Winter Warriors

by David Gemmell

  The queen shrieked once more, and Sufia dissolved into tears.

  Kebra moved away and began to prepare breakfast. Sitting beside the stream Nogusta and Dagorian talked in low voices. 'Does Bison know what he's doing?' asked the young officer.

  'Yes. Believe it or not many of the camp whores request Bison when they are ready to deliver.'

  'I can't think why.'

  'Maybe he fathered most of the children,' ventured Nogusta. 'But I believe she is in safe hands.'

  'Safe hands? How safe are any of us?'

  Nogusta heard the fear in the young man's voice. He was concerned, for he had noticed the growing tension in the officer ever since the wolf attack. 'Nothing has changed since you rescued the queen,' he said.

  'I didn't rescue her - Ulmenetha did that. And the children. I just came later. And we would all have been killed had you not arrived to kill the lancers. I don't feel that I have been of any real use.' Dagorian sighed. 'I am not like you, Nogusta. Nor the others. You are tough men. The stuff of heroes. I. . .' he faltered. 'I am just a failed priest.'

  'You do yourself a disservice,' said Nogusta. Dagorian shook his head.

  'You remember when you warned me about an attempt on Banelion's life? I went to him, as I told you.'

  'Yes. He advised you to stay away from him. That was good advice.'

  'Maybe it was - but a hero would have disobeyed him. Don't you see? I was glad to be relieved of responsibility. I thanked him and I left. Would you have done so?'

  'Yes,' said Nogusta.

  'I don't believe you.'

  'I wouldn't lie to you, Dagorian.'

  'But would you have felt relief?'

  'You are torturing yourself unnecessarily,' said the black man. 'What is really at the heart of this?'

  'I am afraid.' He looked into Nogusta's face. 'What is it that you have seen? I need to know.'

  'You do not need to know,' Nogusta assured him. 'And it would serve no purpose to tell you. This gift I have is like a sharp sword. It can save a life, or it can take it. At this moment you and I are alive, and we have a mission. All we can do is try to stay alive. What I have seen, or not seen, is irrelevant.'

  'That is simply not true,' said Dagorian. 'The future is not set in stone. You could, for example, have seen me walking on a particular cliff top. The ground gives way and I fall to my death. But if you warn me I will not walk on that cliff top. Then I will live.'

  Nogusta shook his head. 'I told you once before that the gift is not that precise. I do not choose what to see.'

  'I just want to know whether I will survive,' said Dagorian. 'Have you seen that, at least?'

  'Ultimately no-one survives,' hissed Nogusta. 'That is the way of life. We are born, we live, we die. All that counts is the manner in which we live. And even that does not count for long. History will forget us. It forgets all men eventually. You want certainty? That is certainty.'

  'I fear I may be a coward,' said Dagorian. 'I might run from this mission.'

  'You will not run,' said Nogusta. 'You are a man of courage and honour. I know you are afraid. So you should be - for so am I. Our enemies are great in number, and our friends are few. Yet we will do what we must, for we are men, and the sons of men.'

  The queen cried out again. Dagorian jerked at the sound, then pushed himself to his feet and walked from the camp.

  For more than an hour the group waited, and there was little sound from within the roofless tent. Then Bison emerged, wandered to the fire and ate some of the hot oats Kebra had prepared for breakfast. The bowman approached him.

  'What is happening?' asked Kebra.

  'She is resting a little,' the giant told him.

  'How soon will she have the child?'

  Bison shrugged. 'The water sac has burst and the baby is on its way. How long? I don't know. Another hour. Perhaps two or three. Maybe more.'

  'That's not very precise,' snapped Kebra. 'I thought you were an expert in this.'

  'Expert? A few times doesn't make you an expert. All I know is that there are three stages to birthing. The first is under way. The baby is moving.'

  'And the second?'

  'The contractions will become more severe as the child enters the birth canal and on into the vagina.'

  Kebra smiled. That's the first time I've ever heard you use the correct term.'

  'I'm not in the mood for jokes at the moment,' said Bison. 'She's a slim girl, and this is the first child. There's likely to be a lot of torn flesh. And I know little of what to do if anything goes wrong. Has anyone tried again to wake the priestess?'

  'I'll sit by her,' promised Kebra.

  'You do that. Smack her face. Pour water on her. Anything.'

  'As soon as she wakes I'll send her to you.'

  Bison rose and ambled back to the tent. Kebra moved to the sleeping priestess. She was no longer bathed in sweat. Her skin was clear and firm, and Kebra was sur­prised to see how pretty she was now that the excess flesh was gone. And she looked so much younger. He had thought her to be in her forties, but now he saw she was - despite the grey in her blond hair - at least ten years younger. He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. 'Can you hear me, lady?' he said. But she did not stir.

  The morning wore on, the sun climbing towards noon. Nogusta, normally so cool and in control, was pacing the camp. Once he approached the tent and called out to Bison. The response was short, coarse and to the point. Nogusta strode to the stream. Kebra, still unable to wake the priestess, joined him there.

  'We are losing the time we gained at the bridge,' said Nogusta. 'If this goes on much longer the enemy will be upon us.'

  'Bison doesn't know how long the labour will last. It could be hours yet.'

  Nogusta suddenly smiled. 'Would you want Bison as the midwife to your first-born?'

  'It is a ghastly thought,' admitted Kebra.

  Chapter Nine

  No nightmare ever suffered by Axiana had been worse than this. Her dress removed, her bare feet pressing into the damp earth, her lower back a rhythmic sea of pain, she squatted like a peasant beneath an open sky. Her emotional state had been fragile ever since the horror of the events at the house of Kalizkan, and everything since had conspired to fill her with terrible fear. Her husband was dead, her life as a royal princess a diminishing memory. All her life she had been pampered, never knowing hunger or poverty; the heat of summer kept from her by servants with peacock fans, the cold of winter barred from the palace by warm fires and fine clothes of wool.

  Only days ago she had been sitting in a padded satin chair amid the splendour of the royal apartments, servants everywhere. And despite her husband's disdain of her, she had been the queen of a great empire.

  Now, naked and frightened, she squatted in a forest, wracked with pain, and waiting to birth a king in the wet and the mud.

  Beside her the giant, Bison, was supporting her weight. His ugly face was close to hers, and when she turned her head she could feel the coarseness of his bristling moustache against the skin of her face. His left hand was rubbing gently across the base of her spine, easing the pain there. Back in Usa Ulmenetha had showed her the satin covered birthing stool, and quietly explained all the processes of birth. It had almost seemed an adventure then. Fresh pain seared through her and she cried out.

  'Don't breathe too fast,' said Bison. His gruff voice cut through her rising panic. The contractions continued, the rhythm of pain rising and falling. The girl, Pharis, lifted a cup to Axiana's lips. The water was cool and sweet. Sweat dripped into Axiana's eyes. Pharis wiped it away with a cloth.

  Cramp stabbed through her right thigh. She reared up against Bison and screamed. 'My leg! My leg!' Lifting her easily he turned her to her back, leaning her against a fallen tree. Kneeling beside her his huge hands began to rub at the muscles above her knee. Pharis offered her more water. She shook her head. The humili­ation was colossal. No man but her husband had ever seen her naked, and on that one night she had bathed in perfumed water and waited in a ro
om lit with the light of three coloured lanterns. The light now was harsh and bright, and the ugly peasant was rubbing her thighs with his huge calloused hands.

  And yet, she thought suddenly, he cares! Which is something Skanda never did.

  Axiana remembered the night the king had come to her. He cared nothing that she was a virgin, untutored and unskilled. He had made no attempt to ease her fears, nor even arouse her. There had been no pleasure in the act. It had been painful and - thank the Source - short lived. He had not said a word throughout, and when he had finished he rose from her bed and stalked from the room. She had cried for hours.

  Axiana felt dizzy. She opened her eyes to see bright lights dancing before her vision. 'Breathe slowly,' advised Bison. 'You'll pass out else. And we don't want that, do we?'

  Pain flared once more, reaching new heights. 'There's blood! There's blood!' wailed Pharis.

  'Of course there's blood,' snapped Bison. 'Just stay calm, girl. Go and fetch some more water!'

  Axiana moaned. Bison leaned in to her. 'Try to think of something else,' he said. 'One of my wives used to chant. You know any chants?'

  Anger replaced the pain in Axiana, roaring up like a forest fire. 'You oaf! You stupid . . .' Suddenly she let fly with a stream of coarse and obscene swear words, in both Drenai and Ventrian, words she had heard but had never before uttered; would never have believed herself capable of uttering. It was, as she had always believed, the language of the gutter. Bison was completely unfazed.

  'My third wife used to talk like that,' he said. 'It's as good as a chant,' he added, brightly.

  Axiana sagged against him, exhausted. All the years of nobility, the education and the instilled belief that nobles were a different species to mere mortals, peeled away from her, like the layers of an onion. She was an animal now, sweating, grunting and moaning; a creature with­out pride. Tears welled as the pain soared to fresh heights. 'I can't stand it!' she whispered. 'I can't!'

  'Course you can. You're a brave girl. Course you can.' She swore at him again, repeating the same word over and over.

  'That's good,' he said, with a grin. Her head sagged against his shoulder. His hand pushed back the sweat-drenched hair from her brow. More than anything else this one small gesture restored her courage. She was not alone. The pain eased momentarily.

  'Where is Ulmenetha?' she asked Bison.

  'She'll be here when she wakes. I don't know why she's still sleeping. Nogusta thinks it's magick of some kind. But I'm here. You can trust old Bison.'

  Pharis leaned in and wiped her face, then offered her more water. Axiana drank gratefully.

  The morning wore on, the sun passing noon and drift­ing slowly across the sky. For a time Bison lifted her once more to a kneeling position, but the cramps returned, and by mid-afternoon she was sitting once more with her back against the fallen tree. Her strength was almost gone, and she was floating in pain, semi-conscious. She remembered her mother, the wan young face, the eyes dark circled. She had died in childbirth. Her son born dead, her body torn, her life blood draining away. Axiana had been six years old. Her nurse had brought her in to say goodbye. But her mother had been delirious, and had not recognized her. She had called out a name, screamed it loud. No-one knew who she was calling for.

  She had been buried on a bright summer afternoon, her son beside her.

  'I am going to die like her,' thought Axiana.

  'No, you're not,' said Bison.

  'I didn't . . . mean to say that . . . aloud,' whispered Axiana.

  'You're not going to die, girl. In a little while I'll lay your son on your breast, and the sunlight will touch you both.'

  'My . . . son.' The thought was a strange one. For the duration of her pregnancy Axiana had thought only of the baby inside her. Skanda's baby. Skanda's child. An object created by a virtual rape which had changed her young life.

  My son is waiting to be born.

  'I can see the head,' said Pharis. 'The baby is coming!'

  Bison wiped away the sweat from Axiana's face. 'Do not push,' he said. 'Not yet.'

  She heard the advice, but the urge to propel the obstruction from her body was overpowering. 'I can't . . . stop myself!' she told him, taking a deep breath.

  'No!' he thundered. 'The head is not engaged fully.' Her face reddened with the effort of pushing. 'Pant!' he ordered her. 'Pant. Like this!' Pushing out his tongue he made quick shallow breaths.

  'I'm not. . . a . . . dog!' she hissed at him.

  'You'll damage the child if you don't. His head is soft. Now pant, damn you!' Summoning Pharis to support the queen's shoulders Bison moved back to observe the birth. The head was almost clear, and one shoulder. Then he saw the umbilical cord, tight around the baby's neck like a blue-grey serpent, choking the life away. His fingers were too thick and clumsy to dislodge it. Fear touched him then. Twice before he had observed this phenomenon. The first time a surgeon had cut the cord. The baby had lived, but the woman had died, for the afterbirth had not come away cleanly, remaining inside to rot and poison the blood. The second time the cord had effectively strangled the infant. 'Don't push!' he told the queen. Taking a deep breath Bison supported the infant's head with his left hand then, as gently as he could eased the little finger of his right hand under the cord. Twice it slipped back into place, but the third time he hooked it, drawing it carefully over the head.

  With the threat removed Bison called out. 'Now you can push! Push like the Devil!'

  Axiana grunted, then cried out as the baby slid clear into Bison's hands. The babe's face and body were covered in grease and blood. Swiftly Bison tied the umbilical cord, then cut it. Then he wiped the child's nostrils and mouth, clearing its airways. The babe's tiny arm moved, then it drew in its first breath.

  A thin wail sounded into the forest.

  Bison heard the sound of running feet outside the roof­less tent. 'Stay back!' he yelled. He swung to Pharis. 'Get some fresh water.' Moving forward on his knees he laid the babe on Axiana's breast. Her arms went around it. Pharis was staring open mouthed at the tiny, wrinkled creature in the queen's arms. 'Get water, girl,' said Bison. 'You'll have plenty of time to gawp later.'

  Pharis scrambled up and ran from the tent.

  Axiana smiled at Bison. Then she began to sob. The old man kissed her brow. 'You did well,' he said, gruffly.

  'So did you,' said Ulmenetha, from behind him.

  Bison sucked in a deep breath and released his hold on the queen. Glancing up at the priestess he forced a grin. 'Well, if you really want to thank me . . .' he began.

  Ulmenetha raised her hand to silence him. 'Do not spoil this moment, Bison,' she said, not unkindly. 'Go back to your friends. I will finish what you have done so well.' Bison sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He was tired now. Bone weary.

  He wanted to say something to the queen, something to show how much these last few hours had meant to him; how proud he was of her, and how he would never forget what had happened here. He wanted to say he was privileged to have attended her.

  But Ulmenetha had moved past him, and the queen was lying back with her eyes closed, her arms holding the infant king.

  Bison walked silently from the tent.

  Bakilas sat in the starlight, his pale body naked, the water burns on his ankles and feet healing slowly, the blisters fading. His three companions were sitting close by. Drasko's burns were more severe, but the bleeding had stopped. His horse had fallen as they forded the river, and only swift work by Lekor and Mandrak had saved him. They had hauled him clear, but the river water had penetrated the black armour, and was scorch­ing the skin of his chest, belly and arms. Drasko's mood was not good as he sat with the group.

  Pelicor's physical death, and return to the Great Void, had been amusing. The warrior had always been stupid and Bakilas had never felt any kinship with him. But the destruction of Nemor upon the bridge had cast a pall over the company. They had watched the huge old man charge the mounted warrior, and had felt their brother's terror as
he fell through the flames and plummeted into the raging river. They had experienced the pain of his burns as the acid water ate away his skin and dissolved his flesh and bones.

  Even with the probable success of Anharat's Great Spell bringing the Illohir back to the earth, it would still take hundreds of years for Pelicor and Nemor to build the psychic energy necessary to take form once more. Two of his brothers had become Windborn, and the enemy remained untouched. It was most galling.

  Yet, at least, they now knew the source of the magick hurled against them. The blond-haired child. This, in itself, led to other questions. How could a child of such tender years master the power of halignat?

  'What do we do now, brother?' asked Drasko.

  'Do?' countered Bakilas. 'Nothing has changed. We find the child and return it to Anharat.'

  Drasko idly rubbed at the healing wound on his shoulder. 'With respect, I disagree. We are all warriors here, and in battle can face any ten humans. But this is not a battle. Two of our number have returned to the Other Place, their forms lost to them. And we are no closer to completing our mission.'

  'They will have to fight us,' said Bakilas. 'They cannot run for ever. And once we face them they will die.'

  'I am not so sure,' said Mandrak. 'They may be old, but did you feel the power of their spirits? These men are warrior born. There is no give in them. Such men are dangerous.'

  Bakilas was surprised. 'You think they can stand against the Krayakin?'

  Mandrak shrugged. 'Ultimately? Of course not. But we are not invincible, brother. Others of us may lose our forms before this mission is done.'

  Bakilas considered his words, then turned to the fourth of the group. 'What do you say, Lekor?'

  The thin-faced warrior looked up. 'I agree with Mandrak,' he said, his voice deep as distant thunder. 'I too saw the spirits at the bridge. These men will not die easily. They will choose their own battleground, and we have no choice but to follow them. Then there is the question of the sorcery. Who is the power behind the child?'