Winter Warriors (23 page)

Bison added a log to the fire as Kebra collected the pewter plates and carried them to the stream for cleaning. The giant cast a furtive glance at Nogusta, who was sitting quietly, his back to the cliff wall. Dagorian and Ulmenetha were whispering to each other, and Bison could not make out the words. Bison was confused by the events of the day. Nogusta had woken them early, and they had set off back toward the city. “The queen is in danger” was all the black man had said, and the ride had been fast, with no time for conversation. Bison was not a rider. He hated horses. Almost as much as he hated sleeping on the ground in winter, he realized. His shoulder ached, and he had a deep, nagging pain in his lower back.

Bison glanced toward where the queen was sleeping, the children stretched out alongside her. None of this made any sense to the giant. Skanda was dead, which served him right for putting his faith in Ventrians and sending all the best soldiers home. But this talk of wizards and demons and sacrifices made Bison uncomfortable. It was a known fact that men could not fight demons.

“What are we going to do?” he asked Nogusta.

“About what?” countered the black man.

“About all this!” said Bison, gesturing toward the sleepers.

“We’ll take them to the coast and find a ship bound for Drenan.”

“Oh, really? Just like that?” snapped Bison, his anger growing. “We’ve probably got the entire Ventrian army on our heels and demons, to boot. And we’re traveling with a pregnant woman who’s lost her mind. Oh … and did I mention the fact that we’re also saddled with the slowest wagon in Ventria?”

“She hasn’t lost her mind, you oaf,” Ulmenetha said icily. “She is in shock. It will pass.”

“She’s in shock? What about me? I was kicked out of the army. I’m not a soldier anymore. That was a shock, I can tell you. But I haven’t started singing to bears yet.”

“You are not a sensitive seventeen-year-old girl, heavily pregnant,” said Ulmenetha, “who has been torn from her home.”

“I didn’t tear her from her home,” objected Bison. “She can go back for all I care. So can you, you fat cow.”

“What do you suggest, my friend?” Nogusta asked softly.

The question threw Bison. He was not used to being asked for opinions, and he did not really have one. But he was angry at the fat woman for calling him an oaf. “We ought to ride on. She’s not Drenai, is she? None of them are.”

“I am,” said Ulmenetha, her voice edged with contempt. “But then, that is not the issue, is it?”

“Issue? What’s she talking about?” Bison demanded.

“This isn’t about nationalities,” said Dagorian. “The demons desire to sacrifice the queen’s child. You understand? If they succeed, the world will slide down into horror. All the evils we know from legends, the shape shifters, the hollow tooths, the Krandyl … all will return. We must protect her.”

“Protect her? There are four of us! How are we going to protect her?”

“The best way we can,” said Nogusta. “But you do not have to stay, my friend. Your life is free. You can ride away. You are not held here by chains.”

The conversation was heading along a path Bison did not like. He had no wish to leave his friends and was surprised that Nogusta would even suggest it. “I can’t read maps,” he objected. “I don’t even know where we are now. I want to know
why
we should stay with her.”

Kebra returned to the fire and carefully stowed away the clean plates. Then he sat down beside Bison. He said nothing, but his expression was one of amusement.

“Why
should we stay?” stormed Dagorian. “What kind of a question is that from a Drenai warrior? Evil threatens to kill
a child. Never mind that the child is the heir to the throne and that his mother is the queen. When evil threatens, good men stand against it.”

Bison hawked and spit into the fire. “Just words,” he said dismissively. “Just like all that high-sounding bull that Skanda used to spout before battles. Justice and right, forces of light against the dark tyranny. And where did it get us, eh? Army’s gone, and we’re sitting in a cold forest waiting to be struck down by demons.”

“He is quite right,” said Kebra with a wink to Nogusta. “There is no point in arguing the issue. I don’t much care about wealth and glory. Never did. The thought of getting back to Drenan and attending parades and banquets in my honor means nothing to me. And I do not need to live in a palace, surrounded by beautiful women. All I require is a simple farm on a nice plot of land. And I’ll best achieve those dreams by heading for the coast on a fast horse.”

“My point exactly,” Bison said triumphantly. Then he faltered. “What was that about wealth?”

Kebra shrugged. “Meaningless baubles. But can you imagine the kind of reception given to the small band of heroes who rescued the queen? Showered with gold and praise. Probably given a commission in the avenging army that would return to Ventria. Who needs it? You and I will head for Caphis tomorrow. We’ll sail home quietly and retire. You can have a place on my farm.”

“I don’t want to live on a farm,” insisted Bison. “I want to be in the … what did you call it? … the avenging army.”

“You probably can,” Kebra assured him. “You could dye your mustache black and pretend to be forty again. Now I’m for bed. It’s been a long and tiring day.”

Rising from the fire, he strolled to his blankets. “Would they really give us riches and fame?” Bison asked Dagorian.

“I fear so.”

“They’d probably write songs about you,” said Nogusta.

“A pox on songs! Can’t buy a whore with a song. But can we fight demons, Nogusta? I mean, can we actually beat them?”

“Have you ever seen me lose?” countered Nogusta. “Of course we can beat them.”

“Then I think you are right,” said Bison. “Can’t let evil get its own way. I’m with you.” Pushing himself to his feet, he walked back to his blankets and lay down. Within moments he was snoring softly.

“Sweet heaven, he makes me sick,” said Dagorian.

“Don’t judge him so harshly,” Nogusta told him. “Bison is not a complex man, but he has a little more depth than you give him credit for. He may have trouble with the concepts, but the realities are different. You will see. Now you get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch. And I’ll wake you in around three hours.”

When Dagorian had gone, Ulmenetha moved alongside Nogusta. “Do you believe we can make it to the coast?” she asked him.

“Do you believe in miracles?” he countered.

Nogusta sat alone, enjoying the solitude. There was no real need to keep watch. They could do nothing if attacked here except fight and die. But he had always enjoyed forest nights, the wind whispering in the leaves, the filtered moonlight, and the sense of eternity emanating from the ancient trees around him. Forests were never silent. Always there was movement, life. Bison’s gentle snoring drifted to him, and he smiled. Dagorian and Ulmenetha had gazed at the giant scornfully when he had decided to travel with them for the wealth and the glory. Nogusta knew better. Bison needed an excuse for heroism. Like all men of limited intelligence he feared being tricked or manipulated. There was never any doubt that he would journey with them. Kebra had known this and had given Bison the excuse he needed. The giant would stand beside his friends against any foe.

Do you believe in miracles? Nogusta had asked Ulmenetha.

Well, a miracle would be needed, he knew. Lifting Dagorian’s map, he turned it toward the fire. The symbols stood out well in the flickering light. Some twenty miles to the south was the line of the River Mendea. Three fords were marked.
If they could reach the first by late tomorrow they would have a chance to cross the water and lose themselves in the high country. After that there was another seventy miles of rugged terrain. Old forts were indicated along the southern route, but they would be deserted now. There might be villages along the way from which they could obtain supplies, but probably not. This was inhospitable land. Then they would reach the plains and face a further 150 miles west to the coast. Even with the five spare horses it would be a month of hard, slow travel. We cannot make such a journey undetected, he realized. Despair struck him.

Ruthlessly he suppressed the emotion. One step at a time, he cautioned himself. First the river.

“Why are you doing this for us?” Ulmenetha had asked him.

“It is enough that I do,” he had told her. “It needs no explanation.”

He thought about it now, recalling the dread day he had arrived home to find his family murdered, seeing their bodies, carrying them to graves he dug himself. He had buried them and with that had buried his dreams and theirs. All their hopes and fears had been consigned to the earth, and a part of him had remained there with them in the cold, worm-filled ground.

He glanced around the camp. Ulmenetha was asleep in the wagon. Nogusta liked the priestess. She was a tough woman, and there was no give in her. Rising, he walked around the fire and stood over the sleeping children. Conalin was a sullen boy, but there was steel in him. The two girls were cuddled together under one blanket. The child Sufia had her thumb in her mouth and was sleeping peacefully.

Nogusta walked to the edge of the camp. Through a break in the trees the black silhouette of the mountains could be seen against the dark gray of the sky. He heard Kebra approach.

“Can you not sleep?” he asked the bowman.

“I slept for a while. But I am getting too old to enjoy cold nights on bare earth. My bones object.”

The two men stood in silence, breathing in the cold, clean
air of the night. Then Kebra spoke. “The riders we killed were carrying around three days of supplies. They may not be missed for a while.”

“Let us hope so.”

“I’m not afraid of dying,” Kebra said softly. “But I am afraid.”

“I know. I feel it, too.”

“Do you have a plan?” asked the bowman.

“Stay alive, kill all enemies, reach the coast, find a ship.”

“Things always look brighter when you have a plan,” said Kebra.

Nogusta smiled, then his expression hardened. The black man ran his hand over his shaved head. “The forces of evil are gathering, and all hope rests in the hands of three old men. It almost makes me believe in the Source. The sense of humor here is cosmic.”

“Well, my friend, I
do
believe. And if I had to pick three old men to save the world, I’d make the same choice he did.”

Nogusta chuckled. “So would I, but that just makes us
arrogant
old men.”

For two days Antikas Karios searched to the west. Now he and his fifteen men rode weary horses into Usa. The men were no less tired and sat slumped in their saddles. They had removed their bronze helms and hung them from the pommels of their saddles. Their clothes were travel-stained, their white cloaks grimy. Antikas was faced with two unpalatable truths, first that the fleeing group must have headed south and second that Vellian had either betrayed him or was dead. The latter was surely unlikely. Dagorian was a highly skilled swordsman, but he could not have defeated five veteran soldiers.

Antikas recalled the notes he had read concerning the young officer. The son of a hero general, Dagorian had never wished to be a soldier. In fact he had trained for two years to be a priest. According to the reports, pressure from his family had led him to enlist in his father’s regiment. These facts alone would have meant little to most men, but to the sharp mind of Antikas Karios they revealed a great deal. To become
a priest required not only immense commitment and belief but a willingness to put aside all desires of the flesh. Such a decision could not be taken lightly and once taken would clothe a man in chains of iron. But Dagorian had shrugged off those chains following “pressure from his family.” His commitment to his god therefore had been less than his commitment to his kin. This showed either a weak personality or a man destined always to put the needs of others before his own desires. Or both.

Antikas had not been concerned when Malikada had ordered the officer’s death. Nor had he been unduly surprised when Dagorian had bested the assassins. But his actions since were mysterious. Why had he kidnapped the queen? And why had she apparently gone willingly with him?

The tall chestnut he was riding stumbled on the wide avenue, then righted itself. Antikas patted its neck. “Soon you can rest,” he said.

It was nearing dusk as they approached the palace gates. A pall of smoke hung over the western quarter of the city, and there was no one on the streets. Sending his riders to the barracks to tend their mounts and get some rest, Antikas rode through the gates of the palace. Two sentries were standing at attention as he passed. Guiding his horse to the stable, he dismounted. There were no stable hands in sight. This irritated Antikas, and he unsaddled the gelding and rubbed him down with a handful of dry straw. Then he led him to a stall. Antikas filled the feed box with grain, drew a bucket of water from the stable well, and covered the gelding’s back with a blanket. He deserved more, and Antikas was irritated that no ostlers were present. But then, why should they be? he thought. There are no other horses in the stables.

Antikas was tired, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, but he went in search of Malikada. Rather than face the long walk back to the main doors, he cut in through the kitchen entrance, thinking to order a meal sent to his rooms. Here, too, there was no sign of life. The place was deserted. As he moved on, he saw piles of unwashed, food-encrusted dishes and noticed that the pantry door was open, the shelves empty.
It made no sense. At dusk the kitchens should have been bustling with servants preparing the evening meal.

Climbing the narrow winding stair to the first floor, he emerged into a wide, richly carpeted corridor and walked on, past the library, to the ornate staircase leading to the royal apartments. After his experience at the stables and kitchens he was not surprised to find no sign of servants, and none of the lanterns had been lit. The palace was gloomy and was lit only by the fading light of the dying sun streaming through the tall windows.

He had just begun to believe Malikada was staying at the barracks when he saw two sentries at the door of what had been Skanda’s apartments. Antikas strode toward them. Neither offered him the customary salute. He paused to admonish them, then heard Malikada’s voice call out from beyond the door. “Come in, Antikas.”