful nightmares, and left her trembling in her bed, her face and body bathed in cold sweat. Small, scurrying rodents inspired a sense of dread in her, leaving her incapable of movement. But most of all the death of her beloved Vian had made her fear love itself, and to run for the sanctuary of the convent.

  She sat now in her room, staring up at the stars, con­templating the nature of fear.

  For Ulmenetha terror began the moment control was lost. She had been powerless when her mother was dying. She could only watch in silent anguish as the flesh shrivelled away and the spirit fled. As a consequence Ulmenetha had worried over Vian, making sure he ate well, and was always dressed in warm clothes when the winter winds blew. He had laughed at her coddling. Ulmenetha had been preparing an evening meal when word reached her he was dead. While searching for a lost sheep he had slipped on the ice and fallen from the high ridge. There was nothing she could have done to prevent it, but that did not stop the guilt from eating its way into her soul. It was she who had urged him to find the sheep. Guilt, remorse and sorrow had overwhelmed her.

  So she had run from her fears, and even taken the extra precaution of becoming fat, in order that men would no longer find her attractive. All this so that she would never again suffer the true terrors of life.

  Yet here she was, sitting in a palace bedroom, with the demons closing in.

  What can I do, she asked herself? The first answer, as always, was to run, to leave the palace and make the long journey back to Drenan and the convent. The thought of running, putting these fears behind her, was immensely seductive. She had money, and could book passage on a caravan to the coast, and then take a ship to Dros Purdol. Sea air on her face. The thought of flight brought calm to her mind.

  Then she pictured Axiana's face, the large, childlike eyes, and the sweet smile. And with it the memory of Kalizkan's rotting, maggot-ridden flesh.

  I cannot leave her! The panic began again. What can you do aga
inst the power of demons, whispered the voice of flight. You are a fat priestess with no arcane skills. Kalizkan is a sorcerer. He could blast your soul from your overweight body. He could consign you to the Void. He could send assassins to plunge their knives into your obese belly!

  Ulmenetha rose from her chair and moved to the table by the window. From a drawer she took a silver-rimmed oval mirror and held it up to her face. For years she had avoided mirrors, hating the bloated image they portrayed. But now she looked beyond the flesh, and deep into the grey eyes, recalling the girl who had run the mountain paths - the girl who had run for joy and not for fear.

  At last calm, her mind set, she returned the mirror to the drawer. First she must tell Axiana of her discoveries concerning Dagorian. The officer was innocent, and the true villain, she was sure, was Kalizkan. Then realization struck her. Kalizkan was not the enemy. Kalizkan was dead! Something had taken over the body; something powerful enough to cast a sweet and reassuring spell, enchanting all who came into contact with it.

  If she were to tell Axiana the simple truth the queen would think her mad. How then to convince her of the perils that lay in wait?

  You must walk with care down this road, she warned herself.

  Gathering her thoughts she was about to find Axiana when a servant tapped at her door. Ulmenetha called for her to enter. The girl stepped inside and curtsied.

  'What is it, child?'

  'The queen wishes you to prepare your belongings. They will be taken to Kalizkan's house in the morning.'

  Ulmenetha fought for calm. 'Is the queen in her apart­ments?'

  'No, my lady. She left this afternoon. The Lord Kalizkan came for her.'

  At noon on the second day Dagorian found his hunger overriding his caution. Leaving his sabre behind, but hiding his hunting knife beneath the beggar's rags, he left his hiding place and risked the short walk to the market. The sun was bright in a clear sky, the market square packed with people. Easing his way through the crowd he stopped at a meat stall, where a spit of beef was being turned over a charcoal grill. The cook looked at him sourly, but Dagorian produced two copper coins and the man cut several thick slices, placing them on a wooden platter. The smell of the roasting meat was divine. It was almost too hot to hold and Dagorian burned his fingers. He blew on the meat, then tore off a chunk. It was exquisite. Juices ran down his stubbled chin. The cook's expression softened. 'Good?' he enquired.