Winter Warriors Page 11

  'We might be able to avoid them,' offered Kebra. Nogusta took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet.

  'Maybe. I have had no fresh visions to tell me other­wise. But death is coming, Kebra. I can smell it.' Kebra did not reply. Nogusta was rarely wrong about these things.

  Starfire moved closer to the two men. His breathing was still ragged. Nogusta moved smoothly to his feet and stroked the gelding's long neck. 'Bison could be right,' said Kebra. 'Trying to escape pursuit upon a sick horse does not seem to make a great deal of sense.'

  'He has been poorly stabled,' said Nogusta. 'My father knew about these things. He always soaked the straw, and ensured the stables were clean. And Starfire has not been exercised.'

  'That's not my point,' said Kebra, softly.

  'I know, my friend. It is not sensible.' He grinned. 'But I would do it again.'

  Ulmenetha watched from the roof gardens as the army marched from the city. Four thousand Drenai foot soldiers, in ranks of threes, and three thousand Ventrian cavalry in columns of twos. Behind them were the wagons, bearing supplies, or dismantled siege engines and ballistae. Word had reached Usa that the Cadian army was on the march and Skanda was eager to meet them.

  The king had not bothered to visit Axiana, but had sent a farewell message via Kalizkan. Ulmenetha had avoided the wizard, keeping to her rooms until he had gone. Now she stood high above the cheering crowds as Skanda rode from the city. The populace were scattering rose petals before his horse, and he was waving and smiling.

  Amazing, thought Ulmenetha. A few years ago he had been an invading foreigner, feared by all. Now, despite the endless battles and the destruction of empire, he was a hero to them. He was a god.

  She wondered idly whether it would have been differ­ent had he been ugly. Could a man with an ugly face command such devotion? Probably not. But then Skanda was not ugly. He was handsome and tall, golden haired, with a winning smile and enormous charm. We are so stupid sometimes, she decided. Last year Skanda had donated 10,000 raq to the city orphanage - one hundredth of the amount he spent on his wars. Yet the people loved him for it. It was the talk of the city. In the same month a respected holy man had been accused of trying to seduce a young priestess. He was savagely condemned and banished from Usa. This also was the talk of the city. Such extremes, thought Ulmenetha. All the holy man's life work was dust following one mis­guided action. People scorned him. Yet the greatest killer in the empire could win love by giving away a tiny portion of the money he had plundered from the city treasury.

  Ulmenetha sighed. Who could understand it?

  As the last of the soldiers left the city she wandered back through the upper levels of the palace, and down to the long kitchens. Servants were sitting around with little to do and Ulmenetha helped herself to a second breakfast of cheese and eggs, followed by bread and a rich red strawberry preserve.

  While eating she listened to the chatter among the servants. They were talking about a young Drenai officer who had gone insane, and stabbed to death a Ventrian official and an officer from the staff of Antikas Karios. Soldiers were scouring the city for him. Others had ridden south to see if he had tried to join the men march­ing home with the White Wolf. Returning to the upper levels she sought out Axiana. The queen was sitting on her balcony, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her face from the spring sunlight. 'How are you feeling today?' asked Ulmenetha.

  'I am well,' answered Axiana. 'Kalizkan wants me to move into his home. He wishes to be close when the boy is born.'

  Ulmenetha felt a sudden chill in her heart. 'What answer did you give him?' she asked.

  'I said I would think on it. Did you hear about Dagorian?'

  'Dagorian?'

  'The handsome young officer who always stares at me. I told you about him.'

  'I remember. What has he done?'

  'They say he went mad and killed some people. I find it hard to believe. He has such gentle eyes.'

  'Looks can be deceptive,' said Ulmenetha.

  'I suppose so. I have been to Kalizkan's house. It is very comfortable. He has wonderful gardens. And he is so amusing. You like him too, don't you?'

  'I have always enjoyed his company,' admitted Ulmenetha. 'But I think you should stay here.'

  'Why?' asked Axiana, looking up. Ulmenetha was at a loss to explain her remark. She was not even tempted to tell the queen of what she had seen on the roof garden.

  'His house is overrun by shrieking children,' she said, finally, 'and most of his servants are male. I think you would be more at your ease here.' She saw Axiana's expression harden. 'But it is your decision, my lady. Whatever you think best.'

  Axiana relaxed and smiled. 'You are probably right. I shall consider your advice. Will you do something for me?'

  'Of course.'

  'Find out what happened with Dagorian.'

  'It may be too gruesome,' argued Ulmenetha.

  'Even so.'

  'I shall do it immediately,' said Ulmenetha.

  With Antikas Karios and his staff gone from the city Ulmenetha walked the two miles to the offices of the Militia who were seeking the renegade officer. There a thin cleric, with deep-set eyes, told her of the murder of Zani. She asked what investigation the two men were working on, and was told it involved a series of murders. She pressed for further details.

  'What is your interest here, lady?' asked the cleric, suspiciously.

  'I am the queen's midwife, and she herself asked me to ascertain the facts. The young officer is known to her.'

  'I see.' The man's expression changed instantly, and he gave an oily smile. 'Can I fetch you a chair?'

  'No, I am fine. You were about to tell me the details of their investigation.'

  He leaned forward across the broad counter that separated them. 'The papers relating to their case are no longer here, lady,' he said, lowering his voice. 'They were transferred to the offices of Antikas Karios. But I can tell you that the investigation involved the killing of mystics. I spoke to Zani about it myself. He was convinced there was more to the murders than was immediately apparent.'

  'I see. And where was Zani killed?'

  He gave her the address of the tavern, and once more Ulmenetha trekked across the city. It was noon before she reached the tavern, which was already full. Easing her way through the throng she sought out the innkeeper, but was told that he was visiting his family to the west of the city. Further inquiries were useless in the noise and the hustle. She found a seat at the back of the tavern, and ordered a lunch of roast chicken, followed by several pieces of freshly baked fruit pie and cream. Then she sat quietly, waiting for the midday rush to ease. She stayed in the tavern for almost two hours, and when the crowd dissipated she summoned a serving maid.

  'Were you here when the murders took place?' she asked. The girl shook her head.

  'Did you want more food?' she enquired.

  'Yes. Another slice of pie. Were any of the serving maids here that night?'

  'Yes. Dilian.'

  'Is she here today?'

  'No. She went away with Pavik.'

  'Pavik?'

  'The tavern keeper,' answered the girl, moving away.

  Moments later a thick set woman in her early fifties strode to where Ulmenetha sat. 'Why are you pestering my staff?' she asked, belligerently, her large arms folded across her ample bosom. 'And why should you be interested in the whereabouts of my husband?'

  'I am investigating the murders,' said Ulmenetha. The woman gave a scornful laugh.

  'Oh, I see. Now the army has gone the city police have turned power over to you, eh? Is that right, you fat cow?'

  Ulmenetha gave a sweet smile. 'Perhaps you would prefer to answer my questions in the city dungeon, you raddled slut. One more foul word from you and I shall send the Watch to arrest you.' Ulmenetha spoke the threat softly, and with quiet confidence, and the power of the words lanced through the woman's bluster.

  'Who are you?' she asked, licking her lips.

  'Sit down,' ordered Ul
menetha. The woman sank to the seat opposite.

  'I have been sent here by someone in a very high place - someone who could cause you great harm. Now tell me all you know of the killings.'

  'I wasn't here. My husband saw it all.'

  'What did he tell you?'

  This is not fair,' whined the woman. 'We've been told what to say. And we've said it. We've done our duty, Pavik and me. We don't want to be involved in . . . in politics.'

  'Who told you what to say?'

  'Someone in a very high place who could do me con­siderable harm,' spat the woman, regaining some of her courage.

  Ulmenetha nodded. 'I understand your fear,' she said. 'And you are quite right in your desire to avoid becom­ing enmeshed in the intrigues of the nobility. But you have already told me much.'

  'I've told you nothing.'

  Ulmenetha looked into the woman's frightened eyes. 'You have told me that your husband lied about the murders. Therefore I must assume that the officer, Dagorian, did not commit them. This means that you have accused an innocent man of a crime. Whatever the intrigue you are now facing the death penalty.'

  'No! Pavik told the truth to the first man. Absolutely the truth. Then this other man came and made him change his story. Then he told Pavik to leave the city for a few days.'

  'This other man has a name?'

  'Who are you?'

  'I dwell at the palace,' said Ulmenetha, softly. 'Now, give me the name.'

  'Antikas Karios,' whispered the woman.

  'What really happened that night?'

  'The policeman, Zani, was murdered as he left the tavern. Then three men tried to kill the Drenai. He slew one, wounded another, and they fled. That's all I know. But please, for pity's sake, tell no-one I told you. Say you heard it from someone in the tavern that night. Will you do that?'

  'Indeed I will. You say your husband and the serving maid have left the city. Do you know where they went?'

  'No. Antikas Karios sent a carriage for them.'

  'I see. Thank you for your help.' Ulmenetha rose. The woman pushed herself to her feet and grabbed the priestess by the arm.

  'You won't say. You promise!'

  'I promise.'

  Ulmenetha left the tavern. She glanced back once to see the woman's fearful face at the window.

  She will never see her husband again, thought Ulmenetha.

  When Dagorian left the tavern that night he ran back to his rooms at the new barracks, changed his clothing, leaving his armour, breastplate and greaves behind, gathered what money he had saved and walked away into the city night.

  The death of Zani had been shocking enough, but to discover that the assassins had been sent by Antikas Karios was a bitter blow. Dagorian knew that his life was in far greater peril than he had feared. Antikas Karios had no reason to order him killed, and this meant that the order must have come from Malikada himself. And, as Banelion had pointed out, Dagorian did not have the power to withstand such an enemy.

  Worse, the whole poisonous business was undoubtedly linked to the deaths of the mystics, and the demons over Usa. It was therefore likely that he would be hunted on two fronts, on one side by swords, on the other by sorcery.

  Dagorian had never been more frightened. He had no plan, save to make his way to the oldest quarter of the city. Here he could hide among the multitudes of the poor and the dispossessed, the beggars and thieves, the whores and the urchins. It was the most densely populated quarter, with narrow streets and twisting lanes, dark alleyways and shadowed arches.

  It was close to midnight as Dagorian lay down in the doorway of an old warehouse. He was desperately tired and close to despair.

  A figure emerged from the moon shadows. Dagorian pushed himself to his feet, his hand on his knife hilt.

  In the moonlight he could see the man was not an assassin, but a beggar, dressed in rags. The man approached him cautiously. He was painfully thin, and his skeletal face was pitted with old sores. 'Spare a copper coin, sir, for an unfortunate victim of the war?'

  Dagorian relaxed and was about to reach into his money pouch, when the man sprang forward, a rusty knife in his hand. Dagorian swayed aside, blocking the knife arm and sending a right cross to the beggar's chin. The man fell heavily against the warehouse door, striking his head on the wooden frame. Dagorian wrestled the knife from his grasp, and flung it to one side. The man sank to his haunches.

  'Give me your clothes,' said the officer, removing his own cloak and shirt.

  The man blinked in the moonlight, and stared up at the Drenai with a look of incomprehension. 'Your clothes, man. I need them. In return you get this fine cloak.'

  Slowly the beggar peeled off his wretched coat and the soiled shirt he wore beneath it. 'And your footwear,' said Dagorian. 'You may keep your breeches. I think I'd rather hang than wear them.' The man's body was fish white in the moonlight, his chest and back criss-crossed with old scars - the marks of many whips.

  The officer donned the clothing and the coat, then sat down and pulled on the man's boots. They were of cheap hide, the soles as thin as paper.

  'You're the one they seek,' said the beggar, suddenly. 'The killer Drenai.'

  'The first part is right,' Dagorian told him.

  'You won't pass for a beggar. You're too clean. Well scrubbed. You need to lie low for a few days, let your hair get greasy, and get some dirt under your fingernails.'

  'A pleasant thought,' responded the Drenai. Yet he knew the man was right. He looked at the beggar, who had made no attempt to clothe himself, despite the chill of the night. He is waiting for me to kill him, thought Dagorian, suddenly. And that is what I should do. 'Get dressed and be on your way,' he said.

  'Not very bright, are you?' said the beggar, pulling on the fine blue woollen shirt, and giving a gap-toothed grin.

  'You'd prefer it if I slit your throat?'

  'It's not about preference, boy. It's about survival. Still, I'm grateful.' The beggar rose, and swung the black cloak around his thin shoulders. 'You'd better start thinking about a hiding place. If you can stay clear of them for a couple of days they'll believe you escaped from the city. Then you can make a move.'

  'I do not know the city,' admitted Dagorian.

  'Then good luck to you,' said the beggar. Holding the boots in his left hand he moved to where his knife lay and picked it up. Then he was gone.

  Dagorian moved away, ducking down a dark alley. The man was right. He needed a place to hide. But where could a man hide from the powers of sorcery?

  He felt the rising of panic, and quelled it. The White Wolf had taught him much, but the most valuable lesson was that, when in peril, keep a cool head. 'Think fast if you have to - but always think!' Dagorian sucked in a deep, calming breath, and leaned against a wall. Think! Where can the powers of sorcery be held at bay? In a holy temple. He considered travelling to one of the many churches, but that would mean asking for sanctuary. The building may be holy, but he would be putting his life in the hands of the monks. And - even if they did not betray him - he would be risking their lives. No, that was not an option. Where else then? At the home of a friendly sorcerer, who could place ward spells around him. But he knew no sorcerers - save Kalizkan.

  Then a thought struck him. The old woman who had been killed by her son. She had laid ward spells on all the doors of the inner room.

  Dagorian carried on walking, trying to get his bear­ings. The old woman had lived in the northern section of the old quarter. He glanced at the sky, but there were thick clouds and he could see no stars. He walked on for an hour. Twice he saw soldiers of the Watch, and ducked into the shadows.

  At last he reached the woman's house. Moving to the rear he scaled a wall and entered the building. There were no windows in the back room and Dagorian lit a lantern. Blood still stained the walls, and the rune stones remained scattered on the table. He glanced at the two doors. Both bore the carved triangle and the snake.

  Hoping that the ward spells were still active he blew out the lante
rn and moved to a narrow bed in the corner.

  Sleep came instantly.

  He was sitting in a cave, and a fire was burning. He felt hot and confused. 'Be calm, child,' came a familiar voice. He tried to place it, and remembered the shining figure who had rescued him at the wizard's house.

  'What am I doing here?' he asked, sitting up and look­ing around. The cave was empty, and when the voice spoke again, he realized it was coming from the blazing fire.

  'You are not here. There is no here. This is a place of spirit. Your body lies in the woman's hovel. It was a good choice. They will not find you.'

  'Why do you not show yourself?'

  'All in good time, child. Have you put together the clues? Do you even begin to understand what is happen­ing?'

  'No. All I know is that Malikada wishes me dead.'

  'Malikada cares nothing for you, Dagorian. You are an incidental in a great design. Kalizkan - or the creature that calls itself Kalizkan - is a Demon Lord, of enormous power. He seeks to cast the Spell of the Three Kings. If he succeeds the world will be changed beyond the recog­nition of man. It will become as it once was. The demons will be flesh once more, and the two worlds will become one.'

  Dagorian raised his hand. 'Stop for a moment. This is making my head spin. The two worlds? What is the meaning?'

  'Aeons ago the creatures we call demons lived among us. Shape-Shifters, blood-drinkers, were beings. We were at war with them for a thousand years. Then three kings came together, and with the aid of a mighty wizard they changed the world, banishing the demons to another place, a grey realm of spirit. Sorcerers can still summon demons using blood magic, opening the gateways for fleeting heartbeats. But when the spell is done the demons return to the grey. Kalizkan seeks to repeat the Spell of the Three Kings.'

  'And he can do this?'

  'It has already begun, child. The Ventrian emperor was the first to be sacrificed. But the spell requires three deaths, each of kings, and each king to be mightier than the last. When the final death blow is delivered the world will be cursed as it was in time past. The drinkers of blood will return.'

  'Three kings? Then they will try to kill Skanda. I must get to him.'