Winter Warriors (39 page)

Returning to Dagorian, he slumped down beside the dying officer. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“There is no pain, but I can no longer move my legs. I am dying, Antikas.”

“Yes, you are. But we won, Drenai.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps we merely delayed the inevitable. There are four more Krayakin, and the Ventrian army has closed off the road to the sea.”

“Let tomorrow take care of itself, Dagorian. You fought well and bravely. It was an honor to stand beside you. I do not
know much about your religion. Is there a Hall of Heroes contained in it?”

“No.”

“Then you should convert to mine, my friend. In it you will find a palace full of young virgins ready to obey your every whim. There will be wine and song and endless sunshine.”

“It … sounds … very fine,” whispered Dagorian.

“I will say a prayer for your spirit, Drenai, and that prayer will shine above you like a lantern. Follow it to the palace that awaits me. I will see you there.” Antikas reached across and closed the dead eyes. Then he scabbarded the storm swords and walked slowly back to the horses. The cut on his ribs was stinging now as the blood clotted over it. He stepped into the saddle and gazed back along the bridge.

Then he fulfilled his promise and sent a prayer light to shine for Dagorian.

Swinging the horses, he rode after the others.

The cave was deep and curved like a horn. The biting wind could not reach them there, and the group huddled around two fires. Nogusta stood apart from the others, heavy of heart. He had not lied to Dagorian. He had not
seen
him die. Yet he had known that the young man would not survive the encounter on the bridge, for in the vivid flashes of the future that had come to him there had been no sign of the officer.

Kebra moved from the fire and stood beside him. “How long before we come down from this mountain?” he asked.

“Sometime late tomorrow.”

“I have fed the last of the grain to the horses, but they need rest, Nogusta, and good grass and water.”

Nogusta unrolled the parchment map and held it up so that they could both see it in the firelight. “Tomorrow we will reach the highest point. It will be bitterly cold, and the road will be ice-covered and treacherous. After that we begin the long descent to the five valleys and Lem.”

“The fires will not last the night,” said Kebra, “and it will be below freezing in here without them.” They had gathered wood in the last valley, and Bison had also tied several bundles
of dried timber from the smashed wagon. It was those that were burning now.

“Then we will be cold,” said Nogusta. “Though not as cold as Dagorian.”

“You think we should have stayed?”

Nogusta shook his head. “The other Krayakin are close by.”

“What have you seen?”

“Too much,” Nogusta said sadly. “The gift is more of a curse than ever. I see, but I cannot change what I see. Dagorian asked me if he was to die. I did not tell him. I think he knew nonetheless. He was a good man, Kebra, a man who should have lived to build, to sire children and teach them the virtues of honesty, courage, and honor. He should not be lying dead on a forgotten bridge.”

“We will not forget him,” said the silver-haired bowman.

“No, we will not. And what does that count for? We are old men, you and I. Our time is passing. And when I look back over my life, I wonder whether it has been for good or ill. I have fought for most of my life. I defended the Drenai cause even though most of my comrades either feared me or loathed me for the color of my skin. Then I took part in the invasion of Ventria and saw the destruction of an ancient empire. All for the vanity of one arrogant man. What will I say to the keeper of the book when I stand before him? What excuses shall I offer for my life?”

Kebra looked closely at his friend, and he thought carefully before speaking. “This is probably not the time to consider it,” he said at last. “Despair touches you, and there is no comfort to be found in melancholy. You have in your life rescued many and risked yourself for others. You do so now. Such deeds will also be recorded. I am not a philosopher, Nogusta, but there are things I know. If your gift sees us fail and the child is destined to fall into the hands of evil no matter what we do, will you then ride away and leave him to his fate? No, you will not. Even if death and defeat are inevitable. No more will I. No one can ask more of us than that.”

Nogusta smiled. He would have reached out and embraced the man, except that Kebra was not tactile and disliked being
touched. “My father once told me that if a man could count true friends on the fingers of one hand, then he was blessed beyond riches. I have been blessed, Kebra.”

“I, too. Now get a little rest. I will keep watch for a while.”

“Listen for a single horse, for Antikas Karios will be trying to find us.”

“I have to say that I do not like the man,” admitted Kebra. “His arrogance sticks in my throat.”

Nogusta smiled again. “Reminds you of us some twenty years ago, doesn’t he?”

Kebra nodded and walked to the mouth of the cave. Sitting back from the wind, he looked out over the peaks and shivered. They were thousands of feet above the valley floor, and the clouds looked close enough to touch. Drawing his cloak about him, he leaned back against the wall. Dagorian’s death had saddened him also. He had liked the young man. His fear had been great, his courage greater still. He would have raised fine sons, thought Kebra.

The rocks were cold, and he lifted his hood into place. Fine sons. The thought saddened him. What kind of a father would I have been? he wondered. He would never know. And unlike Bison or Nogusta, there was no chance that he had sired children with any of the whores he had encountered through thirty years of campaigning, for he had never coupled with any of them. He had, of course, visited the brothels with both his comrades, but upon reaching the quiet of the bedroom he had merely paid the girls to sit and talk with him. To make love one had to touch, and Kebra could not even bear the thought of it. Flesh upon flesh? He shuddered.

From out of the past the memory came. It caught him unawares, for he had long ago buried it beyond the reaches of his imagination. The dark walls of the barn, the huge hairy hands of his father, the pain and the terror, and the threats of death if ever he spoke of it. He blinked and focused his gaze on the mountain peaks.

Conalin crept up to sit alongside him, a blanket wrapped tight around his thin shoulders. “I brought your bow and arrows,” said the boy.

“Thank you, but I don’t think we’ll need them tonight.” He glanced down at the boy, seeing the fear in his eyes.

“Antikas Karios and Dagorian held the bridge. Antikas will be coming soon.”

“How do you know?”

“Nogusta had a vision. His visions are always true.”

“You said Antikas will be coming. What about Dagorian?”

There was no other way to say it. “He died for us,” said Kebra. “He fought like a man, and he died like a man.”

“I don’t want to die,” Conalin said miserably.

“But you will one day,” observed Kebra. He chuckled suddenly. “I had an old uncle, and he used to say, ‘Only one thing in life is certain, Son. You won’t get out of it alive.’ He lived every day to the full. He was a man who loved life. He was a soldier for a while, then a merchant, and lastly a farmer. He never did anything brilliantly, but he always gave it his best. I liked him, and he once did me a great service.”

“What did he do?”

“He killed my father.”

Conalin was shocked. “And that was a service?”

“Indeed it was. Sadly, he killed him too late, but that was not his fault.” He fell silent for a moment. Conalin wanted to ask him other questions, but he saw the sadness in the old man’s eyes. Then Kebra spoke again. “What would you like to be, Conalin?”

“Married to Pharis,” the boy answered, instantly.

“Yes, I know that. But what career do you desire?”

Conalin thought about it. “Something to do with horses. That’s what I’d really like.”

“A good occupation. Nogusta has similar plans. Once his family was renowned for its horses. But his wife and all of his kin were murdered, the great house burned to the ground, the stables destroyed. The herd escaped into the mountains. Nogusta has a dream of returning to the family estate and rebuilding it. He says that deep in the mountains there are many valleys and that the herd will have grown now. He plans to find them.”

Conalin’s eyes were shining now. “I’d like to do that. Would he let me, do you think?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“Could you not ask him for me?”

“I could,” agreed Kebra, “but that is not the way it should be. A strong man makes his own way in the world. He does not ask others to do that which he fears himself.”

Conalin moved out of the wind. He was a little too close to Kebra now, and the bowman felt uncomfortable. “I will ask him,” said the boy. “Will you be there with us?”

“I might be—if the Source wills it.”

The boy’s excited expression suddenly faded. “What is wrong?” asked Kebra.

“What is the point of talking about horses? We are going to die here.”

“We’ve made it this far,” Kebra pointed out. “And I have yet to see the enemy who could defeat Nogusta. And as for Bison … well, he is the strongest man I ever knew, and he has more heart than any ten demons. No, Conalin, do not dismiss them so lightly. They may be old, but they are canny.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I am quite simply the finest archer ever to walk the earth. I could hit a fly’s testicles from thirty paces.”

“Do flies have testicles?” asked Conalin.

“Not when I’m close by,” Kebra answered with a smile.

Antikas Karios reached the cave just before midnight. His beard was caked with ice, as was his horse’s mane, and both he and his mount were mortally weary. For the last two miles he had been swaying in the saddle and fighting to stay awake.

Kebra stepped out into the biting wind, taking hold of the horse’s bridle and leading him into the cave. It took Antikas two attempts before he could summon the energy to dismount.

Nogusta approached him. “Sit by the fire and warm yourself,” he said.

“Horse first,” muttered Antikas. From the back of his saddle he untied a thick bundle of wood and handed it to Nogusta.
“I thought the fuel might be running low,” he said. Dragging off his gauntlets, Antikas rubbed life back into his cold fingers, then began to unsaddle the chestnut gelding. His movements were stiff and slow.

“Let me help you,” said Kebra, lifting the saddle clear and laying it over a rock. Antikas did not thank him but moved to the saddlebags. His cold, swollen fingers fumbled at the buckles, but at last he opened them, taking out a body brush and a cloth. Returning to the horse, he rubbed the animal dry and then, with deep circular strokes, brushed him.

Conalin watched with interest. He had seen Kebra and Nogusta do the same some hours before, when they had first arrived at the cave. “Why is it so important for the horse to have a brushed coat?” he whispered to the bowman.

“Grooming is not just about the coat,” answered Kebra. “That horse is cold and tired. The brush helps improve the circulation of blood and tones the muscles.”

Antikas stepped back from the horse, cleaned the brush, and returned it to his saddlebag. Then he removed his crimson cloak and laid it over the gelding’s back. It was then that the others saw the dried blood on his torn satin shirt. Ulmenetha rose from the first of the fires and bade Antikas remove his shirt. He did so with great difficulty. Satin fibers had stuck to his wounds, and as he pulled the shirt clear, the small cuts in his chest and the long jagged slice along his ribs began to bleed once more. Sitting him down by the fire, Ulmenetha examined the wounds. The smaller cuts she could heal immediately without stitches, but the wound caused by Golbar’s last thrust first needed more traditional treatment. Nogusta handed Antikas a cup of broth, which he accepted gratefully. As Ulmenetha prepared her needle and thread, Antikas stared around the firelit cave. The ape Bison was asleep by the far wall. Alongside him, huddled close for warmth, were a young girl and a child. Beyond them the queen was sitting in the shadows, holding her babe close to her breast. Antikas saw that the child was feeding and looked away guiltily.

“Stand up,” ordered Ulmenetha. Antikas did so. The priestess came to her knees and began to stitch the wound, beginning first at the center, drawing the flaps of skin together. Antikas looked across at Nogusta, and their eyes met.

“He died well,” said Antikas.

“I know.”

“Good, for I am too tired to discuss it further.” He winced as Ulmenetha drew tight the center stitch. “You are not knitting a rug, woman,” he snapped.

“I’ll wager you did not whine so when the Krayakin faced you,” she responded. Antikas grinned but said nothing. Three more stitches were inserted, then Ulmenetha laid a slender hand over the wound and began to chant in a low voice. Antikas glanced down at the priestess, then gave a questioning look to Nogusta. The black man had turned away and was untying the bundle of wood.

Antikas felt a tingling sensation begin in the wound, heat flaring from it. It was mildly uncomfortable but not at all painful. After some minutes Ulmenetha removed her hand, then, with a small knife, cut the stitches and pulled them clear. Antikas touched the cut. It was almost healed. More than this he felt curiously rejuvenated, as if he had slept for several hours.

“You are very talented, lady,” he said.

“You should see me knitting a rug,” she answered, rising to stand before him. She repeated the healing prayer on the smaller chest wounds, then reached up to pull clear the bloodstained satin strip around his brow. “Bend your head,” she ordered him. Antikas obeyed.

As she healed the cut, she spoke again. “You are a lucky man, Antikas. Had the blow been two inches lower, you would have lost an eye.”

“Strangely, the more I practice, the luckier I get,” he said.

Ulmenetha stepped back from him and appraised her work. Satisfied, she moved back to the fire and sat down. “Had you remained at the bridge, you might have saved Dagorian,” he said.