Winter Warriors (17 page)

One by one Nogusta dug the graves, refusing all offers of help.

When they were all buried, the pale-eyed officer returned. “We have rounded up some of your horses. The rest escaped into the mountains. The tack room was largely intact, and I have had a horse saddled for you. I need you to come with me to the garrison to make a report on the … incident.”

Nogusta did not argue. They rode for most of the day and camped that night at Shala Falls. Nogusta had spoken to no one during the ride. Now he lay within his blankets, his emotions numbed. It was as if he could feel nothing. He kept seeing Ushuru’s face and her smile.

Two of the soldiers were talking nearby, their voices low. “Did you see it?” said one. “It was horrible. I’ve never seen the like. Don’t want to again. Made me feel sick.”

Even through the numbness, Nogusta felt grateful for the sympathetic reaction of the soldier.

“Yes, it was gross,” said his companion. “The White Wolf blowing air into a black man’s mouth! Who’d believe it?”

Even now—more than thirty years later—Nogusta felt cold anger rising in him at the memory. Still, anger is a better emotion than sorrow, he thought. Anger is alive and can be dealt with. Sorrow is a dead creature and sits like a weight that cannot be released.

He rose and wandered away into the trees, gathering more dead wood for the fire. You should sleep, he told himself. There will be killers coming. You will need all your strength and skill.

Returning to the fire, he fed it and then settled down under his blanket, his head resting on his saddle.

But sleep would not come, and he rose again. Bison groaned and woke. Pushing back his blanket, the giant pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to a nearby tree, where he urinated noisily. Retying his leggings, he turned and saw Nogusta sitting by the fire.

“Didn’t find any gold today,” he said, squatting down beside the black man.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“You want me to keep watch?”

Nogusta grinned. “You never could keep watch, Bison. By the time I lie down you’ll be asleep.”

“I do find it easy to sleep,” admitted Bison. “I was dreaming about the battle at Purdol. You, me, and Kebra on the wall. Have you still got your medal?”

“Yes.”

“I sold mine. Got twenty Raq for it. Wish I hadn’t now. It was a good medal.”

“You can have mine.”

“Can I?” Bison was delighted. “I won’t sell it this time.”

“You probably will, but it doesn’t matter.” Nogusta sighed.
“That was the first great victory. It was on that day we realized the Ventrians could be beaten. I remember it rained all that day, lightning in the sky, thunder over the sea.”

“I don’t remember much about it,” admitted Bison. “Except that we held the wall and the White Wolf supplied sixty barrels of rum for the army.”

“I think you drank most of it.”

“That was a good night. All the camp whores gave it away for free. Have you slept?”

“Not yet,” said Nogusta.

Bison tugged at his white walrus mustache. He could see his friend was unhappy but did not have the courage to broach the subject. Nogusta and Kebra were both
thinking
men, and much of what they spoke of sailed high above Bison’s head. “You ought to sleep,” Bison said at last. “You’ll feel better for it.” At the thought of sleep he yawned. Then he wandered back to his blankets. Nogusta settled down again and closed his eyes.

In that moment he experienced a sudden vision. He saw ten riders moving slowly across green hills, white-topped mountains behind them. Nogusta looked at the riders. The sun was high, the ten riders hooded against its glare. They rode into a wood. One of them pushed back his hood and removed a helm of black iron. His hair was long and ghost-white, his face gray, his eyes blood-red. An arrow flashed from the trees. The rider threw up his hand, and the shaft sliced through it, driving on to pierce the flesh of his face. He dragged it clear. Both wounds healed instantly.

The vision changed. Suddenly it was night, and two moons hung in the sky, one a crescent, the other full. And he saw himself standing by the tree line on a hillside beneath alien stars. A woman was walking toward him. It was Ushuru. And she was smiling.

This vision also faded, and Nogusta found himself floating high above a plain. He saw the Drenai infantry commit themselves to an attack on the Cadian center. Skanda was leading the charge. As the Cadians reeled back, a trumpet sounded and Skanda signaled to Malikada for the cavalry to attack the
right. But Malikada did not move, and the cavalry remained, holding to the hill.

Nogusta could see the despair in Skanda’s eyes, the disbelief and the dawning realization of betrayal and defeat.

And then the slaughter began.

Nogusta awoke in a cold sweat, his hands trembling. Bison and Kebra were asleep, and the dawn light was creeping above the mountains. Pushing aside his blankets, the black warrior rose soundlessly. Kebra stirred and opened his eyes.

“What is wrong, my friend?”

“Skanda is dead. And we are in peril.”

Kebra pushed himself to his feet. “Dead? That cannot be.”

“He was betrayed by Malikada and the Ventrians. They stood by while our comrades were slaughtered.” Slowly, remembering every image, he told Kebra of his visions.

The bowman listened in silence. “The betrayal and the battle I can understand,” he said when Nogusta had finished. “But demonic riders with eyes of blood? What is that supposed to mean? It can’t be real, can it? Any more than walking with Ushuru beneath two moons.”

“I do not know, my friend. But I think the riders will come. And I will face them.”

“Not alone you won’t,” said Kebra.

6

A
LL HER LIFE
Ulmenetha had known many fears. Her mother’s sickness and death had filled her with a terror of cancer that caused awful nightmares and left her trembling in her bed, her face and body bathed in cold sweat. Small, scurrying rodents inspired a sense of dread in her, leaving her incapable of movement. But most of all the death of her beloved Vian had made her fear love itself and run for the sanctuary of the convent.

She sat now in her room, staring up at the stars, contemplating the nature of fear.

For Ulmenetha terror began the moment control was lost. She had been powerless when her mother had been dying. She could only watch in silent anguish as the flesh shriveled away and the spirit fled. As a consequence, Ulmenetha had worried over Vian, making sure he ate well and was always dressed in warm clothes when the winter winds blew. He had laughed at her coddling. Ulmenetha had been preparing an evening meal when word reached her that he was dead. While searching for a lost sheep, he had slipped on the ice and fallen from the high ridge. There was nothing she could have done to prevent it, but that did not stop the guilt from eating its way into her soul. It was she who had urged him to find the sheep. Guilt, remorse, and sorrow had overwhelmed her.

So she had run from her fears and even taken the extra precaution of becoming fat so that men would no longer find her attractive. All this so that she would never again suffer the true terrors of life.

Yet here she was, sitting in a palace bedroom, with the demons closing in.

What can I do? she asked herself. The first answer, as always, was to run, to leave the palace and make the long journey back to Drenan and the convent. The thought of running, putting these fears behind her, was immensely seductive. She had money and could book passage on a caravan to the coast, then take a ship to Dros Purdol. Sea air on her face. The thought of flight brought calm to her mind.

Then she pictured Axiana’s face, the large, childlike eyes and the sweet smile. And with it the memory of Kalizkan’s rotting, maggot-ridden flesh.

I cannot leave her! The panic began again. What can you do against the power of demons? whispered the voice of flight. You are a fat priestess with no arcane skills. Kalizkan is a sorcerer. He could blast your soul from your overweight body. He could consign you to the Void. He could send assassins to plunge their knives into your obese belly!

Ulmenetha rose from her chair and moved to the table by the window. From a drawer she took a silver-rimmed oval mirror and held it up to her face. For years she had avoided mirrors, hating the bloated image they portrayed. But now she looked beyond the flesh and deep into the gray eyes, recalling the girl who had run the mountain paths—the girl who had run for joy and not for fear.

At last calm, her mind set, she returned the mirror to the drawer. First she must tell Axiana of her discoveries concerning Dagorian. The officer was innocent, and the true villain, she was sure, was Kalizkan. Then realization struck her. Kalizkan was not the enemy. Kalizkan was dead! Something had taken over the body, something powerful enough to cast a sweet and reassuring spell, enchanting all who came into contact with it.

If she were to tell Axiana the simple truth, the queen would think her mad. How, then, to convince her of the perils that lay in wait?

You must walk with care down this road, she warned herself.

Gathering her thoughts, she was about to find Axiana when a servant tapped at her door. Ulmenetha called for her to enter. The girl stepped inside and curtsied.

“What is it, child?”

“The queen wishes you to prepare your belongings. They will be taken to Kalizkan’s house in the morning.”

Ulmenetha fought for calm. “Is the queen in her apartments?”

“No, my lady. She left this afternoon. Lord Kalizkan came for her.”

At noon on the second day Dagorian found his hunger overriding his caution. Leaving his saber behind but hiding his hunting knife beneath the beggar’s rags, he left his hiding place and risked the short walk to the market. The sun was bright in a clear sky, the market square packed with people. Easing his way through the crowd, he stopped at a meat stall, where a spit of beef was being turned over a charcoal grill. The cook looked at him sourly, but Dagorian produced two copper coins and the man cut several thick slices, placing them on a wooden platter. The smell of the roasting meat was divine. It was almost too hot to hold, and Dagorian burned his fingers. He blew on the meat, then tore off a chunk. It was exquisite. Juices ran down his stubbled chin. The cook’s expression softened. “Good?” he inquired.

“The best,” agreed Dagorian.

A commotion began at the far end of the marketplace. Instantly alert, Dagorian prepared to run. Had he been spotted? Were they coming for him? The crowd milled, and word spread like a fire through dry brush. An old man pushed his way through them, coming to the stall.

“The army’s been crushed,” he told the cook. “The king is dead.”

“Dead? The Cadians are coming here?”

The old man shook his head. “Apparently Prince Malikada forced them back across the river. But all the Drenai perished.”

The crowd surged around Dagorian, everyone talking. Skanda dead? It was unthinkable.

His hunger gone, he felt sick with anguish. Turning from the stall, he stumbled back into the crowd.

Everywhere people were talking, theorizing, wondering. How had Malikada repulsed the Cadians? How could all the Drenai have been wiped out yet Malikada’s force remain intact? Dagorian was a soldier—albeit a reluctant one—and he knew the answer.

Treachery.

The king had been betrayed.

Sick at heart, he made it back to the seer’s home and slumped down in a chair.

The dream came back to him. Two kings slain. The third—the unborn child—in terrible danger.

What can I do? he thought. I am alone, trapped at the center of a hostile city. How can I get to the queen? And even if I can, how do I convince her of the danger she is in? He recalled trying to tell Zani of his fears concerning Kalizkan. The little man had rounded on him instantly. The sorcerer was probably the most popular man in the city, loved by all for his good works.

Dagorian took a deep breath. A phrase his father used came to his mind: “If a man has a boil on his arse, you don’t heal it by lancing the foot.”

Strapping his saber belt to his waist, Dagorian opened the back door and walked through the small garden and out onto the crowded streets.