Winter Warriors Page 6

  'Yes.'

  After some minutes Bison stirred. He tried to open his eyes, but one was swollen shut. 'I guess I didn't win,' he mumbled.

  'I guess you didn't,' agreed Nogusta. Bison smiled.

  'Still, I earned some money,' he said. 'I only bet myself to make the semis. Ten to one they offered.'

  'It'll cost you what you won to have your face mended,' Nogusta told him.

  'Nonsense. You can stitch the cuts. They'll be fine. I'm a fast healer.' He sat up. 'I should have entered the box­ing,' he said. 'I would have won that.'

  The two men helped him to his feet. 'Let's go see Kebra win,' said Bison.

  'I think you should have another nap,' advised Nogusta.

  'Nonsense. I feel strong as an ox.'

  As they were about to move off Kyaps strolled across to where they stood. He was a full head taller than Bison. 'Hey, old man,' he said. 'The next time you see me you kiss my boots. Understand?'

  Bison chuckled with genuine humour. 'You have a big mouth, child,' he told him.

  Kyaps leaned forward. 'Big enough to swallow you, you Drenai scum!'

  'Well,' said Bison, 'swallow this.' His fist smashed into Kyaps' chin, and Dagorian winced as he heard the snapping of bone. The Ventrian champion hit the grass face first and did not move. 'See,' said Bison. 'I should have entered the boxing. I'd have won that.'

  Chapter Three

  Kebra the bowman was relaxed, his mind focused, his emotions suppressed, all thoughts of Bison's actions for­gotten. Anger would not be an ally now. Archery required calm concentration and great timing.

  He had entered the tourney in the fifth stage with only twenty archers left. The target, thirty paces away, was a straw man, with a round red heart pinned to the chest. Kebra had struck the heart ten times with ten shafts, giving him 100 points. The Ventrian bowman standing to his right had hit nine, and two other men had seven.

  These four alone moved on to the sixth stage.

  The crowd among the competitors was swelling now, and once again Kebra could feel the old excitement coursing through him. He had watched the other three competitors, and only the stocky Ventrian posed any real danger. But the man was being unsettled by the mainly Drenai crowd, who jeered and shouted as he took aim.

  The next event was one of Kebra's favourites. He had always enjoyed the Horse, for it was the closest the tourney could offer to combat shooting. Led by running soldiers four ponies bearing figures of straw tied to the saddle, would pass before the bowmen. Each archer was allowed three shafts. There was a larger element of luck in this event, as the horses would swerve, causing the straw figures to sway in the saddle. But the crowd loved it. And so did the Drenai champion.

  Kebra stood waiting, one shaft notched to the string, two others stuck in the ground before him. He glanced at the four ostlers, watching them eke out the guide ropes. A trumpet sounded. The men ran forward, exhorting the ponies to follow them. Three obeyed immediately, the fourth hanging back. Kebra drew back on the string, sighting carefully, allowing for the speed of the first horse. He loosed the shaft. Without waiting to see it strike home he ducked down and notched a second arrow. Coming up smoothly he shot again at the second target. An angry roar went up from the crowd. Kebra ignored the impulse to see what had caused it and brought his bow to bear. The last pony, an arrow jutting from its flank had reared up and was fighting the rope. It broke loose and galloped towards the king's pavilion. Kebra loosed his last shaft, and watched as it arced towards the panic-stricken pony. The arrow punched home in the back of the straw man.

  Angry jeers turned to a roar of applause at the strike. Several men ran out onto the meadow and gathered the wounded pony, which was led away. The man whose arrow caused the wound was disqualified.

  Only then did Kebra have a chance to check his score. All three shafts had scored. Another thirty points.

  The Ventrian archer, a small, chubby man, turned to him. 'It is an honour to see you shoot,' he said. He held out his hand. 'I am Dirais.' Kebra accepted the hand­shake. He glanced at the scoreboard, held aloft by a young cadet. The Ventrian was ten points behind him. The other archer, a slim, young Drenai, was a further twenty points adrift.

  A dozen soldiers moved out onto the meadow, dragging a wheeled, triangular scaffold, 2.0 feet high, across the grass. As they were setting it into place Kebra saw the king and Malikada striding out from the pavilion, coming towards them.

  Skanda gave a wide grin and clapped Kebra on the shoulder. 'Good to see you, old lad,' he said. 'That last shot reminded me of the day you saved my life. A fine strike.'

  'Thank you, sire,' said Kebra, with a bow. Malikada stepped forward.

  'Your legend is not exaggerated,' he said. 'Rarely have I seen better bowmanship.' Kebra bowed again. Skanda shook the young Ventrian's hand.

  'You are competing with the finest,' he told Dirais. 'And you are acquitting yourself well. Good luck to you.' Dirais gave a deep bow.

  Malikada leaned in close to the Ventrian. 'Win,' he said. 'Make me proud.'

  The king and his general moved back and the last three archers faced the Hanging Man.

  A figure of straw was hung from the scaffold. A soldier dragged the figure back, then released it to swing like a pendulum between the supports. The young Drenai stepped up first. His first shaft struck the straw man dead centre, but his second hit a support pole and glanced away. His third missed the Hanging Man by a whisker.

  Next came Dirais, and the Hanging Man was swung back once more. It seemed to Kebra that it was given an extra push by the Drenai soldiers, and was moving at greater speed. And the Drenai soldiers in the crowd began again to jeer and shout in an effort to unsettle the Ventrian. Even so the chubby archer hammered his first two shafts into the dummy. His third also struck a support pole.

  Kebra stepped up. The figure was swung again, this time more sedately. For the first time anger flared in the bowman. He did not need this advantage. Even so he did not complain, and, calming himself, sent three arrows into the target. The applause was thunderous. He glanced towards Dirais, and saw the fury in the man's dark eyes. It was bad enough for him to be facing the Drenai champion without such partisan efforts from the officials.

  The young Drenai archer was eliminated, and now came the final test. Two targets were set up thirty paces distant. They were the traditional round targets, with a series of concentric circles, each of a different colour, surrounding a gold circle at the centre. The outer rim was white, and worth two points. Within this was blue, worth five, then silver worth seven, and lastly gold for ten.

  Kebra shot first, and struck gold. Dirais equalled him. The targets were moved back ten paces. This time Kebra only managed blue. Dirais, despite the increased jeering struck gold once more.

  With only two shafts left Kebra was leading by 175 points to 160. Keep calm, he told himself. The targets were lifted and carried back another ten paces. The colours were a distant blur to Kebra now. He squinted hard and drew back on the string. The crowd was silent. He loosed, the shaft arcing gracefully through the air to thud home into the white. There were no cheers from the crowd now. Dirais took aim and struck gold once more - 177 points to 170, with only one shaft left.

  The targets were moved back again. Kebra could only dimly make out the outline. He rubbed his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath he took aim at the target he could barely see - and let fly! He did not know where the shaft landed, but heard one of the judges shout: 'White!' He was relieved to have hit the target at all - 179 points to 170.

  Dirais would need gold to win. Kebra stepped back. The crowd were shouting now at the top of their voices.

  Please miss, thought Kebra, wanting the championship more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. His chest felt tight and heavy, and his breathing was shallow. He glanced at the crowd, and saw Nogusta. Kebra tried to force a smile, but it was more like a death's head grin.

  Dirais stood up to the mark, and drew back on the string. He stood, rock steady. Kebra's hear
t was pound­ing now. What were the odds on a man striking three golds in a row? A minor fluctuation in the breeze, a slight imperfection in the shaft or the flights. The gold was no bigger than a man's fist, and the distance was great: sixty paces. During his best days Kebra would have hit only four in five at this distance. And this Ventrian was not as skilled as I once was, he thought. What, three in five? Two in five? Sweet Heaven, just miss!

  Just as Dirais was about to loose his final shaft a white dove flew up out of the crowd in a frantic flurry. His concentration momentarily lost he shot too quickly, his arrow punching home into silver. Kebra had won.

  Strangely there was no joy. The crowd was cheering wildly but Kebra looked at Nogusta. The black man was standing very still. Dirais turned away, offering no con­gratulation. Kebra took him by the arm. 'Wait!' he commanded him.

  'For what?' asked the Ventrian.

  'I want you to shoot again.' Dirais looked puzzled, but Kebra drew him to the line.

  'What is happening here?' asked one of the judges.

  'Someone released that dove deliberately,' said Kebra. 'I have asked Dirais to shoot again.'

  'You cannot ask this,' said the judge. 'The last shaft has been fired.' The king moved through the crowd, and the judge explained what had happened. Skanda approached Kebra.

  'Are you sure this is what you want?' he asked, his good humour vanished, his face hard and cold. 'It makes no sense.'

  'I have been champion for fifteen years, sire. I have beaten every man who stood beside me at the line. I beat them with skill. The jeering was unpleasant, but a true champion rises above that. The dove, however, is a different matter. Such a sharp and flurried movement would have unsettled anyone. It was a deliberate act to sabotage the man's chances. And it succeeded. I ask you, sire, to let him shoot again.'

  Suddenly Skanda grinned, and for a moment he looked like the boy-king again. 'Then let it be so,' he said.

  The king climbed to a fence rail and stood above the crowd. 'The champion has requested that his opponent be allowed to shoot one more arrow,' he bellowed. 'And there will be silence when he does so.' He leapt down and signalled Dirais.

  The young Ventrian notched his shaft and sent it unerringly into the gold.

  Kebra's heart sank. Ventrian soldiers swarmed for­ward and hoisted Dirais into the air. Kebra stood by silently. The king approached him. 'You are a fool, man,' he whispered. 'But the deed was not without merit.'

  Skanda handed him the Silver Arrow, and Kebra waited until the celebrations had died down. The Ventrians lowered Dirais and the small archer stepped up and bowed deeply before Kebra. 'This is a day I shall remember all my life,' he said.

  'As shall I,' Kebra told him, presenting the arrow. The little man bowed again.

  'I am sorry your eyes let you down.' Kebra nodded and swung away.

  No-one approached him as he stalked from the meadow.

  Stunned and disbelieving Bison watched him go. 'Why did he do that?' he asked, dabbing at his wounded cheek with a blood-soaked cloth.

  'He is a man of honour,' said Nogusta. 'Come, it is time that wound was stitched.'

  'What has honour to do with paying my debts?'

  'I fear it would take too long to explain,' the black man told him. Taking him by the arm he led the be­wildered Bison to a medical tent. Nogusta borrowed a sickle shaped needle and a length of thread and carefully drew the folds of the cheek wound together. Altogether ten stitches were needed. Blood slowly seeped between them. The cuts above Bison's eyes were shallow, and needed no stitches. Already scabs were forming there and the trickle of blood had ceased.

  'He really let me down,' grumbled Bison. 'He let us all down.' Dagorian, who had stood by in silence moved alongside the giant.

  'You are not being fair on him,' he said, softly. 'It was an act of greatness. The Ventrian was being barracked and jeered. And someone did release that dove in order to throw his aim.'

  'Of course he did,' said Bison. 'I paid him to do it.'

  Dagorian's expression changed, becoming cold. 'You make me ashamed to be a Drenai,' he said. Turning away Dagorian left the two warriors.

  'What's wrong with him?' enquired Bison. 'Has the world gone mad?'

  'You are an idiot sometimes, my friend,' said Nogusta. 'Perhaps you should go back to the barracks and rest.'

  'No. I want to see Kalizkan's magic. There might be a dragon.'

  'You could ask him,' said Nogusta, pointing to a section of open lands between the tents. The silver garbed wizard was sitting on a bench, surrounded by children.

  'I don't think so,' said Bison, doubtfully. 'I don't like wizards much. I think I'll collect my winnings and get drunk.'

  'What about your debts?'

  Bison laughed. 'We're leaving next week. They'll never follow me back to Drenan.'

  'Is the word honour just a sound to you?' asked Nogusta. 'You have built up credit on trust. You gave your word to repay. Now you will become a thief whose word cannot be trusted.'

  'What's put you in such a foul mood?' asked Bison.

  'You would not understand if I carved the answer on your simian forehead,' snapped the black man. 'Go and get drunk. A man should always stick to what he does best.' Leaving Bison he walked across the meadow, threading his way through the crowd.

  Antikas Karios approached him as he passed the king's pavilion. The swordsman gave a thin smile. 'Good morn­ing to you,' he said. 'That was a clever trick you used against Cerez. I had warned him in the past about arrogance. I will not have to warn him again.'

  Nogusta was about to move on, but the Ventrian stepped into his path. 'The king would like you to entertain his guests before the races.' Nogusta nodded and followed the officer towards the front of the pavilion. Skanda saw him coming and gave a broad smile, then turned to say something to Malikada. Nogusta approached the king and gave a deep bow. 'My congratulations on your birthday, sire,' he said.

  Skanda leaned forward. 'I have told Prince Malikada of your skill with knives. I fear he doubts my word.'

  'Not at all, majesty,' said Malikada, smoothly. Skanda clapped him on the shoulder, then rose. 'What can you show us today, my friend?' he asked Nogusta. The black man called for one of the archery targets to be brought up. While this was being done a sizeable crowd began to gather. Nogusta removed five throwing knives from the sheaths stitched to his baldric, then spread the blades in his left hand.

  'Is the target large enough?' asked Malikada, as the 6 foot high target was placed within 10 feet of the black man. The Ventrian officers around him laughed at the jest.

  'I will make it smaller, my lord,' said Nogusta. 'Perhaps you would care to stand in front of it?' Malikada's smile froze in place. He glanced at the king.

  'Either you or me, old lad,' said Skanda.

  Malikada rose and walked to the front of the pavilion, where a soldier opened the gate for him. He strode out to the target and turned, his dark eyes staring intently at Nogusta. 'Do not move, my lord,' said Nogusta.

  The black man spun a razor sharp knife in the air, then caught it. He repeated this with the other blades, throw­ing each one higher than the last. Then, while one was still in the air, he sent up another, then another, until all five were spinning and glittering in the sunlight. There was absolute silence now as the crowd waited in tense expectation. Still spinning the knives Nogusta slowly backed away until he was ten paces from where Malikada stood at the target.

  The Ventrian prince watched the whirling blades. He seemed relaxed, but his eyes were narrowed and unblink­ing. Suddenly Nogusta's right arm shot forward. One of the knives slashed through the air, punching home in the target no more than an inch from Malikada's left ear. The Ventrian jerked, but remained where he was. A bead of sweat began at his temple, trickling down his right cheek. Nogusta was juggling once more with the four remaining blades. Another knife thudded home along­side Malikada's left ear. The third and fourth slammed into the target alongside his arms.

  Nogusta caught the last knife th
en bowed deeply to Skanda. Led by the king the crowd burst into applause.

  'You want to risk the blindfold?' asked Skanda, 'or is that the end of the display?'

  'Let it be as you desire, sire,' said Nogusta.

  The king looked across at Malikada. 'What do you think, my friend? Would you like to see him throw blind­folded?'

  Malikada gave an easy smile but stepped away from the target. 'I accept that his skills are remarkable, majesty, but I have no wish to stand before a blind man with a throwing knife.' The crowd laughed and applauded the prince, who returned to the pavilion.

  'I'd like to see it,' said Skanda, moving down the steps and vaulting the gate. He strode to the target and stood before it. 'Don't let me down, old lad,' he told Nogusta. 'It's bad luck for a king to be killed on his birthday.'

  Antikas Karios moved alongside Nogusta. He was holding a black silk scarf, which he folded to create a blindfold. This he tied over Nogusta's eyes. The black man stood for a moment, statue still. Then spun on his heel, making a complete circle. The throwing knife flashed through the air. The crowd gasped. For just a moment they believed it had slammed into the king's throat. Skanda lifted his hand, touching his finger to the ivory hilt which was nestling alongside his jugular. Nogusta pulled clear the blindfold. Skanda stepped up to him. Applause and cheers rang out.

  'Just for a moment there you had me worried,' said the king.

  'You take too many chances, sire,' Nogusta told him.

  Skanda grinned. 'That is what makes life worth living.' Without another word he turned back to the pavilion. Nogusta gathered his knives and sheathed them, then made his way back through the crowd.