Winter Warriors Page 4

  'Kill him,' said Banelion. 'And do it swiftly. My break­fast is waiting.'

  Both men removed their armour and upper clothing and strode out bare-chested into the centre of the barracks ground. Nogusta lifted his sword in salute. Cerez attacked immediately, sending out a lightning thrust. Nogusta parried it with ease. 'That was discourteous,' whispered Nogusta, 'but I will still kill you cleanly.'

  Their blades clashed as Cerez charged forward, his curved sword flashing with bewildering speed. But every thrust or cut was parried by the black man. Cerez dropped back. Dagorian watched the contest closely. The Ventrian was younger by thirty years, and he was fast. But there was not an ounce of fat on Nogusta's powerful frame, and his vast experience enabled him to read his opponent's moves. Dagorian flicked a glance at Antikas Karios. The champion's dark, hooded eyes missed nothing, and he leaned in to whisper something to Malikada.

  The two warriors were circling one another now, seek­ing an opening. The action had been fast, and the black man, though skilful, was visibly tiring. Cerez almost caught him with a sudden riposte, the blade slashing close to Nogusta's cheek. Suddenly Nogusta appeared to stumble. Cerez lunged - and in that moment realized he had been tricked! Nimbly spinning on his heel, all signs of fatigue vanished, Nogusta swayed away from the blade, his own sword slicing through his opponent's golden beard and biting deep into his throat. Cerez stumbled forward, falling to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. Dropping his sword he tried to stem the rush of life from his severed jugular. Slowly he toppled forward, twitched once, then was still. Nogusta strode back across the barrack-square and bowed to the White Wolf. 'As you commanded, Lord, so was it done.'

  Ignoring the furious Malikada the White Wolf rose. 'The prisoner is not guilty,' he said, his voice clear and firm. 'And since this is my last moment among you all, let me thank you for the service you have given the king, while under my command. Those among you chosen to retire will find me camped on the flat ground to the west of the city. We will be ready for departure in four days. That is all. Dismissed!'

  As he stepped from the dais Malikada moved in close. 'You have made an enemy this day,' he whispered. The White Wolf paused, then met the prince's hawk-eyed gaze.

  'An infinitely better prospect than having you for a friend,' he said.

  The king's birthday was always celebrated with extrava­gant displays; athletics competitions, boxing matches, horse races, and demonstrations of magic to thrill the crowds. Spear-throwing, archery, sword bouts, and wrestling were also included, with huge prizes for the winners in all events. This year promised even greater extravagances, for it was the king's thirty-fifth birthday, a number of great mystical significance to Drenai and Ventrian alike. And the event was to take place in the Royal Park at the centre of Usa, the ancient capital of the old Ventrian Empire. The city was older than time, and mentioned in the earliest known historical records. In myth it had been a home for gods, one of whom was said to have raised the royal palace in a single night, lift­ing mammoth stones into place with the power of his will.

  Hundreds of huge tents had been pitched in the meadows at the centre of the thousand-acre Royal Park, and scores of carpenters had been working for weeks building tiered seating for the nobility.

  The tall towers of the city were silhouetted against the eastern mountains as Kebra the Bowman leaned on a new fence and stared sombrely out towards where the archery tourney would be held. 'You should have entered,' said Nogusta, passing the bowman a thick wedge of hot pie.

  'To what purpose,' answered Kebra, sourly, placing the food on the fence rail and ignoring it.

  'You are the champion,' said Nogusta. 'It is your title they will be shooting for.'

  Kebra said nothing for a moment, transferring his gaze to the snow-topped peaks away to the west. He had first seen these mountains a year ago, when Skanda the king, having won the Battle of the River, had ridden into Usa to take the emperor's throne. Cold winds blew down now from these grey giants and Kebra shivered and drew his pale blue cloak closer about his slender frame. 'My eyes are fading. I could not win.'

  'No, but you could have taken part.' The words hung in the cold air. A team of thirty workers moved to the king's pavilion and began to raise wind-shields of stiffened crimson silk around it. Kebra had seen the pavilion constructed on many occasions, and recalled, with a stab of regret, the last time he had stood before it, receiving the Silver Arrow from the hand of the king himself. Skanda had given his boyish grin. 'Does winning ever get boring, old lad?' he had asked.

  'No, sire,' he had answered. Turning to the crowd he had raised the Silver Arrow, and the cheers had thundered out. Kebra shivered again. He looked up into the black man's pale, unreadable eyes. 'I would be humiliated. Is that what you want to see?'

  Nogusta shook his head. 'You would not be humiliated, my friend. You would merely lose.'

  Kebra gave a tired smile. 'If I had entered most of the Drenai soldiers would have bet on me. They would lose their money.'

  'That would be a good reason to decline,' agreed Nogusta. 'If it were truly the reason.'

  'What is it you want from me?' stormed Kebra. 'You think there is a question of honour at stake here?'

  'No, not honour. Pride. False pride, at that. Without losers, Kebra, there would be no competitions at all. There will be more than a hundred archers taking part in the tourney. Only one will win. Of the ninety-nine losers more than half will know they cannot win before they draw the first shaft. Yet still they will try. You say your eyes are fading. I know that is true. But it is distance that troubles you. Two of the three events require speed, skill and talent. Only the third is shot over distance. You would still be in the top ten.'

  Kebra stalked away from the fence. Nogusta followed him. 'When the day comes that you don't wish to hear the truth from me,' he said, 'you merely have to say.'

  The bowman paused and sighed. 'What is the truth here, Nogusta?'

  The black man leaned in close. 'You demean the championship by refusing to take part. The new cham­pion will feel he has not earned the title. In part, I fear, this is why you have declined.'

  'And what if it is? He will still earn a hundred gold pieces. He will still be honoured by the king, and carried shoulder high around the Park.'

  'But he will not have beaten the legendary Kebra. I seem to recall your delight fifteen years ago when you took the Silver Arrow from the hands of Menion. He was as old as you are now when he stood against you in the final. And you beat him finally only when it came to the distant targets. Could it be that his eyes were fading?'

  Bison strolled over to where they stood. 'Going to be a great day,' he said, wiping crumbs from his white moustache. 'The Ventrian sorcerer, Kalizkan, has promised a display no-one will ever forget. I hope he conjures a dragon. I've always wanted to see a dragon.' The bald giant looked from one man to the other. 'What is it? What am I missing here?'

  'Nothing,' said Nogusta. 'We were just involved in a philosophical debate.'

  'I hate those,' said Bison. 'I never understand a word. Glad I missed it. By the way I've entered the wrestling. I hope you two will be cheering for me.'

  Nogusta chuckled. 'Is that big tribesman taking part this year?'

  'Of course.'

  'He must have thrown you ten feet last year. It was only luck that you landed head first, and thereby avoided injury.'

  Bison scowled. 'He caught me by surprise. I'll take him this year - if we're matched.'

  'How many times have you entered this competition?' asked Kebra.

  'I don't know. Almost every year. Thirty times, maybe.'

  'You think you'll win this time?'

  'Of course I'll win. I've never been stronger.'

  Nogusta laid his hand on Bison's massive shoulder. 'It doesn't concern you that you've said the same thing for more than thirty years? And yet you've never even reached the quarter-finals.'

  'Why should it?' asked Bison. 'Anyway, I did reach the quarters once, didn't I? It was during
the Skathian campaign. I was beaten by Coris.' He grinned. 'You remember him? Big, blond fellow. Died at the siege of Mellicane.'

  'You are quite right,' said Nogusta. 'Coris was beaten in the semifinal. I remember losing money on him.'

  'I've never lost money on the king's birthday,' said Bison, happily. 'I always bet on you, Kebra.' His smile faded and he swore. 'This will be the last year when you pay off all my winter debts.'

  'Not this year, my friend,' said Kebra. 'I'm not entered.'

  'I thought you might forget,' said Bison, 'so I entered you myself.'

  'Tell me you are joking,' said Kebra, his voice cold.

  'I never joke about my debts. Shouldn't you be out there practising?'

  The crowds were beginning to gather as Dagorian strolled out onto the meadow. He was uncomfortable in full armour, the gilded black and gold breastplate hang­ing heavy on his slim shoulders. Still, he thought, at least I don't have to wear the heavy plumed helm. The cheek guards chafed his face and, despite the padded cap he wore below it, the helm did not sit right. Once when the king called out to him Dagorian had turned sharply and the helm had swivelled on his head, the left cheek guard sliding over his left eye. Everyone had laughed. Dagorian had never wanted to be a soldier, but when your father was a hero general - and, worse, a dead hero general -the son was left with little choice.

  And he had been lucky. The White Wolf had taken him on to his staff, and spent time teaching the youngster tactics and logistics. While Dagorian did not enjoy soldiering he had discovered he had a talent for it, and that made a life of campaigning at least marginally tolerable.

  The preparations for the king's birthday were com­plete now, and within the hour the crowds would begin to surge through the gates. The sky was clear, the new day less cold than yesterday. Spring was coming. Only in the evenings now did the temperature drop below freez­ing. Dagorian saw the three old warriors talking by the fence rail. He strolled across to where they stood. As he approached, Kebra the Bowman strode away. He looks angry, thought Dagorian. The black swordsman saw Dagorian approach and gave a salute.

  'Good morning to you, Nogusta,' said the officer. 'You fought well yesterday.'

  'He does that,' said Bison, with a wide, gap-toothed grin. 'You're the son of Catoris, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good man,' said Bison. 'You could always rely on the Third Lancers when he was in command. He was a hard bastard, though. Ten lashes I got when I didn't salute fast enough. Still, that's the nobility for you.' He swung to Nogusta. 'You want more pie?' The black man shook his head and Bison ambled away towards one of the food tents.

  Dagorian grinned. 'Did he just praise my father, or insult him?' he asked.

  'A little of both,' said Nogusta.

  'An unusual man.'

  'Bison or your father?'

  'Bison. Are you entered in any of the tournaments?'

  'No,' said the black man.

  'Why not? You are a superb swordsman.'

  'I don't play games with swords. And you?'

  'Yes,' answered Dagorian. 'In the sabre tourney.'

  'You will face Antikas Karios in the final.'

  Dagorian looked surprised. 'How can you know that?'

  Nogusta lifted his hand and touched the centre of his brow. 'I have the Third Eye,' he said.

  'And what is that?'

  The black man smiled. 'It is a Gift - or perhaps a curse - I was born with.'

  'Do I win or lose?'

  'The Gift is not that precise,' Nogusta told him, with a smile. 'It strikes like lightning, leaving an image. I can neither predict nor direct it. It comes or it. . .' His smile faded, and his expression hardened. Dagorian looked closely at the man. It seemed he was no longer aware of the officer's presence. Then he sighed. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'I was momentarily dis­tracted.'

  'You saw another vision?' asked Dagorian.

  'Yes.'

  'Did it concern the sabre tourney?'

  'No, it did not. I am sure you will acquit yourself well. Tell me how is the White Wolf?' he asked, suddenly.

  'He is well, and preparing plans for the return home. Why do you ask?'

  'Malikada will try to kill him.' The words were spoken softly, but with great authority. The black man was not venturing an opinion, but stating a fact.

  'This is what you saw?'

  'I need no mystic talent to make that prediction.'

  'Then I think you are wrong,' said Dagorian. 'Malikada is the king's general now. Banelion does not stand in his way. Indeed he will be going home in three days, to retire.'

  'Even so his life is in danger.'

  'Perhaps you should speak to the general about this?' said Dagorian, stiffly.

  Nogusta shrugged. There is no need. He knows it as well as I. Cerez was Malikada's favourite. He believed him to be almost invincible. Yesterday he learned a hard lesson. He will want revenge.'

  'If that is true will he not seek revenge against you also?'

  'Indeed he will,' agreed Nogusta.

  'You seem remarkably unperturbed by the prospect.'

  'Appearances can be deceiving,' Nogusta told him.

  As the morning wore on Nogusta's words continued to haunt the young officer. They had been spoken with such quiet certainty that the more Dagorian thought of them, the more convinced he became of the truth they contained. Malikada was not known as a forgiving man. There were many stories among the Drenai officers con­cerning the Ventrian prince and his methods. One story had it that Malikada once beat a servant to death for ruining one of his shirts. As far as Dagorian knew there was no evidence to support the tale, but it highlighted the popular view of Malikada.

  Such a man would indeed nurse a grudge against Banelion.

  With at least another two hours before the start of his duties Dagorian decided to seek out the general. He loved the old man in a way he had never learned to love his own father. Often he had tried to work out why, but the answer escaped him. Both were hard, cold men, addicted to war and the methods of war. And yet with

  Banelion he could relax, finding words easy and conver­sation smooth. With his father his throat would tighten, his brain melt. Clear and concise thoughts would travel from his mind to his mouth, appearing to become drunken on the way, spilling out - at least to himself - as stuttering gibberish.

  'Spit it out, boy!' Catoris would yell, and the words would dry up, and Dagorian would stand very still, feel­ing very foolish.

  In all his life he could only recall one moment when his father had shown him affection. And that was after the duel. A nobleman named Rogun had challenged Dagorian. It was all so stupid. A young woman had smiled at him, and he had returned the compliment. The man with her stormed across the street. He slapped Dagorian across the face, and issued a challenge.

  They had met on the cavalry parade-ground at dawn the following day. Catoris had been present. He watched the fight without expression, but when Dagorian delivered the killing stroke he ran forward and embraced him clumsily. He remembered the incident now with regret, for instead of returning the embrace he had angrily pulled clear and hurled his sword aside. 'It was all so stupid!' he stormed. 'He made me kill him for a smile.'

  'It was a duel of honour,' said his father, lamely. 'You should be proud.'

  'I am sick to my stomach,' said Dagorian.

  The following day he had entered the monastery at Corteswain, and pledged his life to the Source.

  When his father died at Mellicane, leading a charge that saved the king's life, Dagorian had known enormous grief. He did not doubt that his father loved him, nor indeed that he loved his father. But - apart from that one embrace - the two of them had never been able to show their affection for one another.

  Shaking off the memories Dagorian approached the gates, and saw the crowds waiting patiently outside. They parted and cheered as the Ventrian sorcerer, Kalizkan, made his entrance. Tall and dignified, wearing robes of silver satin, edged with golden thread, the silver-bearded Kalizkan smi
led and waved, stopping here and there to speak to people in the throng. Six young children stayed close by him, holding to the tassels of his belt. He halted before a young woman, with two children. She was wearing the black sash of the recently widowed, and the children looked thin and under­nourished. Kalizkan leaned in close to her, and lifted his hand towards the cheap tin brooch she wore upon her ragged dress. 'A pretty piece,' he said, 'but for a lady so sad it ought to be gold.' Light danced from his fingers, and the brooch gleamed in the sunlight. Where it had sat close to the dress the sheer weight of the new gold made it hang down. The woman fell to her knees and kissed Kalizkan's robes. Dagorian smiled. Such deeds as this had made the sorcerer popular with the people. He had also turned his vast home into an orphanage in the northern quarter and spent much of his free time touring the slum areas, bringing deserted children to his house.

  Dagorian had met him only once - a brief introduction at the palace, with twenty other new officers. But he liked the man instinctively. The sorcerer gave a last wave to the crowd and led his children into the park. Dagorian bowed as he approached.

  'Good morning to you, young Dagorian,' said Kalizkan, his voice curiously high pitched. 'A fine day, and not too cold.'

  The officer was surprised that Kalizkan had remembered his name. 'Indeed, sir. I am told you have prepared a wondrous exhibition for the king.'

  'Modesty forbids me to boast, Dagorian,' said Kalizkan, with a mischievous grin. 'But my little friends and I will certainly attempt something special. Isn't that right?' he said, kneeling down and ruffling the blond hair of a small boy.

  'Yes, uncle. We will make the king very happy,' said the child.

  Kalizkan pushed himself to his feet and smoothed down his silver satin robes. They matched the colour of his long thin beard, and highlighted the summer sky blue of his eyes. 'Well, come along, my children,' he said. With a wave to Dagorian the tall sorcerer strode on.

  Dagorian moved out through the gates, and along the highway to where the horses of the officers were stabled. Saddling his chestnut gelding he rode out to where the White Wolf was camped, west of the city walls. The camp itself was largely deserted, since most of the men would be at the celebrations, but there was a handful of sentries, two of whom were standing outside Banelion's large, black tent. Dagorian dismounted and approached the men.