David Gemmell - The Winter Warriors

'It's not about preference, boy. It's about survival. Still, I'm grateful.' The beggar rose, and swung the black cloak around his thin shoulders. 'You'd better start thinking about a hiding place. If you can stay clear of them for a couple of days they'll believe you escaped from the city. Then you can make a move.'

'I do not know the city,' admitted Dagorian.

'Then good luck to you,' said the beggar. Holding the boots in his left hand he moved to where his knife lay and picked it up. Then he was gone.

Dagorian moved away, ducking down a dark alley. The man was right. He needed a place to hide. But where could a man hide from the powers of sorcery?

He felt the rising of panic, and quelled it. The White Wolf had taught him much, but the most valuable lesson was that, when in peril, keep a cool head. 'Think fast if you have to — but always think!' Dagorian sucked in a deep, calming breath, and leaned against a wall. Think! Where can the powers of sorcery be held at bay? In a holy temple. He considered travelling to one of the many churches, but that would mean asking for sanctuary. The building may be holy, but he would be putting his life in the hands of the monks. And — even if they did not betray him — he would be risking their lives. No, that was not an option. Where else then? At the home of a friendly sorcerer, who could place ward spells around him. But he knew no sorcerers — save Kalizkan.

Then a thought struck him. The old woman who had been killed by her son. She had laid ward spells on all the doors of the inner room.

Dagorian carried on walking, trying to get his bearings. The old woman had lived in the northern section of the old quarter. He glanced at the sky, but there were thick clouds and he could see no stars. He walked on for an hour. Twice he saw soldiers of the Watch, and ducked into the shadows.

At last he reached the woman's house. Moving to the rear he scaled a wall and entered the building. There were no windows in the back room and Dagorian lit a lantern. Blood still stained the walls, and the rune stones remained scattered on the table. He glanced at the two doors. Both bore the carved triangle and the snake.

Hoping that the ward spells were still active he blew out the lantern and moved to a narrow bed in the corner.

Sleep came instantly.

He was sitting in a cave, and a fire was burning. He felt hot and confused. 'Be calm, child,' came a familiar voice. He tried to place it, and remembered the shining figure who had rescued him at the wizard's house.

'What am I doing here?' he asked, sitting up and looking around. The cave was empty, and when the voice spoke again, he realized it was coming from the blazing fire.

'You are not here. There is no here. This is a place of spirit. Your body lies in the woman's hovel. It was a good choice. They will not find you.'

'Why do you not show yourself?'

'All in good time, child. Have you put together the clues? Do you even begin to understand what is happening?'

'No. All I know is that Malikada wishes me dead.'

'Malikada cares nothing for you, Dagorian. You are an incidental in a great design. Kalizkan — or the creature that calls itself Kalizkan — is a Demon Lord, of enormous power. He seeks to cast the Spell of the Three Kings. If he succeeds the world will be changed beyond the recognition of man. It will become as it once was. The demons

will be flesh once more, and the two worlds will become one.'

Dagorian raised his hand. 'Stop for a moment. This is making my head spin. The two worlds? What is the meaning?'

'Aeons ago the creatures we call demons lived among us. Shape-Shifters, blood-drinkers, were beings. We were at war with them for a thousand years. Then three kings came together, and with the aid of a mighty wizard they changed the world, banishing the demons to another place, a grey realm of spirit. Sorcerers can still summon demons using blood magic, opening the gateways for fleeting heartbeats. But when the spell is done the demons return to the grey. Kalizkan seeks to repeat the Spell of the Three Kings.'

'And he can do this?'

'It has already begun, child. The Ventrian emperor was the first to be sacrificed. But the spell requires three deaths, each of kings, and each king to be mightier than the last. When the final death blow is delivered the world will be cursed as it was in time past. The drinkers of blood will return.'

'Three kings? Then they will try to kill Skanda. I must get to him.'

'You cannot. His death is but hours away, and on the fastest horse you could not reach the army within a day. By this time tomorrow the Drenai army will be destroyed, and Skanda will be strapped to the altar.'

'Sweet Heaven! There must be something I can do.'

'You can save the third king.'

'There is no king greater than Skanda.'

'There is his unborn son. If destiny allows him to live he will be a greater man than his father. But Kalizkan plans to destroy him.'

'I could not get into the palace. They are searching for me everywhere.'

'If you do not then all is lost.'

Dagorian awoke in a cold sweat. As he saw the solid walls of the house relief swelled within him. It was a dream. He laughed at his foolishness, and fell asleep once more.

Wrapped in his cloak against the night cold Nogusta leaned back against the tree and fed another stick to the fire. Bison was snoring softly, the sound strangely comforting in the quiet of the night. Nogusta drew one of his ten diamond-shaped throwing knives from the black baldric draped across his chest and idly twirled the blade through his fingers. The silver steel gleamed in the moonlight.

Ushuru would have loved this place of high, lonely beauty, the vast expanse of the mountains, the wildness of wood and forest. She would have been happy here. We would have been happy here, he corrected himself.

Time had not eased the grief. Perhaps he had not wished it to.

His mind flew back, ghosting over the years, seeing again the huge living-room. They had all been laughing and joking, sitting around the hearth. His father and his two brothers had just returned from Drenan, where they had negotiated a new contract with the army for a hundred horses, and the celebrations were in full flow. He could still see Ushuru sitting on the couch, her long legs drawn up beneath her. She was Grafting a dream-deceiver for Nogusta's youngest nephew. A web of twisted horse hair, woven around a sapling circle that would hang over his bed. Nightmares were said to be drawn to the deceiver, and trapped in the web, leaving the sleeper free of torment. The twenty-year-old Nogusta moved to her side, placing his arm over her shoulder. Lightly he kissed her cheek.

'It is a fine piece of work,' he told her.

She smiled. 'It will confuse the sleep demons.'

He grinned. She had learned the western tongue well, but her translations were always too literal. 'Do you miss the lands of Opal?' he asked her, in the ancient tongue.

'I would like to see my mother again,' she told him. 'But I am more than content.'

She continued to weave the web. 'Of what does Kynda dream?' he asked her.

'Fire. He is surrounded by fire.'

'He burned his fingers last week at the forge,' Nogusta told her. 'Children learn by such painful mistakes.' Even as the thought came to him a bright picture formed in his mind. A small child tumbling down a steep slope. As she fell her foot became trapped under a jutting tree root, snapping her leg. Nogusta stood.

'What is it, my love?' asked Ushuru.

'A child hurt in the hills. I'll find her.'

He kissed her once more, this time upon the lips, then left the house. The memory burned at him now with exquisite pain. He had been twenty years of age, and would never kiss her again. The next time he saw her, less than ten hours distant, she would be a corpse, her beauty destroyed by knives and fire. Kynda's nightmares would have come true, flames roaring through his bedroom.