Winter Warriors (45 page)

Conalin saw his companions at the far end of the chamber sitting on a raised octagonal dais. Kebra saw him and smiled. Conalin strode to where the bowman sat. “They are all old men,” he said bitterly.

“They were our comrades,” said Kebra. “Most of them are younger than Bison.”

“And Bison’s dead,” snapped Conalin. Instantly he regretted
it, for he saw the pain in Kebra’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said swiftly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just … they looked so strong when we first saw them.”

“They
are
strong,” said Kebra. “And they have the White Wolf to lead them. He has never lost a battle.”

“We should ride on,” said the boy. “Leave the old men to fight.”

Kebra shook his head. “This will be the final battle, Con. Here, in this ruined place. I will not run any farther.”

Conalin sat beside the bowman, his shoulders bowed. “I wish I had never come with you,” he said.

“I am glad that you did. You have taught me a great deal.”

“I have? What could I teach you?”

Kebra gave a sad smile. “I have always wondered what it would be like to have a son, a boy I could be proud of, someone I could watch grow into manhood. You have shown me what it could have been like. And you are quite right! There is no reason for you to stay here. There is nothing you can do. Why not take Pharis and Sufia and some supplies and head off into the hills. If you head west, you will eventually reach the sea. I will give you money. I do not have much, but it will help.”

The thought of leaving touched Conalin like the cool breeze that followed a storm, blowing away his anger and his fear. He and Pharis would be safe. And yet in that moment it was not enough. “Why can you not come with us? One man won’t make a difference.”

“These are my friends,” said Kebra. “A true man does not desert his friends in time of need.”

“You think I am not a man?” asked Conalin.

“No, no! I am sorry for the way that sounded. You will be a fine man. But you are young yet, and war is not for …” He was going to say “children,” but as he looked into Conalin’s young face, he saw the man there, waiting to be born. “I do not want to see you hurt, Con,” he said lamely.

“Nor I you. I think I will stay.”

Kebra cleared his throat and held out his hand. Conalin
looked embarrassed, but he gripped it firmly. “I am proud of you,” said Kebra.

They sat in pleasant silence for a while, and Conalin gazed around the enormous building. “What was this place?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” admitted Kebra. “But it has the feel of a temple, don’t you think?”

“I have never been in one,” said Conalin.

Sufia was sitting on the floor close by, rubbing at the stones with the ragged sleeve of her dress. “There’s pictures on the floor,” she said happily.

Ulmenetha moved to her side, kneeling down. “They are called mosaics,” she told the child. “They are created with lots of colored stones.”

“Come look!” Sufia called out to Conalin. He did so. There was no way of telling what the original mosaic had depicted, for many of the colored stones had been shattered by falling masonry from the ceiling, the rest covered by the dust of centuries. There was a tiny patch of blue and a line of red. It could have been a flower or a section of sky.

“It’s very pretty,” he told her.

“I shall clean it all up,” she said with the confidence of the very young, and began to scrub at a tiny section.

“It will take you weeks,” he said, staring around the vast temple.

“Weeks,” she repeated. “That’s all right.” She rubbed at the stones for a few more seconds, then sat back. “I’m hungry now.”

Conalin picked her up and kissed her cheek. “Then let us find you some food,” he said. Perching her on his shoulders, he walked back out into the sunlight. Pharis was sitting on the steps. Off to the left was a line of seven wagons. Cook fires had been lit close by, and the three of them moved off in search of a meal.

As they approached the cook fires, an elderly soldier called out to them. The man had a wicked scar on his face and a black patch over what had once been his right eye. Beside
him was a trestle table stacked with pewter plates. “You look in need of something hot and savory,” he said. Moving to a huge black cooking pot, he ladled thick stew into three deep plates and handed them to the youngsters. “Take some spoons,” he said, “but bring them back with the plates when you’re finished. Then I’ve some honey cakes for you.”

Conalin thanked the man. The soup was thick and nourishing, though with too much salt for the boy’s liking. But he was famished and consumed it with relish. The old soldier did not wait for them to return the utensils but came over with a plate of honey cakes. Sufia grabbed two, then looked anxiously up at Conalin, waiting for a rebuke. When none came, she happily devoured them.

“Why did you come here?” Conalin asked the soldier.

“White Wolf brought us,” said the man.

“Yes, but why?”

“He didn’t say. Just offered us twenty gold pieces a man. Said there might be a battle.”

“There will be,” said Conalin.

“Good. Wouldn’t want to come all this way for nothing,” said the soldier. Collecting the plates and spoons, he moved away. Moments later other soldiers began to file past the cook fires, and soon the area was crowded. Everyone seemed at ease, and many of the soldiers took time to speak with the youngsters. Conalin was confused.

“They seem to be looking forward to fighting,” he said to Pharis. “I don’t understand it.”

“It is what they do,” replied the girl. “It is what they are. We should take some food back to the queen.”

“Can I carry it?” asked Sufia.

“Of course you can, little one.”

“I won’t spill any,” she promised. “Not even a drop.”

Axiana watched as four veteran soldiers erected Banelion’s tent at the far end of the temple. Simple furniture was carried in: a hinged bed, several canvas-backed chairs, and a folding table. Then they swept the floor inside and laid simple rugs
upon it. Not once did the men look at her. It was as if she were invisible. While they were working, the youngsters returned. The blond child, Sufia, brought her a bowl of soup. She thanked her with a smile and turned away from the soldiers while she ate.

Some distance away Antikas Karios and Kebra were sitting beside the sleeping figure of Nogusta. The black man’s wounds were healing, but his continuing weakness was a source of concern.

As Axiana finished her meal, the tall, slim, armored figure of Banelion entered the temple, followed by two soldiers carrying a wooden chest. The White Wolf approached the queen and bowed low. “I am pleased to see you safe, Your Highness,” he said. “My tent is yours, and I took the liberty of bringing some spare clothes for you.” Gesturing the men forward, he had the chest placed on the dais before her and opened. The first item she saw was a dress of sky-blue satin. “I do not have an eye for fashion, Your Highness,” said Banelion, “but I borrowed these from a noble lady in Marain. It is a small town, and there was little to choose from.”

“It was kind of you, sir, and I thank you.” Ulmenetha appeared alongside her, taking the sleeping baby from the queen’s arms. Axiana reached out and stroked the dress. It was wonderfully soft. Then she noticed—against the clean pure satin—how dirty her hands were. For the first time in days she felt embarrassment.

“There is an antechamber just beyond where the tent is placed,” said Banelion. “There is a spring there. Some of my men have prepared a fire and warmed some water. When you are ready, you and your maidservant can refresh yourselves. I brought a small amount of scented oil with me to perfume the water.”

Before Axiana could reply, another soldier entered, carrying a roughly made crib and a small woven mattress. Setting it beside the queen, he placed the mattress within it. “Best I could do in the time, my lady,” he said with a bow. Ulmenetha placed the babe within it. The child settled contentedly on the mattress, his sleep undisturbed.

The unexpected kindness left Axiana close to tears. She smiled at the soldier. “You are most kind.” The man blushed and backed away.

The White Wolf gazed down at the babe, a faraway look in his eye. Then he straightened. “There are some clothes for an infant at the bottom of the chest,” he said.

“You seem to have thought of everything,” said Axiana. “I am most grateful. But tell me, how is it that you are here in our hour of need? We are a long way from the sea.”

He glanced at Ulmenetha. “First Kalizkan appeared to me in a dream, then this lady came. She told me of your peril and the threat to your son. She asked me to bring my men to this city. I did so willingly. And if it is humanly possible, I shall take you on to Drenan.”

Axiana sat quietly for a moment, gathering her thoughts. For the last few days she had been like a straw in the wind, swept along without the benefit of choice. Her life as a queen had meant less than nothing in the wilderness, and she had given birth to her child while kneeling in the mud like a peasant. But here and now was the moment of decision. Was she still a queen? Would her son live to find his destiny? She looked into the pale eyes of the White Wolf and saw the strength there, the iron will that had carried Skanda to a score of victories. “And if I do not wish to go to Drenan?” she said at last.

“Drenan would be safest,” he said.

“You swore an oath to Skanda. Do you accept his son as his rightful heir?”

“I do, lady.”

“Then I ask you again, as the mother to the king, what if I do not wish to go to Drenan?”

She knew this was difficult for him. Continued war between the two nations was more than likely. If Axiana remained in Ventria, the Drenai would almost certainly declare independence. If she went to Drenan, the Ventrians would find another emperor. At least with her and the child in Drenan the Drenai would have legitimate cause to reinvade Ventria. She held to his iron gaze without flinching. He smiled.
“If not Drenan,” he said, “then I will escort you to wherever you wish to travel. You are not my hostage, Your Highness, or my prisoner. I am your servant and will do whatever you bid.”

Axiana rose. “I will think on what you have said, General. But first I would like to bathe and lay aside these garments of travel.” He bowed, and one of the soldiers stepped forward to lead the queen and Ulmenetha toward the antechamber.

The White Wolf strode to where Nogusta lay. Antikas Karios and Kebra rose. Banelion gave Antikas a cold look, then knelt beside the wounded warrior. Nogusta opened his eyes as Banelion took his hand. “Am I always to rescue you, my boy?” he said fondly.

“It would seem so. It is good to see you, General.” Nogusta’s smile faded. “Bison didn’t make it.”

“I know. The priestess showed me his death in a dream. It was valiant and no less than I would have expected from him. He was an obdurate man, and I liked him not at all. But he had heart. I admired that.”

Nogusta relaxed and closed his eyes. “It is not over, General. There are three thousand Ventrians riding with the demon lord. They think he is Malikada.”

“I wish he was,” Banelion said, sourly. “I’d have dearly loved to slit his treacherous throat.”

“A feeling I am sure he would have reciprocated,” said Antikas Karios. The White Wolf ignored him.

“I am not troubled by the numbers of the enemy,” he told Nogusta. “I am more concerned that they are being duped. Ulmenetha tells me that if the demon lord is successful, the soldiers riding with him will—like Malikada—be possessed and destroyed. It is bad enough having to kill men in a good cause. But those Ventrians are going to die for the wrong reasons.”

“Good of you to concern yourself,” said Antikas, his words edged with sarcasm.

Once again Banelion ignored him. “Rest now,” he told Nogusta. “Regain your strength. I will do all that needs to be done.” Then he rose, and his pale eyes rested for a moment on
Antikas. “I watched you fight alongside Dagorian on the bridge,” he said. “I loved that boy, and it was good of you to say that prayer for him. I am not a religious man, but I would like to think that a light did appear for him and lead him to your palace.” Without waiting for a response, he strode away, calling his soldiers after him.

“He hates me, yet he praises me,” whispered Antikas. “Truly he is a strange man.”

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t,” said Kebra. “One rarely knows what the White Wolf is thinking. That’s what makes him the best. There’s never been a general like him.”

“You think he genuinely cares about what happens to the Ventrian troops?”

“Oh, yes,” Kebra told him. “He does not revel in slaughter. There is no battle madness in him.”

Antikas looked down. Nogusta was sleeping again. He knelt beside the black man and looked closely at his face. A thin sheen of sweat lay upon the skin, and snow-white bristles were showing on his shaven head. “It is easy to forget how old he is,” Antikas said with a sigh. He looked up and smiled at Kebra. “I watched him fight Cerez, and I marveled at his skill. I thought him to be around forty years of age. Had I known he was this old, I would have bent my knee to him.”

Glancing down once more, he saw the talisman on Nogusta’s chest begin to glow, the silver moon in the golden hand, shining like a tiny lantern.

“What does that mean?” asked Antikas.

“Evil is near,” said Kebra, lifting his hand and making the sign of the protective horn.

The White Wolf stood outside the ruins and once more cast his eyes over the landscape. There was a line of hills to the left and the right, thinly covered by trees and brush, but the ground was flat and uncluttered between the hills. The Ventrian army was mainly cavalry, and he pictured all possible lines of attack.

He glanced back at the ruins. They could, of course, decline
a pitched battle here and move around the ruins, coming at him from all sides, but he thought this unlikely. Cavalry could not operate effectively in the ruins themselves, and by spreading themselves thin they would hand the advantage to the Drenai foot soldiers. No, the best chance of victory for the enemy lay in a direct frontal assault, seeking to sunder the line and scatter the defenders.