Gemmell, David - Drenai 08 - Winter Warriors (v1.0)

by Winter Warriors (v1. 0) [lit]

  Ilbren's words haunted him. 'It is way past the time when you should have settled down with a wife and raised sons.'

  Kebra felt the weight of the words, like a stone on his heart.

  Most of Palima's customers thought of her as a whore with a golden heart. This was a view she cultivated, especially as she grew older, with age and the laws of gravity conspiring to ravage her features. The truth was more stark: Palima's heart was like gold, cold, hard and well hidden.

  She lay now on her bed, staring at the hulking figure by the window. Bison was well known to her, a generous giant, unhindered by imagination or intellect. His needs were simple, his demands limited, his energy prodigious. For a year now - ever since the Drenai had taken the city - he had come to her at least once a week. He paid well, never troubled her with small talk or promises, and rarely outstayed his welcome.

  This night was different. He had come to her bed and

  had cuddled her close. Then he had fallen asleep. Bison usually paid with a single silver coin upon leaving. Yet tonight he had given her a gold half raq just after he arrived. Palima had tried to rouse him - not usually a difficult feat. But Bison was in no mood for sex. This did not concern Palima. If a man wanted to pay for a hug with gold she was more than happy to oblige. He had slept fitfully for two hours, holding her close. Then he had dressed and moved to the window. Bison had been standing there in the lantern light for some time now, a huge man, with great sloping shoulders and long, power­ful arms. Idly he tugged at his bristling white, walrus moustache and stared out at the night dark square below.

  'Come back to bed, lover,' she said. 'Let Palima work her magic.'

  'Not tonight,' he told her.

  'What is wrong?' she asked. 'You can tell Palima.'

  He turned towards her. 'How old do you think I am?' he asked, suddenly.

  Sixty-five, if you're a day, she thought, staring at his bald head and white moustache. Men were such children. 'Maybe forty,' she told him.

  He seemed satisfied with the answer, and she saw him relax. 'I'm older than that, but I don't feel it. They're sending me home,' he said. 'All the older men are going home.'

  'Don't you want to go home?'

  'I was one of the first to join the White Wolf,' he said. 'Back when Drenan was beset on all sides and the king's army had been all but destroyed. We beat them all, you know. One after another. When I was a child my country was ruled from afar. We were just peasants. But we changed the world. The king's empire stretches for -' he

  seemed to struggle for a moment with the math­ematics. '- thousands of miles,' he concluded lamely.

  'He is the greatest king who ever lived,' she said, softly, hoping that was what he wanted to hear.

  'His father was greater,' said Bison. 'He built from nothing. I served him for twenty-three years. Then the boy-king for another twenty. Twenty-six major battles I've fought in. There. Twenty-six. What do you think of that?'

  'It's a lot of battles,' she admitted, not knowing where the conversation was leading. 'Come back to bed.'

  'It's a lot of battles, all right. I've been wounded eleven times. Now they don't want me any more. Eighteen hundred of us. Thank you and goodbye. Here's a bag of gold. Go home. Where's home, eh?' With a sigh he moved to the bed, which creaked as his huge frame settled upon it. 'I don't know what to do, Palima.'

  'You are a strong man. You can do anything you want. Go anywhere you want.'

  'But I want to stay with the army. I'm a front ranker! That's what I am. That's what I want.'

  Sitting up she cupped his face in her hands. 'Sometimes - most times - we don't get what we want. Rarely do we even get what we deserve. We get what we get. That's it. Yesterday is gone, Bison. It will never come again. Tomorrow hasn't happened yet. What we have is now. And do you know what is real?' She took his hand in hers and lifted if to her naked breast, pressing his fingers to her flesh. ''This is real, Bison. We are real. And at this moment we are all there is.'

  His hand fell away, then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. He had never done that before. In fact she couldn't remember the last time a man had kissed her cheek. Then he rose. 'I'd better be getting back,' he said.

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  'Why not stay? I know you, Bison. You'd feel better afterwards. You always do.'

  'Aye, that's true. You are the best, you know. And I speak from a lifetime of having to pay for it. But I have to go. I'll be on charges. The Watch is probably looking for me.'

  'What have you done?'

  'Lost my temper. Tapped a few soldiers.'

  'Tapped?'

  'Well, maybe more than tapped. One of them laughed at me. Ventrian scum! Said the army would be better off without the greybeards. I picked him up and threw him like a spear. It was really funny. But he landed on a table and broke it with his head. That upset the Drenai soldiers who were eating there. So I tapped them all.'

  'How many were there?'

  'Only five or so. I didn't really hurt no-one. Well, not badly.' He grinned. 'Well, not very badly. But I'll be on charges.'

  'What kind of punishment will you get?'

  T don't know . . . ten lashes.' He shrugged. 'Twenty. No problem.'

  Palima climbed from the bed and stood naked before him. 'How did it feel when you were tapping them?' she asked.

  'It was . . . good,' he admitted.

  'You felt like a man?'

  'Yes. I felt young again.'

  Her hand slid down over his leggings. 'Like a man,' she whispered, huskily. She felt him swell at her touch.

  'And how do you feel now?' she asked him.

  He let out a long sigh. 'Like a man,' he said. 'But they don't want me to be one any more. Goodbye, Palima.'

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  Without another word he walked out into the night.

  Palima watched him from the window. 'A pox on you and all your kind, Drenai,' she whispered. 'Go away and die!'

  Banelion, the legendary White Wolf, gathered his maps and carefully placed them inside a brass bound chest. Tall and lean, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck, the general's movements were swift and precise, as he packed the chest with the expertise of a lifetime soldier. Everything neatly in its place. The maps were stacked in the order they would be needed during the 1400 mile journey to the western port. Alongside them were notes listing the names of tribes and their chief­tains, way stations, fortresses and cities along the routex As with everything else he undertook the journey home would be planned meticulously.

  Across from the broad desk a young officer in full armour of gold and bronze stood watching the general. The old man glanced up and gave a swift grin. 'Why so sad, Dagorian?'

  The young man took a deep, slow breath. 'This is wrong, sir.'

  'Nonsense. Look at me. What do you see?'

  Dagorian stared at the white-haired general. Leathered by desert sun and winter winds, the White Wolf's face was seamed and wrinkled. Beneath bristling white brows his eyes were pale and bright - eyes that had seen the fall of empires, and the scattering of armies. 'I see the greatest general who ever lived,' said the younger man.

  Banelion smiled. He was genuinely touched by the officer's affection, and thought momentarily of the

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  boy's father. The two were so unalike. Catoris had been a cold, hard man, ambitious and deadly. His son was infinitely more likeable, loyal and steadfast. The only virtue he shared with his father was courage. 'Ah, Dagorian, what you should see is a man two years past seventy. But you are looking at what was, boy. Not what is. I will be honest with you, I am disappointed. Even so I do not believe the king is making a mistake. Like me the soldiers who first marched against the Ventrian Empire are growing old now. Eighteen hundred men over fifty. Two hundred of those will not even see sixty again. The king is only thirty-five, and he wants to cross the Great River and conquer Cadia. All reports suggest that such a war will last five years or more. The army will have to cross deserts and moun­tains, wade rivers thick with crocodiles, hack thei
r way through jungles. Young men will be needed for such an enterprise. And some of the older men are yearning for home.'

  Dagorian removed his black and gold helm, and absently brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume. 'I don't doubt you are right about the older men, sir. But not you. Without you some of the battles would have been . . .' The White Wolf raised his finger to his lips, the movement sharp and swift.

  'All my battles have been fought. Now I will go home and enjoy my retirement. I will breed horses, and watch the sun rise over the mountains. And I will wait for news of the king's victories, and I will celebrate them quietly in my home. I have served Skanda, as I served his father. Faithfully and well, and to the best of my considerable abilities. Now I need a little fresh air. Walk with me in the garden.'

  Swinging a sheepskin cloak around his shoulders

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  Banelion pushed open the doors and strode through to the snow-covered garden. The paved path could no longer be seen, but the statues that lined it pointed the way. Crunching the snow underfoot the two men walked out past the frozen fountain. The statues were all of Ventrian warriors, standing like sentries, spears pointed towards the sky. The older man took Dagorian's arm and leaned in close. 'It is time for you to learn to curb your tongue, young man,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'Every whisper spoken inside the palace is reported to the king and his new advisers. The walls are hollow, and listeners write down every sentence. You under­stand?'

  They even spy on you? I cannot believe it.'

  'Believe it. Skanda is no longer the boy-king who charmed us all. He is a man, ruthless and ambitious. He is determined to conquer the world. And he probably will. If his new allies are as trustworthy as he thinks.'

  'You doubt the Prince Malikada?'

  Banelion grinned and led the young man around the frozen lake. 'I have no reason to doubt him. Or his wizard. Malikada's cavalry are superbly disciplined, and his men fight well. But he is not Drenai, and the king puts great faith in him.' On the far side of the lake they came to a stone arch, beneath which was a bust of a handsome man, with a forked beard, and a high sloping brow. 'You know who this is?' asked Banelion.

  'No, sir. A Ventrian noble of some kind?'

  'This is the general, Bodasen. He died three hundred and fifty years ago. He was the greatest general the Ventrians ever had. He it was - with Gorben - who laid the foundations of their empire.'

  The old man shivered and drew his cloak more tightly

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  about him. Dagorian stared hard at the white stone of the bust. 'I have read the histories, sir. He is described as a plodding soldier. Gorben was said to have led the army to victory.'

  Banelion chuckled. 'As indeed has Skanda. And in the months to come you will hear the same of me. That is the way of the world, Dagorian. The victorious kings write the histories. Now let us go back, for this cold is eating into my bones.'

  Once back inside Dagorian banked up the fire and the general stood before it, rubbing his hands. 'So tell me,' he said, 'have they found Bison yet?'

  'No, sir. They are scouring the whorehouses. The man with the cracked skull has regained consciousness. The surgeons say he will not die.'

  'That is a blessing. I would hate to hang old Bison.'

  'He's been with you from the first, I understand.'

  'Aye, from the first, when the old king was merely a young prince, and the kingdom was in ruins. Days of blood and fire, Dagorian. I would not want to live them again. Bison is - like me - a relic of those days. There are not many of us left.'

  'What will you do when we find him, sir?'

  'Ten lashes. But don't tie him to the post. That'll hurt his dignity. He'll stand there and hold to it. His back will bleed, and you'll not hear a sound from him.'

  'I take it you like the man.'

  Banelion shook his head. 'Can't stand him. He has the strength of an ox, and the brains to match. A more irritating, undisciplined wretch I have yet to see. But he symbolizes the strength, the courage and the will that has brought us across the world. A man to move mountains, Dagorian. Now you best get some rest. We'll finish in the morning.'

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  'Yes, sir. Can I fetch you some mulled wine before you retire?'

  'Wine does not sit well with me these days. Warm milk and honey would be pleasant.'

  Dagorian saluted, bowed and left the room.

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  Chapter Two

  Regimental discipline was observed in ritual fashion. Every one of the zooo men of the regiment, in their armour of black and gold, stood in a giant square around the barracks ground. At the centre the twenty senior officers waited, and, seated on a dais behind them was the White Wolf. He wore no armour, but was dressed in a simple tunic of grey wool, black leggings and boots. Around his shoulders was a hooded sheepskin cloak.

  The morning was bright and clear as Bison was led out. The lumbering giant had been stripped to the waist, and Dagorian suddenly understood the man's bizarre nickname. His head was totally bald, but thick, curling hair grew from his neck and over his massive shoulders. More like a bear than a bison though, thought Dagorian. The young officer's dark gaze flickered to the men walk­ing with Bison. One was Kebra, the famed bowman, who had once saved the king's life, sending a shaft through the eye of a Ventrian lancer. The other was the blue-eyed black man, Nogusta, swordsman and juggler. Dagorian had once watched the man keep seven razor sharp knives in the air, then, one by one send them flash­ing into a target. They walked straight and tall. Bison cracked a joke with someone in the first line.

  'Silence!' shouted an officer.

  Bison approached the whipping-post and stood beside

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  the lean, hawk-faced soldier who had been ordered to complete the sentence. The man looked ill at ease, and was sweating despite the morning cold.

  'You just lay on, boy,' said Bison, amiably. Til hold no grudge for you.' The man gave a weak, relieved smile.

  'Let the prisoner approach,' said the White Wolf. Bison marched forward and saluted clumsily.

  'Have you anything to say before sentence is carried out?'

  'No, sir!' bellowed Bison.

  'Do you know what is special about you?' asked the general.

  'No, sir!'

  'Absolutely nothing,' said the White Wolf. 'You are an undisciplined wretch and the clumsiest man ever to serve under me. For a copper coin I'd hang you and be done with it. Now get to the post. This cold is chilling my bones.' So saying he lifted the sheepskin hood over his head and pulled the cloak around him.

  'Yes, sir!' Bison spun on his heel and marched back to the post, reaching up and taking hold of the wood.

  The man with the whip untied the thong binding the five lashes and cracked it into the air. Then he shrugged his shoulders twice and took up his position. His arm came back.

  'Hold!' came a commanding voice. The soldier froze. Dagorian turned to see a small group of men striding onto the barracks ground. They were all Ventrian officers wearing golden breastplates and sporting red capes. At the centre was the Prince Malikada, the king's general, a tall, slender nobleman, who had been chosen to replace the White Wolf. Beside him was his champion, the swordsman, Antikas Karios. A fox and a cobra, thought Dagorian. Both men were slim and graceful, but

  Malikada's power was in his eyes, dark and brooding, gleaming with intelligence, while Antikas Karios radiated a physical strength, built on a striking speed that was inhuman.

  Malikada strode to the dais and bowed to the general. His hair was jet black, but his beard had been dyed with streaks of gold, then braided with gold thread. Dagorian watched him closely.

  'Greetings, my lord Banelion,' said Malikada.

  'This is hardly the time for a visit,' said Banelion. 'But you are most welcome, Prince.'

  'It is exactly the time, General,' said Malikada, with a wide smile. 'One of my men is about to be disciplined incorrectly.'

  'One of your men?' enquired the White Wolf, softly. Dagorian could fe
el the tension in the officers around him, but no-one moved.

  'Of course one of my men. You were present when the king - glory be attached to his name - named me as your successor. As I recall you are now a private citizen of the empire about to head for home and a happy retirement.' Malikada swung round. 'And this man has been accused of striking one of my officers. That, as I am sure you are aware, under Ventrian law, is a capital offence. He shall be hanged.'

  An angry murmur sounded throughout the ranks. Banelion rose. 'Of course he shall hang - if convicted,' he said, his voice cold. 'But I now change his plea to not guilty and - on his behalf - demand trial by combat. This is Drenai law, set in place by the king himself. Do you wish to deny it?' Malikada's smile grew wider, and Dagorian realized in that moment that this was exactly what the Ventrian wanted. The swordsman, Antikas, was already removing his cloak and unbuckling his breastplate.

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  'The king's law is just,' said Malikada, raising his left arm and clicking his fingers. Antikas stepped forward, drew his sword and spun it in the sunlight. 'Which of your . . . former . . . officers will face Antikas Karios? I understand your aide, Dagorian, is considered something of a swordsman.'

  'Indeed he is,' said Banelion. Dagorian felt fear rip into him. He was no match for the Ventrian. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, and fought to keep his emotions from his face. Glancing up he saw Antikas Karios staring at him. There was no hint of a sneer, or mockery of any kind. The man simply stared. Somehow it made Dagorian feel even worse. Rising from his seat Banelion gestured for Nogusta to come forward. The black man approached the dais, saluted, then bowed. 'Will you defend the honour of your comrade?' asked the White Wolf.

  'But of course, my general.'

  Dagorian's relief was intense, and he reddened as he saw a slight smile appear on the face of the Ventrian swordsman.

  'This is not seemly,' said Malikada, smoothly. 'A common soldier to face the finest swordsman alive? And a black savage to boot? I think not.' He turned to a second Ventrian officer, a tall man with a long golden beard, crimped into horizontal waves. 'Cerez, will you show us your skills?'