Winter Warriors (30 page)

Conalin added sticks to the dying fire and sat watching the flames flicker as Kebra settled down alongside Bison. The bowman spread his blanket over his lean frame, then came up on one elbow. “You are a bright lad, Conalin,” he said. “You can be whatever you want to be if your dreams are grand enough.”

For a while Conalin sat quietly by the fire. Dagorian emerged from the bushes and strolled to the wagon. The young officer looked tired, his movements heavy with weariness. Conalin watched him take an apple from a food sack and bite into it. Seemingly unaware of the boy, Dagorian strolled back to the fire, pausing to gaze down on the sleeping figure of Axiana. Pharis was lying beside her, little Sufia cuddled in close. Dagorian stood silently for a moment, then sighed and joined Conalin by the dying blaze. Bison began to snore again. Conalin rose and prodded the giant with his foot, exactly as
Kebra had done. Obligingly Bison rolled over, and the snoring ceased.

“Neatly done,” said Dagorian, reaching out and adding the last of the fuel to the fire.

Conalin did not reply. Rising, he left his blanket and wandered to the tree line, gathering dry sticks and twigs. He was not tired now, for his mind was full of questions, and the only man he would trust to answer them was asleep. He made several trips back to the fire and was pleased to see Dagorian settle down in his blankets.

Conalin walked to the nearby stream and drank, then moved out away from the camp, strolling through the moonlit woods. The night breeze rustled in the leaves, but there was no other sound. The day’s drama seemed far away now, an incident from another life. Then he remembered the big man running at the mounted knight, ducking under his horse, and hurling the enemy back into the flames. He knew what Ulmenetha had meant when she had said she was surprised. Conalin had not expected such a rare display of courage from the obscene old man. Yet the others had not been surprised. Conalin walked on, oblivious to his surroundings. The night air was full of new scents, fresh and vibrant and utterly unlike the musty stink of the city. He came to a break in the trees and saw a moonlit meadow. Rabbits were feeding on the grass, and he paused to watch them. It seemed strange to see these creatures so full of life. His only previous experience of them was to see them hanging by their hind legs in the marketplace. Here, like him, they were free.

A dark shadow swept over the meadow, and a great bird swooped low over the feeding rabbits. They scattered, but the bird’s talons slashed across the back of one fleeing rabbit, bowling it over. Before it could rise, the bird was upon it, gripping it tight, its curved beak tearing the life from its prey.

Conalin watched as the hawk fed.

“That is unusual,” said a voice. Conalin leapt like a startled deer and swung around, fists raised. Nogusta was standing beside him. The boy’s heart was pounding. He had not heard the black man approach. Nogusta appeared not to notice
Conalin’s reaction. “Hawks usually feed on feather,” he said. “They need to be wedded to fur by a falconer.”

“How can they survive on feathers?” asked Conalin, anxious to seem unperturbed by the warrior’s silent approach.

Nogusta smiled. “Not literally feathers. It means they generally feed on other birds, pigeon and—if the hawk is clever enough—duck. This hawk probably escaped his handler and returned to the wild.”

Conalin sighed. “I thought the rabbits were free here,” said Conalin.

“They are free,” said Nogusta.

“No. I meant really free. Free from danger.”

“Nothing that walks, flies, swims, or breathes is ever free from danger. Speaking of which, you should not stray too far from the camp.”

Nogusta turned and walked away into the darkness. Conalin caught up with him. “If you do save the queen,” he said, “what reward will you get?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t given it any thought.”

“Will you become rich?”

“Perhaps.”

They reached the edge of the camp, and Nogusta paused. “Go and get some rest. We will have to push hard tomorrow.”

“Is that why you are doing this?” persisted Conalin. “For the reward?”

“No. My reasons are far more selfish.”

Conalin took a step toward the camp. Then another question occurred to him, and he swung around. But Nogusta was nowhere to be seen.

Gathering his blankets, Conalin lay down beside Pharis. There was so much here that he did not understand. What could be more selfish than laboring for a personal reward?

Life in the city had been brutally hard, and Conalin had been alone for much of his young life. Even so, he felt he understood the nature of human existence. Happiness was a full belly, joy was having enough food for a full belly tomorrow, and love was a commodity mostly associated with money. Even his love of Pharis was ultimately selfish, for
Conalin gained great pleasure from her company. It was that pleasure, he believed, that led him to yearn for her, like the men and women who gathered at the Chiatze house and smoked the long pipe, paying for pleasure dreams and returning again and again with haunted eyes and shrinking purses.

Conalin had no recollection of his parents. His first memories were of a small room packed with children. Some of them were crying. All of them were filthy. Conalin had been tiny then, perhaps three or four years of age. He recalled the baby lying on a soiled blanket. He remembered prodding it with his finger. It did not move. The lack of movement had surprised him. A fly had landed on the baby’s open mouth and slowly walked over the blue lips. Some time later a tall man had removed the baby.

Conalin could not remember the man’s face. It had seemed so high and far away. But he remembered the legs, long and thin, encased in loose-fitting black leggings. His time in the house of gloom had not been happy, for his belly was rarely full and there were many beatings.

After that there had been several homes. One, at least, had been warm and comfortable. But the price of that warmth had been too high, and he pushed the memories away.

Life on the streets had been better.

Conalin had even begun to think of himself as a wise man. He knew where to steal his breakfast and could always find a warm, safe place to sleep, even in the depths of harsh winters. The soldiers of the watch could never catch him, and his troubles with the street gangs had largely ended when he had killed Cleft-tongue. The gangs avoided him then, for Cleft-tongue had been feared, and anyone who could kill him in one-to-one combat was not to be trifled with. Conalin remembered the fight without any pleasure. He had not wanted to kill anyone. All he desired was to be left alone. But Cleft-tongue would have none of it. “You steal on my patch, you pay rent,” he had said. Conalin had ignored him. Then, one night, the burly youth had come at him with a knife. Conalin had been unarmed and had run. He recalled the laughter that
had followed him on his flight. Angry, he had stolen a butcher’s cleaver and returned to where the gang had settled down for the night in a deserted alleyway. He had walked up to where Cleft-tongue sat, called his name, and, as the youth turned, hit him in the temple with the cleaver. The blade had sunk deep, far deeper than Conalin had intended. Cleft-tongue had died instantly.

“Now leave me alone,” Conalin had told the others.

They had done so.

Unable to sleep, Conalin pushed back his blanket and rose, walking to a nearby tree and urinating. Then he moved to the remains of the fire and added some of the twigs he had gathered earlier. With a stick he located the last glowing area of coals and, for some minutes, tried to blow them to fresh life. Finally admitting that the fire had died, he sat back.

That was when he noticed the glow on the far side of the camp, a soft white light that was bathing the body of the sleeping priestess. Conalin watched it for some time, then moved to Kebra’s side and woke the bowman.

“What is it, lad?” Kebra asked sleepily.

“Something is wrong with the priestess,” said Conalin.

Kebra sat up, then pushed back his blankets. Dagorian awoke, saw the glowing light, and, with Conalin and Kebra, walked over to where Ulmenetha lay. The light was stronger now, almost golden. It was radiating from her face and hands. Kebra knelt beside her.

“She is burning up,” said the bowman. Conalin looked closer. Sweat was running from the woman’s fat face, and her silver and blond hair was drenched. Kebra tried to wake her, but to no avail. The light around her grew brighter, and small white flowers blossomed around her blankets, writhing up through the grass. A heady scent filled the air, and Conalin could hear faraway music whispering in his mind. Kebra drew back the blanket that covered the priestess. Only then did they see that she was floating some inches above the ground.

Nogusta moved alongside them, kneeling down and taking Ulmenetha’s hand. The glowing light swelled and flowed up
along Nogusta’s arm, bathing him in light. Releasing her hand, he leapt backward.

“Is she under attack?” asked Dagorian.

“No,” said Nogusta. “This is not blood magick.”

“What should we do?” put in Kebra.

“Nothing. We will cover her and wait.”

Conalin peered down at the priestess’s glistening face. “She is getting thinner,” he whispered. It was true. Sweat was coursing over her body, and her flesh was receding.

“She’ll die if this carries on,” said Kebra.

“What is happening to her is not of an evil origin,” said Nogusta. “If it were, I would sense it through my talisman. I do not think she will die. Cover her.”

Conalin lifted the blanket over Ulmenetha. As he did so, his hand touched her shoulder. Once more the light flowed, bathing him. An exquisite feeling of warmth and security filled him. His back itched and tingled, and he moaned with pleasure. Dizziness overcame him, and he fell back to the grass. Pulling off his filthy shirt, he gazed down at his arms. The open sores had vanished, and his skin glowed with health. “Look!” he said to Kebra. “I am healed.”

The bowman said nothing. Reaching out, he also touched the priestess. The light flowed over him. Bright lights danced behind his eyes, and it seemed at first as if he were looking through a sheen of ice, distorting his view. Slowly the ice melted, and he found himself staring at the distant mountains, their peaks sharp and clear against the new dawn. He, too, sat back. “I can see!” he whispered. “Nogusta, I can see! Clearly!”

As the dawn rose, streaking the sky with gold, the light around Ulmenetha faded away, and her body slowly settled down upon the carpet of white flowers.

Her eyes opened, the last of the golden light shining from them.

“We cannot reach the coast,” she said. “The demon lord is marching his army across the mountains, and the way to the sea is closed to us.”

Nogusta knelt beside her. “I know,” he said wearily.

Ulmenetha tried to sit but sagged back exhausted. Her lips were dry. Nogusta ran to the wagon, returning with a water skin and a cup. Helping her sit, he held the cup to her lips. She drank sparingly. “We must try … to reach … the ghost city,” she said. “Now let me rest.” Nogusta lowered her to the ground. She fell asleep instantly.

“What did she mean?” asked Kebra. “The sea is our only hope.”

“We would never reach it. The Krayakin are less than a day behind us, and the Ventrian army is moving across the mountains. Three thousand men are on the march, and more than two hundred cavalry have been sent to cut us off from the coast.”

Kebra knew the strength of Nogusta’s third eye, and he sat silently for a moment, absorbing the information. “What, then, can we do?” he asked. “We cannot fight an army, and we cannot escape it. Is our plan merely to run until we are exhausted—like an elk tracked by wolves?”

“Who is being tracked by wolves?” asked Bison, rising from his blankets and walking across to join them. Before Nogusta could explain the situation to him the giant saw the sleeping priestess. “Kreya’s tits!” he exclaimed. “Look at her! She’s thin as a spear. What have I missed?”

“A great deal, my friend,” said Kebra. Slowly he explained the events of the last few minutes: the glowing around the priestess, the healing of his eyes and the sores on Conalin’s back and arms, and last, the news of the march of the Ventrian army. Bison ignored the last news.

“She healed you? What about my ear? It hurts like the devil. You could have woken me up. What kind of a friend are you?” He dropped to his knees beside the priestess and shook her shoulder. Ulmenetha did not stir. “Well, this is nice,” said Bison, glancing up at Kebra. “So far I’ve been bitten by wolves, burned by magick, and kicked by a horse. And you get your eyes healed. Is that fair?”

“Life is not fair, Bison,” Kebra said with a smile. “As any one of your large number of wives would testify.” His smile faded. “The question is, What are we going to do?” At that
moment Axiana cried out. Beside her Pharis awoke and moved to her side.

“What is it, my lady?” she asked.

“I think … the baby is coming,” said Axiana.

Axiana was frightened and called for Ulmenetha. The black warrior Nogusta moved to her side. “She cannot come to you now,” he said, taking the queen’s hand. “She is sleeping and cannot be woken.” Fear turned to panic in Axiana.

“The baby is coming! I need her!” Her face spasmed as fresh pain seared through her.

“Move aside, man,” said Bison, dropping to his knees beside the frightened girl.

“I don’t want you!” shouted Axiana, horrified. “Not you!”

Bison chuckled. “As I’ve just been told, life isn’t fair. But I’ve birthed babes before, and a large number of horses, cows, and sheep. So you’ll just have to trust me.” He turned to Nogusta. “I want you to make a screen around her. Give us some privacy. And you, girl,” he told Pharis, “can help me.” Bison drew back the blanket covering the queen. Her gown was wet. “The water’s broken,” he said. He looked across at Nogusta. “Could we get a little urgency going here?”

Nogusta nodded and rose. Nogusta and Dagorian cut long branches from nearby trees, then stripped them of leaves. Plunging them into the earth around the queen, they tied blankets to them, creating a roofless tent around her. Several times she cried out. Pharis emerged and moved to the stream, filling a bowl with water and returning to the tent.