David Gemmell: The Winter Warriors

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.'