David Gemmell - The Winter Warriors

'Done!' said Bison, happily. 'Heaven knows I'm no rider.'

Dagorian came riding up the trail. 'About a mile further the road widens,' he said. 'There is even a paved area. It is overgrown now, but it will help us earn back a few miles.'

Bison climbed to his place at the driving seat and sat upon a folded blanket. 'Ah, but that is good,' he murmured, settling himself down and taking up the reins. Kebra saw the boy was having difficulty reaching the stirrup of Bison's mount and edged closer, holding out his hand. Conalin spurned it and clumsily hauled himself up. Kebra dismounted and adjusted the stirrups.

'Have you ever ridden, lad?' he asked.

'No, but I am a fast learner.'

'Grip with your thighs, not your calves. And trust the horse. He knows what he's doing. Come, I'll give you a lesson.' Swinging into the saddle he moved out over the rise and slowly rode down to the flat land below. Glancing back he saw Conalin holding the reins at chest level as the horse picked its way down the slope. At the base of the hill Kebra drew alongside Conalin, showing him the basics of guiding the mount.

'We'll try a trot,' he said. 'You must get in rhythm with the horse. Otherwise you'll end up like Bison, and it will play a tattoo on your buttocks. Let's go!'

Kebra's mount moved smoothly into a trot. Behind him Conalin was being bounced around in the saddle. His horse slowed. 'Don't haul on the reins, lad. That's his signal to stop.'

'I'm no good at this,' said the red-head, his face flushing. 'I'll go back to the wagon.'

'Nothing good ever comes easy, Conalin. And I think you are doing fine. A born horseman.'

'Truly?'

'You just need to get used to the horse. Let's try again.'

As the wagon trundled down the slope the two riders set off once more. For a while Conalin felt his spine was being bruised, but then, suddenly and without warning, he found the rhythm and the ride became a delight. The sun broke through the clouds, and the tightness in his stomach faded away. He had lived his life in the squalor of the city, and had never before seen the glory of the mountains. Now he rode a fine horse, and the breeze was fresh against his skin. He found in that moment a joy he had never known. He gave Kebra a wide grin. The bowman smiled and rode in silence beside him. At the tree line they swung their mounts.

'Now for a little canter,' said Kebra. 'Not too much, for the horses are tired.'

If trotting had been a joy, the ride back to the wagons was a delight Conalin would treasure all his life. The rags he wore were forgotten, as were the sores on his back. Today was a gift no-one could take away from him.

'You ride so well — like a knight!' Pharis told him as he drew alongside the wagon.

'It's wonderful,' he told her. 'It's like. . it's like. .' He laughed happily. 'I don't know what it's like. But it's wonderful!'

'You won't be saying that by this evening,' warned Bison.

Dagorian rode with them for the next hour, then headed off towards the south to find a place to camp.

As the sun began to slide towards the western mountains Nogusta came galloping up from the rear. 'There is no sign of pursuit yet,' he told Kebra. 'But they are coming.'

'We won't reach the river by tonight. The horses are tired,' said the bowman.

'As am I,' admitted Nogusta.

They rode on, and as dusk deepened they came across Dagorian, camped beside a small lake. He had lit a fire and the weary travellers climbed down from the wagon to sit beside it. Kebra and Conalin unsaddled the horses, wiping their backs with dried grass. Kebra showed the boy how to hobble the mounts, then they left them to graze and unhitched the wagon team. Conalin was moving stiffly and Kebra grinned at him. 'The muscles on the inside of your thighs have been stretched,' he said. 'You'll get used to it. Did you enjoy the ride?'

'It was all right,' said Conalin, nonchalantly.

'How old are you, lad?'

The boy shrugged. 'I don't know. What does it matter?'

'At your age I don't think it does. I am fifty-six. That matters.'

'Why?'

'Because my dreams are all behind me. Do you swim?'

'No. And I don't want to learn.'

'It is almost as fine a feeling as riding a horse. But it is up to you.' Kebra strolled away to the lake side and stripped off his clothing. The water was cold as he waded out. Then he dived forward and began to swim with long easy strokes. Conalin wandered to the water side and watched him in the fading light. After a while Kebra swam back and climbed out of the water. He shivered and dried himself with his tunic, which he then stretched out on a rock. Pulling on his leggings he sat down beside the boy.

'I don't dream,' said Conalin, suddenly. 'I just sleep and then wake up.'

'Those are not the dreams I spoke of. I meant the dreams we have for life, things we wish for ourselves, like a wife and family, or riches.'

'Why are they behind you? You could have these things,' said the boy.

'Perhaps you are right.'

'My dream is to wed Pharis, and to fear nothing.'

The sky darkened to crimson as the sun dropped behind the western peaks. 'It would be nice to fear nothing,' admitted Kebra. Bison strolled up and draped a blanket around Kebra's shoulders.

'Old men like you should beware of the cold,' said Bison, walking on and dipping a cup into the water. He drank noisily.

'Why did he say that?' asked Conalin. 'He looks old enough to be your father.' Kebra chuckled.

'Bison will never be old. You look at his bald pate and his white moustache and you see an old man. Bison looks in a mirror and sees a young man of twenty-five. It is a gift he has.'

'I don't like him.'

'I agree with you. I don't like him much either. But I love him. There's no malice in old Bison, and he'd stand by your side against all the armies of the world. That's rare, Conalin. Believe me.'

The boy was unconvinced, but he said nothing. Out on the lake the splintered reflection of the moon lay broken upon the water, and to the west the lake gleamed blood red in the dying sun. Conalin glanced up at the silver-haired bowman. 'Will I ride tomorrow?' he asked him.

Kebra smiled. 'Of course. The more you ride the better you'll get.'

'It feels safer on a horse,' said Conalin, gazing out over the lake.

'Why safer?'

'The wagon is so slow. When they catch us we'll not be able to escape in a wagon.'

'Maybe they won't catch us,' said Kebra.

'Do you believe that?'

'No. But there's always hope.' Conalin was pleased that the man had not tried to lie to him. It was a moment of sharing that made the boy feel like an equal.

'What will you do when they come?' asked Conalin.

'I'll fight them. So will Nogusta and Bison. It's all we can do.'

'You could ride away on your fast horses,' Conalin pointed out.

'Some men could, but we're not made that way.'

'Why?' asked the boy. It was such a simple question, yet, at first, Kebra was unable to answer it. He thought about it for a while.

'It is hard to explain, Conalin. You start by asking yourself what makes a true man. Is it his ability to hunt, or to farm, or to breed stock? In part the answer is yes. Is it his capacity to love his family? In part the answer is also yes. But there is something else. Something grand. It seems to me that there are three instincts which drive us on. The first is self-preservation — the will to survive. The second is tribal. We have an urge to belong, to be a part of a greater whole. But the third? The third is what counts, boy, above all things.'

Ulmenetha moved silently alongside them and removed her shoes. Sitting down she rested her feet in the water.

'What is the third thing?' asked Conalin, angry that they had been interrupted.

'That is even harder to explain,' said Kebra, who was also disconcerted by the arrival of the priestess. 'The lioness would willingly give her life to save her cubs. That is her way. But I have seen a woman risk her life for someone else's child. The third instinct compels us to put aside thoughts of self-preservation for the sake of another life, or a principle, or a belief.'