The Winter Warriors

Chapter One

The night sky over the mountains was clear and bright, the stars like diamonds on sable. It was a late winter night of cold and terrible beauty, the snow hanging heavy on the branches of pine and cedar. There was no colour here, no sense of life. The land lay silent, save for the occasional crack of an overladen branch, or the soft, whispering sound of fallen snow being drifted by the harsh north wind.

A hooded rider on a dark horse emerged from the tree line, his mount plodding slowly through the thick snow. Bent low over the saddle he rode on, his head bowed against the wind, his gloved hands holding his snow-crowned grey cloak tightly at the neck. As he came into the open he seemed to become a focus for the angry wind, which howled around him. Undaunted he urged the horse on. A white owl launched itself from a high treetop and glided down past the horse and rider. A thin rat scurried across the moonlit snow, swerving as the owl's talons touched its back. The swerve almost carried it clear.

Almost.

In this frozen place almost was a death sentence. Everything here was black and white, sharp and clearly defined, with no delicate shades of grey. Stark contrasts. Success or failure, life or death. No second chances, no excuses.

As the owl flew away with its prey the rider glanced up. In a world without colour his bright blue eyes shone silver-grey in a face dark as ebony. The black man touched heels to his tired mount, steering the animal towards the woods. 'We are both tired,' whispered the rider, patting the gelding's long neck. 'But we'll stop soon.'

Nogusta looked at the sky. It was still clear. No fresh snow tonight, he thought, which meant that the tracks they were following would still be visible come dawn. Moonlight filtered through the tall trees and Nogusta began to seek a resting place. Despite the heavy, hooded grey cloak and the black woollen shirt and leggings he was cold all the way to the bone. But it was his ears that were suffering the most. Under normal circumstances he would have wrapped his scarf around his face. Not a wise move, however, when tracking three desperate men. He needed to be alert for every sound and movement. These men had already killed, and would not hesitate to do so again.

Looping the reins over his pommel he lifted his hands to his ears, rubbing at the skin. The pain was intense. Do not fear the cold, he warned himself. The cold is life. Fear should come only when his body stopped fighting the cold. When it began to feel warm and drowsy. For death's icy dagger lay waiting within that illusory warmth. The horse plodded on, following the tracks like a hound. Nogusta hauled him to a stop. Somewhere up ahead the killers would be camped for the night. He sniffed the air, but could not pick up the scent of woodsmoke. They would have to light a fire. Otherwise they would be dead.

Nogusta was in no condition to tackle them now. Swinging away from the trail he rode deeper into the woods, seeking a sheltered hollow, or a cliff wall, where he could build his own fire and rest.

The horse stumbled in deep snow, but steadied itself. Nogusta almost fell from the saddle. As he righted himself he caught a glimpse of a cabin wall through a gap in the trees. Almost entirely snow covered it was near invisible, and had the horse not balked he would have ridden past it. Dismounting Nogusta led the exhausted gelding to the deserted building. The door was hanging on one leather hinge, the other having rotted away. The cabin was long and narrow beneath a sod roof, and there was a lean-to at the side, out of the wind. Here Nogusta unsaddled the horse and rubbed him down. Filling a feedbag with grain he looped it over the beast's ears, then covered his broad back with a blanket.

Leaving the horse to feed Nogusta moved round to the front of the building and eased his way over the snow that had piled up in the doorway. The interior was dark, but he could just make out the grey stone of the hearth. As was customary in the wild a fire had been laid, but snow had drifted down the chimney and half covered the wood. Carefully Nogusta cleaned it out, then re-laid the fire. Taking his tinder box from his pouch he opened it and hesitated. The tinder would burn for only a few seconds. If the thin kindling wood did not catch fire immediately it might take him hours to start a blaze with knife and flint. And he needed a fire desperately. The cold was making him tremble now. He struck the flint. The tinder burst into flame. Holding it to the thin kindling wood he whispered a prayer to his star. Flames licked up, then surged through the dry wood. Nogusta settled back and breathed a sigh of relief, and, as the fire flared, he looked around him, studying the room. The cabin had been neatly built by a man who cared. The joints were well crafted, as was the furniture, a bench table, four chairs and a narrow bed. Shelves had been set on the north wall. They were bare now. There was only one window, the shutters closed tight. One side of the hearth was filled with logs. An old spider's web stretched across them.

The empty shelves and lack of personal belongings showed that the man who had built the cabin had chosen to move on. Nogusta wondered why. The construction of the cabin showed a neat man, a patient man. Not one to be easily deterred. Nogusta scanned the walls. There was no sign of a woman's presence here. The builder had been a man alone. Probably a trapper. And when he had finally left — perhaps the mountains were trapped out — he had carefully laid a fire for the next person to find his home. A considerate man. Nogusta felt welcome in the cabin, as if greeted by the owner. It was a good feeling.

Nogusta rose and walked out to where his horse was patiently waiting. Removing the empty feedbag he stroked his neck. There was no need to hobble him. The gelding would not leave this place of shelter. The stone chimney jutted from the wooden wall of the cabin here, and soon the fire would heat the stones. 'You will be safe here for the night, my friend,' Nogusta told the gelding.

Gathering his saddlebags he returned to the cabin and heaved the door back into place, wedging it against the twisted frame. Then he pulled a chair up to the fire. The cold stones of the hearth were sucking almost all the heat from the fire. 'Be patient,' he told himself. Minutes passed. He saw a woodlouse run along a log as the flames licked up. Nogusta drew his sword and held the blade against the wood, offering the insect a way of escape. The woodlouse approached the blade, then turned away from it, toppling into the fire. 'Fool,' said Nogusta. 'The blade was life.'

The fire was blazing now and the black man rose and removed his cloak and shirt. His upper body was strongly muscled and heavily scarred. Sitting down once more he leaned forward, extending his hands to the blaze. Idly he twirled the small, ornate charm he wore around his neck. It was an ancient piece, a white-silver crescent moon, held in a slender golden hand. The gold was heavy and dark, and the silver never tarnished. It remained, like the moon, pure and glittering. He heard his father's voice echo down the vaults of memory: 'A man greater than kings wore this magic charm, Nogusta. A great man. He was our ancestor and while you wear it make sure that your deeds are always noble. If they remain so you will have the gift of the Third Eye.'

Is that how you knew the robbers were in the north pasture?'

'Yes.'

'But don't you want to keep it?'

'It chose you, Nogusta. You saw the magic. Always the talisman chooses. It has done so for hundreds of years. And — if the Source wills — it will choose one of your own sons.'

If the Source wills. .

But the Source had not willed.

Nogusta curled his hand around the talisman, and stared into the fire, hoping for a vision. None came.

From his saddlebag he took a small package and opened it. It contained several strips of dried, salted beef. Slowly he ate them.

Adding two logs to the fire he moved to the bed. The blankets were thin and dusty and he shook them out. Away from the blaze he shivered, then laughed at

himself. 'You are getting old,' he said. 'Once upon a time the cold would not have affected you this way.'

Back at the fire once more he put on his shirt. A face came into his mind, sharp featured and with an easy, friendly smile. Orendo the Scout. They had ridden together for almost twenty years, serving first the old king and then his warrior son. Nogusta had always liked Orendo. The man was a veteran, and when you gave him an order you knew it would be carried out to the letter. And he had a heart. Once, several years back, Orendo had found a child lost in the snow, unconscious and half dead from the cold. He had carried him back to camp, then sat with him all night, warming blankets, rubbing the boy's frozen skin. The child had survived.

Nogusta sighed. Now Orendo was on the run with two other soldiers, having murdered a merchant and raped his daughter. She too had been left for dead, but the knife had missed her heart, and she had lived to name her attackers.

'Don't bring them back,' the White Wolf had told him. 'I want them dead. No public trials. Bad for morale.' Nogusta had looked into the old man's pale, cold eyes.

'Yes, my general.'

'You want to take Bison and Kebra with you?' asked the general.

'No. Orendo was Bison's friend. I'll do it alone.'

'Was Orendo not your friend also?' said Banelion, watching him closely.

'You want their heads as proof that I killed them?'

'No. Your word is good enough for me,' said Banelion. That was a source of pride to Nogusta. He had served Banelion now for almost thirty-five years — almost all his adult life. The general was not a man given to praise, but his men served him with an iron loyalty. Nogusta stared into the fire. It had been more than a surprise when Orendo had betrayed him. But then Orendo was being sent home. Like Bison and Kebra. And even the White Wolf himself.

The king wanted the old men culled. The same old men who had fought for his father, saving the Drenai when all seemed lost. The same old men who had invaded Ventria, smashing the emperor's armies. Paid off and retired. That was the rumour. Orendo had believed it, and had robbed the merchant. Yet it was hard to believe he had also taken part in the rape and attempted murder of the girl. But the evidence was overwhelming. She said he had not only been the instigator of the rape, it had been he who had plunged the knife into her breast.

Nogusta stared moodily into the fire. Had the crime shocked him? A good judge of men he would not have thought Orendo capable of such a vile act. But then all those years ago he had learned what good men were capable of. He had learned it in fire and blood and death. He had learned it in the ruin of dreams and the shattering of hopes. Banking up the fire he moved the bed closer to the hearth. Pulling off his boots he lay down, covering himself with the thin blankets.

Outside the wind was howling.

He awoke at dawn. The cabin was still warm. Rising from the bed he pulled on his boots. The fire had died down to glowing embers. He took a long drink from his canteen, then put on his cloak, hefted his saddlebags, and went out to the gelding. The back stones of the hearth were hot, the temperature in the lean-to well above freezing. 'How are you feeling, boy?' he said, stroking the beast's neck. The gelding nuzzled his chest. 'We'll catch them today, and then I'll take you back to that warm stable.' Back in the cabin he put out the remains of the fire, then laid a fresh one in its place, ready for any other weary traveller who came upon it. Saddling the gelding he rode out into the winter woods.

Orendo stared gloomily at the jewels, purple amethysts, bright diamonds, red rubies, sparkling in his gloved hand. With a sigh he opened the pouch and watched them tumble back into its dark interior.

'I'm going to buy a farm,' said the youngster, Cassin. 'On the Sentran Plain. Dairy farm. I've always loved the taste of fresh milk.' Orendo's weary eyes glanced up at the slim young man and he said nothing.

'What's the point?' countered Eris, a thickset bearded warrior with small dark eyes. 'Life's too short to buy hard work. Give me the whorehouses of Drenan and a fine little house high on the Sixth Hill. A different girl every day of the week, small, pretty and slim hipped.'

A silence grew among them, as each remembered the small, pretty girl they had murdered back in the city of Usa. 'Looks like we're clear of snow today,' said Cassin, at last.

'Snow is good for us,' said Orendo. 'It covers tracks.'

'Why would anyone track us yet?' asked Eris. 'No-one saw us at the merchant's house, and there's no roll-call until tomorrow.'

'They'll send Nogusta,' said Orendo, leaning forward to add a chunk of wood to the fire. It had been a cold night in the hollow and he had slept badly, dreaming awful dreams of pain and death. What had seemed a simple robbery had become a night of murder and shame he would never forget. He rubbed his tired eyes.

'So what?' sneered Eris. 'There's three of us, and we're not exactly easy meat. If they send that black bastard I'll cut his heart out.' Orendo bit back an angry retort. Instead he rose and stepped towards the taller, heavier man.

'You have never seen Nogusta in action, boy. Pray you never do.' Stepping past the two younger men Orendo walked to a nearby tree and urinated. 'The man is uncanny,' he said, over his shoulder. 'I was with him once when we tracked four killers into Sathuli lands. He can read sign over rock, and he can smell a trail a hound would miss. But that's not what makes him dangerous.' Orendo continued to urinate, the water coming in slow, rhythmic spurts, sending up steam from the snow. He had endured trouble with his bladder for over a year now, needing to piss several times a night. 'You know what makes him dangerous?' he asked them. 'There is no bravado in him. He moves, he kills. It is that quick. When we found the killers he just walked into their camp and they were dead. I tell you it was awesome.'

'I know,' came the tomb-deep voice of Nogusta. 'I was there.'

Orendo stood very still, a feeling of nausea flaring in his belly. His water dried up instantly and he retied his leggings and turned very slowly. Eris was lying flat on his back, a knife through his right eye. Cassin was beside him, a blade in his heart. 'I knew they'd send you,' said Orendo. 'How did you find us so fast?'

'The girl lived,' said Nogusta.

'I thank the Source for that,' said Orendo, with a sigh. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes.' The black man's sword was sheathed, and there was no throwing knife in his hands. It does not matter, thought Orendo. I don't have the skill to best him.

'I'm glad. I wouldn't want Bison to see me now. Are you taking me back?'

'No. You will remain here, with your friends.'

Orendo nodded. 'Seems a shame to end a friendship this way, Nogusta. Will you take back our heads?'

'The White Wolf told me my word was good enough.'

Orendo felt a trickle of hope. 'Look, man, I was only the look out. I didn't know there was going to be murder. But it happened. There are enough jewels in that pouch to give us a life… a real life. We could buy a palace with them, you and me.' Nogusta shook his head. 'You could just tell them you killed me. And keep half the jewels.'

'That is what I will tell them. For you will be dead. You were not the look out,' said Nogusta, sadly. 'You raped the girl, and you stabbed her. You did this. You must pay for it.'

Orendo moved to the fire, stepping over the bodies of his companions. 'They were sending me home,' he said, kneeling down and pulling off his gloves. The fire was warm and he held his hands out to it. 'How would you feel? How does Bison feel?' He glanced up at the tall warrior. 'Ah, it is different for you, isn't it? The champion. The blade master. You're not quite as old as us. No-one's told you you're useless yet. But they will, Nogusta. The day will come.' He sat down and stared into the flames. 'You know, we had no intention of killing the merchant. But he struggled and Eris stabbed him. Then the girl ran in. She had been sleeping, and she was wearing a transparent shift. I still can hardly believe it happened. The room went very cold. I remember that, and I felt something touch me. Then I was filled with rage and lust. It was the same for the others. We spoke about it last night.' He looked up at Nogusta. 'I swear to you, Nogusta, that I believe we were possessed. Maybe the merchant was a sorcerer. But there was something evil there. It affected us all. You know me well. In all the years we have fought together I have never raped a woman. Never.'

'But you did three nights ago,' said Nogusta, moving forward, and drawing his sword.

Orendo lifted a hand. 'If you will permit me I will do the deed myself?'

Nogusta nodded and squatted down on the other side of the fire. Orendo slowly drew his dagger. For a moment he considered hurling it at the black man. Then the image of the girl came to his mind, and he heard her voice begging for life. Swiftly he drew the sharp blade across his left wrist. Blood flowed instantly. 'There is a bottle of brandy in my saddlebag. Would you get it?'

Nogusta did so and Orendo drank deeply. 'I-am truly sorry about the girl,' said the dying man. 'Will she recover?'

'I don't know.'

Orendo drank again, then tossed the bottle to Nogusta. The black man took a deep swallow. 'It all went wrong,' said Orendo. 'Never put your trust in kings. That's what they say. It was all so glorious in those early days. We knew where we were. The Ventrians invaded us and we fought back. We knew what we were fighting for.' Blood was pooling on the snow now. 'Then the boy-king convinced us we should invade Ventria, to force the emperor to end the war. No territorial ambitions, he said. Justice and peace were all he wanted. We believed him, didn't we? Now look at him! Emperor Skanda, would-be conqueror of the world. Now he's going to invade Cadia. But he has no territorial ambitions. Oh no… the bastard!' Orendo lay back and Nogusta moved around the fire to sit alongside him. 'You remember that boy I saved?' asked Orendo.

'Yes. It was a fine deed.'

'You think it will count for me? You know… if there is a paradise?'

'I hope so.'

Orendo sighed. 'I can't feel the cold now. That's a good thing. I've always hated the cold. Tell Bison not to judge me too hard, eh?'

'I am sure that he won't.'

Orendo's voice was slurring, then his eyes flared open. 'There are demons,' he said, suddenly. T can see them. There are demons!'

He died then, and Nogusta rose, collected the pouch of jewels and walked to his horse.

He glanced up at the sky, which was blue, clear and bright. Not a trace of cloud.

Stepping into the saddle he gathered the other three mounts and headed back for the city.

There were demons in the air over the city of Usa, shroud-pale and skinny, their talons long, their teeth sharp. Ordinary eyes could not see them, and they seemed to pose no threat to ordinary folk.

Why then are they here, thought Ulmenetha? Why do they hover close to the palace? The large priestess pushed her thick fingers through her short cropped blond hair. Rising from her bed she poured water into a bowl and washed her face. Refreshed she silently opened the connecting door and stepped through into the queen's bedroom. Axiana was asleep, lying on her back, one white slender arm curled around a satin pillow. Ulmenetha smiled. Only a few years before that arm had, in the same manner, cuddled a stuffed toy — a woollen lioness with only one glass eye.

Now Axiana was a child no longer.

Ulmenetha sighed. Despite her bulk the priestess moved silently across the royal bedroom, casting an affectionate look at the pregnant Axiana. The queen's face shone in the moonlight, and, in sleep, Ulmenetha could just discern the child she had grown to love. 'May your dreams be rich and joyful,' she whispered.

Axiana did not stir. The fat priestess reached the window balcony and stepped out into the moonlight. Her white-streaked blond hair shone like silver beneath the stars, and her voluminous nightdress of white cotton shimmered, as if turned to silk. There was a marble-topped table set on the balcony, and four chairs. Easing herself down she untied her rune pouch and placed it on the table. Ulmenetha gazed up at the night sky. All she could see with the eyes of her body were the stars, shining bright. To her left a crescent moon seemed to be balancing precariously on the uppermost tower of the Veshin temple. Closing the eyes of her body, she opened the eyes of her spirit. The stars remained, brighter and clearer now, robbed of the twinkling illusion caused by human astigmatism and the earth's atmosphere. Tall mountains could clearly be seen on the far-away face of the crescent moon. But it was not the night sky Ulmenetha wished to see.

Above the palace three scaled forms were hovering.

For weeks now their malevolent presence had kept her chained to her flesh, and she longed to fly free. But the last time she had tried they had come for her, screeching across the sky. Ulmenetha had barely made it back to her body.

Who had summoned them, and why?

Closing her eyes she loosened the draw-string of her rune pouch and reached inside, her fingers stroking the stones within. They were smooth and round and flat, and for a while she continued to stir them. At last one stone seemed to call for her, and she drew it from the pouch. Painted upon it was a cracked goblet. Ulmenetha sat back.

The Broken Flagon was a stone signalling mistrust. At best it warned of caution in dealings with strangers. At worst it signalled treachery among friends.

From the pocket of her white dress she produced two leaves. Rolling them into a ball she placed them in her mouth and began to chew. The juices were acrid and bitter. Pain lanced into her head and she stifled a groan. Bright colours danced now on the edge of her vision, and she pictured the Broken Flagon, holding to the image and freeing her mind of conscious thought.

A silver serpent slithered up and around the flagon, slowly crushing it. The flagon suddenly shattered, the pieces exploding outward, ripping through the curtain of time. Ulmenetha saw a tree-shrouded hollow and four men. Axiana was there. Ulmenetha saw herself kneeling beside the queen, a protective arm around her shoulder. The four men were warriors, and they had formed a circle around Axiana, facing outward ready to fight off some unseen threat. A white crow was hovering over them all, his wings beating silently.

Ulmenetha sensed a colossal evil, about to sweep over the hollow. The vision began to fade. She struggled to hold the image, but it collapsed in upon itself and a fresh scene unfolded. A camp-fire beside a dark frozen lake stretching between high mountains. A man — a tall man — sitting with his back to the lake. Behind him a dark, taloned hand reached up through the ice, then a demonic form pulled itself clear. It was colossal and winged and stood blinking in the moonlight. The great wings spread wide and the demon floated closer to the man at the camp-fire. It extended an arm. Ulmenetha wanted to cry out, to warn him, but she couldn't. The talons rammed into the back of the seated man. He reared up and screamed once, then slumped forward.

As Ulmenetha watched the demon began to shimmer, his body became black smoke, which swirled into the bloody wound in the dead man's back. Then the demon was gone, and the body of the man rose. Ulmenetha could not see his face, for he was hooded. He turned towards the lake and raised his arms. Through the surface of the ice a thousand taloned hands rose up to salute him.

Once more the vision faded and she saw an altar. Upon it, held with chains of iron, was a naked man with a golden beard. It was Axiana's father, the murdered emperor. A voice spoke, a soft voice, which she felt she should recognize, but it was blurred somehow, as if she were listening to a distant echo. 'Now,' said the voice, 'the day of Resurrection is at hand. You are the first of the Three.' The chained emperor was about to speak when a curved dagger sliced into his chest. His body arched.

Ulmenetha cried out — and the vision disappeared. She found her gaze focused now only on the bare, moonlit wall of the royal bedchamber.

The visions made no sense. The emperor was not sacrificed. Having lost the last battle he had fled with his aides. He had been slain, so it was said, by officers of his own guard, men disgusted by his cowardice. Why then should she see him sacrificed in this way? Was the vision symbolic?

The incident at the lake of ice was equally nonsensical. Demons did not live below ice.

And the queen would never be in a wood with a mere four warriors. Where was the king and his army? Where were the royal guards?

'Dismiss the visions from your mind,' she told herself. 'They are flawed in some way. Perhaps your preparation was at fault.'

Axiana moaned in her sleep and the priestess rose and moved to the bedside. 'Be still, my pet,' she whispered, soothingly. 'All is well.'

But all was not well, Ulmenetha knew. Her lorassium visions were certainly mysterious, and might indeed be symbolic. They were, however, never false.

And who were the four men? She summoned their faces to her mind. One was a black man, with bright blue eyes, the second a huge bald man, with a white, drooping moustache. The third was young and handsome. The fourth held a bow. She remembered the white crow and a shudder went through her.

This was one sign she could read without interpretation.

The white crow was Death.

Kebra the Bowman dropped a small golden coin into the palm of the outraged innkeeper. The fat man's anger faded instantly. There was no feeling in the world quite so warming as that of gold against the skin. The seething anger at the thought of broken furniture and lost business receded into minor irritation. The innkeeper glanced up at the bowman, who was now surveying the wreckage. Ilbren had long been a student of human nature, able to read a man swiftly and accurately. Yet the friendship of Kebra and Bison remained a mystery. The bowman was a fastidious man. His clothes were always clean, as were his hands and skin. He was cultured and softly spoken, and he had a rare talent for creating space around himself, as if he disliked crowds and the closeness of bodies. Bison, on the other hand, was an uncultured oaf and Ilbren despised him. The sort of man who would always drink two more flagons of ale than he could handle, and then became aggressive. Innkeepers loathed such customers. Bison's saving grace, however, was that to reach the last two flagons he could drink an inn dry, and would make every effort to do so. This naturally created large profits. Ilbren wondered how Kebra could tolerate such a friend.

'He did all this?' asked Kebra, shaking his head. Two long bench tables had been smashed, and several chairs were lying in pieces on the sawdust-covered floor. The far window had been smashed outward, and shards of broken glass still clung to the lead frame. An unconscious Ventrian officer was being tended by the window, and two other victims, common soldiers, were sitting near the doorway, one still bleeding from a gashed cheek, the other holding his bandaged head in his hands.

'All this and more. We have already swept away the broken crockery and two bent pots, which cannot be used again.'

'Well, at least no-one is dead,' said Kebra, his voice deep and sombre, 'so we must be grateful.'

The innkeeper smiled and lifted a flagon of wine, gesturing the grey clad bowman to join him at a nearby table. As they sat down he looked closely at Kebra's face. Deeply lined, as if carved from stone, Kebra looked every inch his fifty-six years. The bowman rubbed his tired eyes. 'Bison's like a child,' he said. 'When things go against him he loses control.'

'I do not know how it started,' said Ilbren. 'The first 1 knew of trouble was when I saw that officer flying

through the air. He hit that table there, and cracked it clean through.'

Two Ventrian soldiers came in carrying a stretcher. Tenderly they lifted the unconscious man onto it, and carried him out. A Drenai officer approached Kebra. He was a veteran, and well known to the bowman as a fair man. 'You'd better find him fast!' he warned Kebra. 'The wounded man is an officer on Malikada's staff. You know what the penalty will be if he dies.'

'I know, sir.'

'Gods, man! As if we haven't enough trouble with the cursed Ventrians as it is, without one of our men cracking the skull of one of their officers.' The Drenai swung to the innkeeper. 'No offence meant, Ilbren,' he said.

'Oh, none taken I am sure,' replied the Ventrian, with just a trace of sarcasm. The officer wandered away.

'I am sorry for the trouble, Ilbren,' said Kebra. 'Do you know where Bison went?'

'I do not know. He is old enough to know better than to wreak such. . such devastation.' The innkeeper filled two goblets, passing one to Kebra.

'This has not been a good day for him,' said Kebra, softly. 'Not a good day for any of us.' He sipped the wine, then laid the goblet down.

Ilbren sighed. 'I heard of the king's decision. We all have. For what it is worth I shall miss you.' He smiled. 'I will even miss Bison.' He stared at the white-haired archer. 'Still, war is for young men, eh? It is way past the time when you should have settled down with a wife and raised sons.'

Kebra ignored the comment. 'Which way did Bison go?'

'I did not see.'

Kebra moved away, stepping past the injured men in the doorway. 'It was just a bad joke,' said the soldier with the bandaged head. 'Then he went berserk.'

'Let me guess,' said Kebra. 'Something about his age, was it?'

The young soldier looked suddenly sheepish. 'It was just a joke,' he repeated.

'Well, I'm sure Bison didn't take it too seriously.'

'How can you say that?' stormed the second soldier. 'Look what he did to my face.' Blood was still seeping from his swollen cheekbone, and his right eye was closed tight, purple swelling distending the eyelid.

'I can say it because you are still alive, boy,' said Kebra, coldly. 'Did anyone see where he went?'

Both men shook their heads and Kebra stepped out into the fading winter sunlight. Across the square market traders were packing up their wares, and children were playing by the frozen fountain, scooping snow and fashioning balls which they hurled at one another. A tall black man in a long dark cloak moved through the crowd. The children stopped to watch him. Then one child moved silently behind him, a snowball in his raised hand.

'Not a wise move, child,' said the black man, without looking back. 'For if you throw it I shall be obliged to — ' suddenly he swung around '- cut off your head!' Terrified the boy dropped the snowball and sprinted back to his friends. The black man chuckled and strode on to where Kebra waited.

'I take it he was not at the barracks,' said Kebra. Nogusta shook his head.

'They have not seen him.'

The two men made an incongruous pair as they walked off together, Nogusta black and powerful, Kebra wand slim, white-haired and pale. Cutting through the narrow streets they reached a small eating house overlooking the river. They took a table by the fire and ordered a meal. Nogusta removed his cloak and the sheepskin jerkin he wore below it and sat down, holding his hands out to the blaze. 'I, for one, will be pleased to say farewell to this frozen country. Why is Bison so depressed? Does he not have three wives waiting for him back home?'

'That's enough to depress anyone,' replied Kebra, with a smile.

They ate in companionable silence and Nogusta added another log to the fire. 'Why is he depressed?' he asked again, as they finished their meal. 'There must come a time when a man is too old for soldiering, and we are all way past that. And the king has offered every soldier a pouch of gold, and a scrip to give them land when they return to Drenan. The scrip alone is worth a hundred in gold.'

Kebra thought about the question. 'There was a time,' he said, 'when I could outshoot any archer alive. Then, as the years went by, I noticed I could no longer see quite as clearly. When I turned fifty I could no longer read small script. That was when I began to think of going home. Nothing lasts for ever. But Bison is not a thinker. As far as he is concerned the king has just told him he is no longer a man. And he is hurting.'

'There is some pain for all of us,' said Nogusta. 'The White Wolf will be leading almost two thousand men home. Every one of them will feel some sense of rejection. But we are alive, Kebra. I fought for the king's father — as you did — and I have carried my sword through thirty-five years of warfare. Now I am tired. The long marches are hard on old bones. Even Bison must admit to that.'

Kebra shook his head. 'Bison admits to nothing. You

should have seen his face when they called the roll. He could not believe he had been chosen. I was standing beside him. You know what he said? "How can they send me back with all the old men?" I just laughed. For a moment I thought he was joking. But he wasn't. He still thinks he's twenty-five.' He let out a soft curse. 'Why did he have to hit a Ventrian? And what if the man dies?'

'If he dies they will hang Bison,' said Nogusta. 'Not a pleasant thought. Why did he hit the man?'

'He made a joke about Bison's age.'

'And the others?'

'I have no idea. We'll ask him when we find him. The officer was one of Malikada's men.'

'That makes it worse,' said Nogusta. 'He might demand a hanging, regardless. He's a hard man.'

'The White Wolf would never allow it.'

'Times are changing, Kebra. The White Wolf is being sent home with the rest of us. I doubt he has the power to oppose Malikada.'

'A pox on Bison,' snapped Kebra. 'He's always been trouble. You remember when he and Orendo stole that pig. .?' The bowman's voice faded away. 'I'm sorry, my friend, that was crass.'

Nogusta shrugged. 'Orendo took part in a rape and a murder. It saddens me that he is dead, but he was the victim of his own actions.'

'Strange, though,' said Kebra. 'I am a fair judge of men and I would never have believed Orendo capable of such an act.'

'Nor I. Where shall we look for Bison?' asked Nogusta, changing the subject.

Kebra shrugged. 'He was drunk when he thrashed those men. You know Bison. After a fight he'll look for a woman. There must be two hundred whorehouses

within walking distance. I do not intend to spend the night scouring them.'

Nogusta nodded, then he gave a wide grin. 'We could try just one, though,' he said.

'For what purpose? The odds against finding him are enormous.'

Nogusta leaned forward and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. 'I was not thinking of finding Bison,' he said. 'I was thinking of soft skin and a warm bed.'

Kebra shook his head. 'I think I'll return to the barracks. I have a warm bed there.'

Nogusta sighed. 'Bison refuses to get old, and you refuse to stay young. Truly, you white men are a mystery to me.'

'Life would be dull without mysteries,' said Kebra.

After Nogusta had gone he ordered another flagon of wine, then made the long walk back to the barracks. The room he shared with Nogusta and Bison was cold and empty. Bison's bed was unmade, the blankets in a heap on the floor beside it. The Senior Cul no longer made inspections, and without the threat of punishment Bison had reverted to slovenly behaviour.

Nogusta's bed was tidily made, but he had left a tunic upon it.

Kebra's pallet was immaculate, the blankets folded into a square, topped by the pillow, the undersheet pulled tight, the corners overlapped with a perfect horizontal fold. Kebra moved to the hearth and lit the fire. He had cleaned out the ash and re-laid it that morning, the kindling placed with perfect symmetry.

Just about now Nogusta would be lying beside a fat, sweating whore. He would be, perhaps, the twentieth man she had opened her legs for that day. Kebra

shuddered. It was a nauseating thought.

Silently he padded out to the bath house. The boilers had not been lit and the water was cold. Even so Kebra undressed and immersed himself, scrubbing at his body with soap. There were no clean towels on the rack. Angry now he searched through the large laundry basket and dabbed at his cold body with the cleanest of the used towels.

The collapse of discipline unnerved the bowman. Carrying his clothes he returned to the room and sat, shivering, in front of the fire. Then he took a nightshirt from his chest and slipped it on. It was crisp and clean and he could smell the freshness of the cotton. It eased his mind.

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.

'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.'

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 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 their 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 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 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.'

'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.