Winter Warriors (8 page)

The winter sun was high now, its pale warmth melting the patches of snow.

“I wanted to be a priest,” said Dagorian. “I thought I heard the call. Then my father was killed, and my family informed me it was my duty to take his place. From a priest to a soldier … there’s a leap!”

“Once there were warrior priests,” said Nogusta. “The Thirty. There are many legends of them.”

“There has been no temple since the War of the Twins,” said Dagorian. “But the order had slipped a long way by then. One of my ancestors fought alongside the Thirty at Dros Delnoch. His name was Hogun. He was a general of the legion.”

“I only know about Druss and the Earl of Bronze,” admitted Nogusta.

“That’s all anyone remembers. I sometimes wonder if he even existed at all … Druss, I mean. Or was he just a combination of many heroes?”

“Don’t say that to Bison. He swears he is of Druss’ line.”

Dagorian gave a wry chuckle. “Almost every soldier I know claims Druss as an ancestor. Even the king. But the simple fact is that most of the earliest stories tell us Druss had no children.” Trumpets sounded, and Dagorian looked up to see the royal party moving back to their seats.

Nogusta woke Bison. “Almost time, my friend,” he said.

Bison sat up and yawned. “That was all I needed,” he said. “Now I’m ready. How’s Kebra doing?”

“He didn’t take part in the elimination event,” said Nogusta. “As reigning champion he can come in for the final stages, the Horse, the Hanging Man, and the Distance.”

“He’ll win,” said Bison. “He’s the best.”

“Place no money on him, my friend,” said Nogusta, lightly touching the center of his forehead.

“Too late,” said Bison.

Dagorian strolled to a food tent and purchased a wedge of meat pie, which he ate swiftly, then returned to the meadow. He saw Bison engaged in a furious contest with a massive opponent. Bison was bleeding from cuts above both eyes and seemed to be suffering. His opponent charged in, ducking to grab Bison’s leg and upend him. But the Drenai warrior skipped back, then dived onto the tribesman’s back. Both men rolled, but Bison had a neck lock in place. Robbed of air, the tribesman was forced to submit. Bison rose, staggered, then sat down. Nogusta ran to his side, helping Bison from the circle. Men were cheering now and clapping Bison on the back.

Dagorian moved forward to offer his congratulations when a giant of a man stepped in front of him. “You will be easy meat, old man,” he told Bison. “Look at you! You’re exhausted.” Dagorian saw anger in Bison’s eyes, but Nogusta half dragged him away. The young officer followed them.

“Who was that?” he asked Nogusta.

“The Ventrian champion, Kyaps,” said the black man.

“I’ll … whip … him, too,” muttered Bison.

Dagorian moved to Bison’s left, and between them he and Nogusta half carried Bison to a bench seat. The big man slumped down. “Semifinals, eh?” he said, spitting blood to the grass. “Just two more and I’ll be champion.”

“When is the next bout?” asked Dagorian.

“They are preparing for it now,” said Nogusta, massaging Bison’s huge shoulders.

“I think he should withdraw,” said the officer.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Bison, forcing a grin. “I’m just acting like this to fool them all.”

“It’s certainly fooling me,” Nogusta said dryly.

“Have faith, black man,” grunted Bison, heaving himself to his feet. The Ventrian champion was waiting for them. He tied his long dark hair into a ponytail and gave a wide smile as the older man entered the circle. At the sound of the drum Bison surged forward, to be met with a kick to the chest that halted him in his tracks. A chopping elbow opened a huge cut on his cheek, then Kyaps ducked down, threw an arm between Bison’s legs and heaved him high, hurling him out of the circle. The old man landed hard. He lay still and did not move. Nogusta and Dagorian moved to his side. He was out cold. Nogusta felt for a pulse.

“Is he alive?” asked Dagorian.

“Yes.”

After some minutes Bison stirred. He tried to open his eyes, but one was swollen shut. “I guess I didn’t win,” he mumbled.

“I guess you didn’t,” agreed Nogusta.

Bison smiled. “Still, I earned some money,” he said. “I only bet myself to make the semis. Ten to one they offered.”

“It’ll cost you what you won to have your face mended,” Nogusta told him.

“Nonsense. You can stitch the cuts. They’ll be fine. I’m a fast healer.” He sat up. “I should have entered the boxing,” he said. “I would have won that.”

The two men helped him to his feet. “Let’s go see Kebra win,” said Bison.

“I think you should have another nap,” advised Nogusta.

“Nonsense. I feel strong as an ox.”

As they were about to move off, Kyaps strolled across to where they stood. He was a full head taller than Bison. “Hey, old man,” he said. “The next time you see me, you kiss my boots. Understand?”

Bison chuckled with genuine humor. “You have a big mouth, child,” he told him.

Kyaps leaned forward. “Big enough to swallow you, you Drenai scum!”

“Well,” said Bison, “swallow this.” His fist smashed into Kyaps’ chin, and Dagorian winced as he heard the snapping of bone. The Ventrian champion hit the grass face first and did not move. “See,” said Bison. “I should have entered the boxing. I’d have won that.”

3

K
EBRA THE
B
OWMAN
was relaxed, his mind focused, his emotions suppressed, all thoughts of Bison’s actions forgotten. Anger would not be an ally now. Archery required calm concentration and great timing.

He had entered the tourney in the fifth stage with only twenty archers left. The target, thirty paces away, was a straw man with a round red heart pinned to the chest. Kebra had struck the heart ten times with ten shafts, giving him a hundred points. The Ventrian bowman standing to his right had hit nine, and two other men had hit seven.

Those four alone moved on to the sixth stage.

The crowd among the competitors was swelling now, and once again Kebra could feel the old excitement coursing through him. He had watched the other three competitors, and only the stocky Ventrian posed any real danger. But the man was being unsettled by the mainly Drenai crowd, which jeered and shouted as he took aim.

The next event was one of Kebra’s favorites. He had always enjoyed the Horse, for it was the closest the tourney could offer to combat shooting. Led by running soldiers, four ponies bearing figures of straw tied to the saddle would pass before the bowmen. Each archer was allowed three shafts. There was a larger element of luck in this event, as the horses would swerve, causing the straw figures to sway in the saddle. But the crowd loved it. And so did the Drenai champion.

Kebra stood waiting, one shaft notched to the string, two others stuck in the ground before him. He glanced at the four ostlers, watching them eke out the guide ropes. A trumpet
sounded. The men ran forward, exhorting the ponies to follow them. Three obeyed immediately, the fourth hanging back. Kebra drew back on the string, sighting carefully, allowing for the speed of the first horse. He loosed the shaft. Without waiting to see it strike home, he ducked down and notched a second arrow. Coming up smoothly, he shot again at the second target. An angry roar went up from the crowd. Kebra ignored the impulse to see what had caused it and brought his bow to bear. The last pony, an arrow jutting from its flank, had reared up and was fighting the rope. It broke loose and galloped toward the king’s pavilion. Kebra loosed his last shaft and watched as it arced toward the panic-stricken pony. The arrow punched home in the back of the straw man.

Angry jeers turned to a roar of applause at the strike. Several men ran out onto the meadow and gathered the wounded pony, which was led away. The man whose arrow had caused the wound was disqualified.

Only then did Kebra have a chance to check his score. All three shafts had scored. Another thirty points.

The Ventrian archer, a small, chubby man, turned to him. “It is an honor to see you shoot,” he said. He held out his hand. “I am Dirais.”

Kebra accepted the handshake. He glanced at the scoreboard, held aloft by a young cadet. The Ventrian was ten points behind him. The other archer, a slim young Drenai, was a further twenty points adrift.

A dozen soldiers moved out onto the meadow, dragging a wheeled, triangular scaffold, twenty feet high, across the grass. As they were setting it into place, Kebra saw the king and Malikada striding out from the pavilion, coming toward them.

Skanda gave a wide grin and clapped Kebra on the shoulder. “Good to see you, old lad,” he said. “That last shot reminded me of the day you saved my life. A fine strike.”

“Thank you, sire,” Kebra said with a bow.

Malikada stepped forward. “Your legend is not exaggerated,” he said. “Rarely have I seen better bowmanship.” Kebra bowed again.

Skanda shook the young Ventrian’s hand. “You are competing with the finest,” he told Dirais. “And you are acquitting yourself well. Good luck to you.” Dirais gave a deep bow.

Malikada leaned in close to the Ventrian. “Win,” he said. “Make me proud.”

The king and his general moved back, and the last three archers faced the Hanging Man.

A figure of straw was hung from the scaffold. A soldier dragged the figure back, then released it to swing like a pendulum between the supports. The young Drenai stepped up first. His first shaft struck the straw man dead center, but his second hit a support pole and glanced away. His third missed the Hanging Man by a whisker.

Next came Dirais, and the Hanging Man was swung back once more. It seemed to Kebra that it was given an extra push by the Drenai soldiers and was moving at greater speed. And the Drenai soldiers in the crowd began again to jeer and shout in an effort to unsettle the Ventrian. Even so, the chubby archer hammered his first two shafts into the dummy. His third struck a support pole.

Kebra stepped up. The figure was swung again, this time more sedately. For the first time anger flared in the bowman. He did not need this advantage. Even so he did not complain and, calming himself, sent three arrows into the target. The applause was thunderous. He glanced toward Dirais and saw the fury in the man’s dark eyes. It was bad enough for him to be facing the Drenai champion without such partisan efforts from the officials.

The young Drenai archer was eliminated, and now came the final test. Two targets were set up thirty paces distant. They were the traditional round targets, with a series of concentric circles, each of a different color, surrounding a gold circle at the center. The outer rim was white and was worth two points. Within this was blue worth five, then silver worth seven, and lastly gold for ten.

Kebra shot first and struck gold. Dirais equaled him. The targets were moved back ten paces. This time Kebra only
managed blue. Dirais, despite the increased jeering, struck gold once more.

With only two shafts left Kebra was leading by 175 points to 160. Keep calm, he told himself. The targets were lifted and carried back another ten paces. The colors were a distant blur to Kebra now. He squinted hard and drew back on the string. The crowd was silent. He loosed, the shaft arcing gracefully through the air to thud home into the white. There were no cheers from the crowd now. Dirais took aim and struck gold once more—177 points to 170, with only one shaft left.

The targets were moved back again. Kebra could only dimly make out the outline. He rubbed his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, he took aim at the target he could barely see and let fly. He did not know where the shaft landed but heard one of the judges shout: “White!” He was relieved to have hit the target at all—179 points to 170.

Dirais would need gold to win. Kebra stepped back. The spectators were shouting now at the top of their voices.

Please miss, thought Kebra, wanting the championship more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. His chest felt tight and heavy, and his breathing was shallow. He glanced at the crowd and saw Nogusta. Kebra tried to force a smile, but it was more like a death’s-head grin.