Tim Leach - A Winter War

The beating of hooves. A single rider, coming from the darkness.

Everywhere there were people making signs against evil and misfortune, for only the lost and the mad travelled alone on the steppe. There was no war gear upon that newcomer, no lance in hand or armour on his back, no banner that might mark his clan. Wrapped in fur and cloth, his clothes too ragged to tell what people he came from. Hunched over the saddle, the mark of a sleepless hard ride, and beneath him his horse a thing of bone, and it made a sound almost like weeping as it stumbled towards the fire.

As the newcomer came closer, they soon saw why he remained on horseback as he moved amongst them, for this was a man who could not walk unaided. A corpse it seemed at first, so hollow were the cheeks, the skin stretched tight across the skull, the legs withered to almost nothing. They thought he might be one of those war trophies, a dead man tied to a saddle and sent home as a curse and warning. But the head moved from side to side, and the lips moved. He searched and spoke, though so soft that none might hear him.

Still they did not believe him to be living – some rider from the Otherlands, come to take a tribute in blood. A few, half-hearted, reached for their knives and called at him to stop, but the rider did not slow. And though he wore no weapon there was something that made them fear to touch him.

He reached the edge of the fire, and bowed all the way forward in his saddle, his forehead touching the mane of his horse. Prayer, or relief. Then he half fell from the saddle, both hands clasped to its horn to hold himself upright.

He was looking about then, absent and muttering, like those old men who have lost their wits and are being led to the mercy of a killing circle. Speaking too soft to be heard, but there were none who dared to come close, it seemed. Until a child came forward, some young girl of the people who slipped from her mother’s hands and went to him, leaned close and heard what was whispered. She did not seem afraid until she turned back to see all eyes upon her – she blushed, and looked at the ground, and spoke.

‘He asks for Kai of the Dragon, if he lives.’

For a moment, Kai thought that the first thought must have been true – that this was a visitor from beyond. That the gods were angered enough by the honour he had been marked with, that this was his punishment.

From close by, he felt Arite plucking at his arm, and he heard her cry out a name. For she knew it before he did, but only by a moment.

Kai was running then, putting his arms about that man, more to hold him up than an embrace. The words spilling from his lips, formless and meaningless, for there was everything to say and yet no way to say it. And that man buried his head against Kai’s shoulder and wept like a child – the same way that Kai had wept against him, so many times before.

For it was Bahadur who stood there, against all the odds.

There are some men who wear the favour of the gods as surely and lightly as a wolf wears its fur. The lost sheep from their herd wander back of their own accord, the dice fall their way on every bet that truly matters, the charging bull checks at the very last moment as though commanded by a god. Life and luck follow them as spring follows winter, and none of their kin or companions resent them for it. For the lost sheep that finds its way home is slaughtered and given to a neighbour, the winnings from the lucky dice are gifted amongst the players, and their survival against the odds has the makings of a story to be shared. They return the love that the world has shown to them and give it to their people, and all are richer for it.

Such a man was Bahadur. Of all the men to see so broken, Kai could not have foreseen it would be him. For those god-touched souls meet the quick death when their time comes. A few brilliant summers, before the death by blade or swift sickness. They are spared the slow rot, the breaking of defeat. That is the greatest sign of their blessing.

But he was there, hollowed by starvation and sickness. And they were speaking together then, lips to each other’s ears, even as the crowd roared and screamed about them.

‘I thought I saw you killed upon the ice,’ said Kai.

‘Worse than that. A prisoner of Rome. So I am as shamed a man as you are, Kai.’

‘Never will you be a shamed man to me.’

‘Nor you to me.’ And Kai felt the other man hold him closer, until the bones were pressing against Kai’s skin like knives. ‘Why did I say such a thing? I am so sorry, Kai. I cannot think.’

‘You must never apologise to me. Never.’

The madness was close, like a living thing in the shadows around them. But then Kai could feel Arite’s hands upon him – almost a lover’s touch, as she unwound the men’s embrace and took her husband into her own arms.

All around them, panic and madness breaking through the crowd. Kai could feel it more than he could see it, the same way one could sense the fear of a herd, the rout of a warband on the battlefield. Figures coming forward like wolves in the night, hands reaching and clawing, the dream readers and the seers crying foul omens for anyone to hear. But close by, the white-painted faces, the chosen warriors looking back upon him, awaiting a command.

‘Keep them back!’ Kai said, and once more he was obeyed. No weapons in hand, but no need for them either – they looked foreboding enough, almost a circle of the dead as they surrounded him, their palms open towards the surging mob. And the crowd beyond seemed to withdraw, the madness passing.

They were moving then, carrying Bahadur away as they might have taken a slain king from the battle, wishing to deny an enemy the prize of the body. Past the emptied bowls of wine and meat, the marked ground of the wrestlers and the feathered targets of the archers, until they came to the tented wagons. Bahadur screamed at the sight of them – some memory, perhaps, of confinement and darkness, that sent him twisting and clawing away. But Arite was the stronger, and she forced him within.

Those white-marked riders there once more at his side, waiting for their orders. And Kai felt for the very first time the weariness of command, when one had no good order to give. When one longed to be told what to do oneself.

‘This man must rest,’ he said. ‘If any of you have wine or honey to give, spare it if you can. Otherwise, go and rest yourselves. Whatever omen he brings, you shall need your sleep to answer it.’

They were gone, and under the light of the moon Kai could see the unpainted faces of those who remained. Then there were shadows moving in the darkness, a pack of men pushing through the crowd. At their head Kai could see Gaevani, the white of the scar across his scalp like a victor’s crown. Beyond him, a figure towered above the rest, the moonlight glittering upon iron and gold, and upon something else, too – a great cape of hair and skin. Zanticus, chieftain of the Wolves of the Steppe, bearing his cloak of scalps.

‘I will speak with this man Bahadur,’ the chieftain said shortly.

‘He speaks to no one tonight,’ said Kai. ‘He may still die before the morning. A chance in a thousand, for him to ride through the land alone so early in the season.’

‘I have always heard him to be a fortunate man.’

‘Does he look lucky to you now?’ Kai snapped.

‘No, he does not.’ The clink of iron, as Zanticus put one hand under his cloak. ‘He has come from the Romans. His words will not wait.’

‘How do you know of that?’

‘You have just told me, of course.’ Zanticus shrugged. ‘But surely it can be guessed. Where else would he have been all winter? Living in a cave like a bear?’

Another scream broke out from the tented wagon behind them, and Gaevani stepped to his chieftain’s side. ‘We shall get no sense from him tonight. I shall ensure we hear his words tomorrow.’