Winter Warriors (11 page)

“And now they are coming back,” she said.

“It would appear so,” he agreed.

Banelion summoned his twenty senior officers soon after dawn. All were veterans, many of them men who had served with him for more than thirty years. They were survivors, tough and lean, hard-eyed and iron-willed. They stood to attention around him, filling the tent. No one could ever have accused the White Wolf of sentimentality, and yet, as he looked into their faces, he felt an acute sense of family. These men had been his brothers, his sons. He had raised them, and trained them, and led them across the world. Now he was taking them home to a retirement few desired but all deserved.

Banelion rarely looked into mirrors. He had lost that vanity at sixty. But now, looking at these men, he felt the weight of his years. He could remember them all as they had been, bright-eyed, fresh of face, their hearts burning to serve—aye, and to save—the country of their birth.

“There will be no easing of discipline,” he told them. “We will have eighteen hundred men with us, all private citizens now. But I will not lead an unruly mob back to Drenan. Every man who travels with us will sign on for the journey as a soldier, subject to my discipline and under my orders. Any who do not wish to do so will be turned away. The payment will be one half silver per man per month, to be paid out of my own treasury. Officers will receive five full silvers. The payment will be made upon landing at Dros Purdol. Any questions?”

There were many, and for more than an hour he discussed the logistics of the journey with the officers, then dismissed them.

Alone once more, he sat down on his pallet bed and spent a further half hour planning for the problems he expected on the journey. Satisfied he had covered most of the areas of possible delay, he finally allowed his mind to dwell on the immediate danger posed by the threat of Malikada.

Despite what he had told Dagorian about the king and his
lack of concern over the fate of his oldest general, the White Wolf knew that Malikada was unlikely to send Ventrian assassins to kill him. Such a move would cause uproar in the army and affect the king’s plan to march on Cadia. That march would begin in three days. If the White Wolf was murdered, Skanda would be forced to call for an inquiry. No, Malikada’s attempt would be more subtle. A Drenai might be paid to kill him, a man known to harbor resentment against Banelion. And there were plenty of those, common soldiers who had suffered under the lash for minor infringements of discipline, junior officers who felt they had been overlooked for advancement, senior officers who had suffered public rebuke. Then there were men stripped of their rank for incompetence. Banelion smiled. If Malikada offered enough money, the White Wolf could be trampled to death under a stampede of men anxious to earn it.

Banelion poured himself a goblet of water. But if the murderer was taken alive and questioned under torture, such a payment would come to light, and that would throw suspicion back upon Malikada, no matter who he hired to make the transaction. The White Wolf dismissed the idea. It was too unsubtle for the Ventrian fox.

What, then? Banelion lifted the goblet to his lips. He hesitated and stared down at the clear liquid. Poison would be the likeliest answer. Not a cheerful prospect, he thought, putting down the goblet. From now on he would eat at the communal kitchen, standing in line with the rest of his men.

Satisfied he had considered every possibility for attack, he relaxed.

He was wrong.

4

T
HE OLD BARRACKS
building was three hundred years old, built to house the Immortals, Emperor Gorben’s elite regiment. At the time of its construction it had been one of the wonders of the world. Famous artists and sculptors had been summoned from all over the empire to paint its ceilings and sculpt the masterpieces that surrounded it. Now most of the statues had been removed and shipped to Drenan or sold to collectors to raise money for the king’s wars. The painted ceilings and walls were chipped, cracked, and faded. Most of the Drenai soldiers of the king’s new army were housed in the north of the city in three new barracks.

Here, off the Avenue of Light, the old building was slowly surrendering to the ravages of time and lack of care. Already there were plans to demolish it and erect a colosseum. But for now it remained the temporary quarters of the old men being sent home. Discipline was already nonexistent, and there were no guards at the gates, no bugle call to announce the dawn, no officers to oversee drills or exercises.

Nogusta shivered as he walked across the deserted parade ground and on into the east wing, where he shared a room with Bison and Kebra.

Once upon a time architects from all over the world had visited this barracks to marvel at its design. Now it was a dying place, full of decaying memories no one wanted to share.

Wearily Nogusta climbed the stairs. There were no lanterns here now, the interior lit only by the shafts of moonlight
spearing through the high windows of each landing. Slowly Nogusta made his way to the fourth floor.

Kebra and Bison were sitting in stony silence within the room. Nogusta guessed the question of winter debts had been discussed. He moved past his comrades toward a blazing fire in the hearth. Its warmth was comforting.

Nogusta removed his black shirt and allowed the heat to bathe his upper body. The gold and silver charm he wore glittered in the firelight. Something cold touched his back, like the whisper of a frozen wind. He stood and turned, expecting to see the door or the window open. But they were closed tight.

“Did you feel that breeze?” he asked the silent men. They did not answer him. Kebra was sitting on his bed, his face stony, his pale eyes glaring at Bison. Suddenly an icy chill enveloped the room, the heat from the fire dying away. Nogusta stared at the flames, which were high and bright. No warmth came from them. The only heat he could feel was radiating from the crescent moon charm on his breast. It glowed with a bright light. In that moment a terrible fear settled on the black man, for he knew why the charm was glowing.

Bison surged to his feet with a menacing growl. “You slagging traitor!” he shouted at Kebra. His huge hand snatched his sword from its scabbard. The slender bowman drew a curved dagger and rose to meet him.

“No!” shouted Nogusta, leaping toward them. The sound of his voice, deep and powerful, cut through the tension. Kebra hesitated, but Bison moved in for the kill. “Bison!” yelled Nogusta. For a moment only the giant hesitated. His eyes were glittering strangely, and his mouth was frozen into a snarl.

“Look at me! Now!” bellowed Nogusta. Bison paused again. The cold was now almost intolerable, and Nogusta began to shiver uncontrollably. Bison turned toward him, his eyes distant. “Take my hand,” said Nogusta, reaching out. “Do it for friendship, Bison. Take my hand!”

Bison blinked, and his expression softened for an instant. Then his anger blazed again. “I’m going to kill him!”

“Take my hand first, then do what you must,” urged Nogusta. For a fraction of a moment he thought Bison would refuse, but then the big man reached out. Their fingers touched, and their hands gripped. Bison let out a long, shuddering sigh and fell to his knees. Kebra leapt at him. Nogusta caught the movement at the last moment. Dragging Bison back, he leapt between them, his left hand snaking out to grab Kebra’s wrist. The bowman’s face was twisted into an evil grimace, his pale eyes bulging. Nogusta hung on to the knife wrist. “Be calm, Kebra,” he said. “Be calm. It is Nogusta. It is your friend Nogusta.”

Kebra’s twisted face relaxed, the madness ebbing away. He shuddered and dropped the knife. The room grew warmer. Nogusta released his grip on the two men. Kebra sagged to the bed.

“I … I don’t know what came over me,” said Bison. He stumbled toward Kebra. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.” Kebra said nothing. He merely sat and stared at the floor.

The glowing light of Nogusta’s charm faded, leaving only the simple silver crescent and the golden hand that held it.

“We have been attacked,” he said softly. “You are not at fault, Bison. Nor is Kebra.”

The white-haired bowman glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorcery. Did you not feel the cold in the room?” Both men shook their heads. Nogusta pulled up a chair and sat. Kebra and Bison were staring at him now. He touched the crescent charm. “This is what saved us.”

“Have you gone mad?” asked Kebra. “It was just rage, that’s all. Bison kept on and on about me losing the tournament. We just got angry.”

“Can you really believe that?” asked Nogusta. “You have been friends for thirty years. Never have you drawn weapons against each other. I urge you to trust me on this, my friends. Orendo told me the same thing. He said when they were in the merchant’s house, a terrible cold came upon the room, and they became full of rage and lust. That’s when they killed and raped. He said there were demons in the air. I did not believe
him. I believe him now. Do you remember how you felt when you ran at Bison?”

“I wanted to cut his heart out,” admitted Kebra.

“And you believe now that it was really what you wanted?”

“It felt real
then
,” said Kebra. He shook his head and wiped his hand across his face. “What did you mean about the charm saving us?”

“Simply that. It is a ‘ward charm.’ A talisman. It has been in my family for generations.”

“It was glowing when you reached out for me,” said Bison. “It shone like a huge diamond.”

“I saw that,” said Kebra. “But gods, man, who would want to use sorcery against us?”

“Malikada perhaps. Had I not been wearing the charm, my rage would have surged also. We could have killed each other.”

“Well, let’s kill Malikada,” said Bison.

“Good idea,” said Kebra. “Then we’ll grow magick wings and fly away free over the mountains.”

“Well, what then?” asked the giant.

“We leave the city,” said Nogusta. “We won’t travel with the White Wolf. We’ll head south into the mountains until the army marches on the Cadian border, then we’ll join the other returnees.”

“I don’t like the idea of running away,” said Bison.

“As I recall,” Kebra said dryly, “I once saw you racing like a sprinter to get out of the way of a flash flood. And are you not the man who had his arse scarred while fleeing from that lioness outside Delnoch?”

“That was different,” argued Bison.

“No it wasn’t,” said Nogusta. “Malikada is the king’s general. We cannot fight him. It would be like fighting a storm or, indeed, a flash flood. Pointless. Added to which we do not know for sure that this was Malikada’s work. No, the safest and most sensible plan is to leave the city. In two days the army marches, and Malikada will have other problems to consider. He will forget about us.”

“What will we do in the mountains?” asked Bison.

“Hunt a little meat, pan for gold in the streams, perhaps,” Nogusta told him.

“Gold. I like the sound of that,” said Bison, tugging on his white walrus mustache. “We could get rich.”

“Indeed we could, my friend. Tomorrow I will purchase horses and supplies.”

“And pans for the gold,” Bison reminded him.

The giant moved to his own bed and pulled off his boots. “I still say you shouldn’t have let that Ventrian shoot again,” he said.

Kebra looked up at Nogusta and shook his head. Then he smiled. “I would feel a lot better if I didn’t agree with him,” he said. “I still can’t believe I did it.”

“I can, my friend. It was noble,” said Nogusta, “and no more than I would expect from you.”

Ulmenetha took hold of the iron chains, leaned back upon the swinging wicker chair, and gazed out over the distant mountains. She could feel them calling to her like a mother to a lost child. In the mountains of her home she had known great happiness. There was ancient wisdom there, and serenity radiated from the eternal peaks. These were not her mountains, but they called nonetheless. Ulmenetha resisted the pull and turned her attention to her immediate surroundings. The roof garden of the late emperor’s palace was a wondrous place in summer, its terraces ablaze with color and filled with the scent of many perfumed flowers. High above the city, it seemed an enchanted place. In winter it was less so, but now, with spring but days away, the yellow and purple polyanthus was flowering and the cherry trees were thick with blossom, gossamer-thin petals of faded coral. Sitting here alone in the bright sunshine, thoughts of demons seemed far away, like a child’s dream in a darkened bedroom. Ulmenetha had enjoyed her early childhood. Wrapped in love and full of joy, she had played in the mountains, living wild and free. The memory lifted her, and—just for a moment—she felt like a child again. Ulmenetha swung the chair around and around
on its iron chains. Then she let go and watched the mountains spin before her eyes. She giggled and closed her eyes.