Winter Warriors (4 page)

Nogusta shrugged. “Orendo took part in a rape and a murder. It saddens me that he is dead, but he was the victim of his own actions.”

“Strange, though,” said Kebra. “I am a fair judge of men, and I would never have believed Orendo capable of such an act.”

“Nor I. Where shall we look for Bison?” asked Nogusta, changing the subject.

Kebra shrugged. “He was drunk when he thrashed those men. You know Bison. After a fight he’ll look for a woman. There must be two hundred whorehouses within walking distance. I do not intend to spend the night scouring them.”

Nogusta nodded, then gave a wide grin. “We could try just one, though,” he said.

“For what purpose? The odds against finding him are enormous.”

Nogusta leaned forward and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I was not thinking of finding Bison,” he said. “I was thinking of soft skin and a warm bed.”

Kebra shook his head. “I think I’ll return to the barracks. I have a warm bed there.”

Nogusta sighed. “Bison refuses to get old, and you refuse to stay young. Truly, you white men are a mystery to me.”

“Life would be dull without mysteries,” said Kebra.

After Nogusta had gone, Kebra ordered another flagon of
wine, then made the long walk back to the barracks. The room he shared with Nogusta and Bison was cold and empty. Bison’s bed was unmade, the blankets in a heap on the floor beside it. The senior cul no longer made inspections, and without the threat of punishment Bison had reverted to slovenly behavior.

Nogusta’s bed was tidily made, but he had left a tunic on it.

Kebra’s pallet was immaculate, the blankets folded into a square, topped by the pillow, the undersheet pulled tight, the corners overlapped with a perfect horizontal fold. Kebra moved to the hearth and lit the fire. He had cleaned out the ash and relaid it that morning, the kindling placed with perfect symmetry.

Just about now Nogusta would be lying beside a fat, sweating whore. He would be, perhaps, the twentieth man she had opened her legs for that day. Kebra shuddered. It was a nauseating thought.

Silently he padded out to the bathhouse. The boilers had not been lit, and the water was cold. Even so Kebra undressed and immersed himself, scrubbing his body with soap. There were no clean towels on the rack. Angry now, he searched through the large laundry basket and dabbed at his cold body with the cleanest of the used towels.

The collapse of discipline unnerved the bowman. Carrying his clothes, he returned to the room and sat, shivering, in front of the fire. Then he took a nightshirt from his chest and slipped it on. It was crisp and clean, and he could smell the freshness of the cotton. It eased his mind.

Ilbren’s words haunted him. “It is way past the time when you should have settled down with a wife and raised sons.”

Kebra felt the weight of the words like a stone on his heart.

Most of Palima’s customers thought of her as a whore with a golden heart. This was a view she cultivated, especially as she grew older, with age and the laws of gravity conspiring to ravage her features. The truth was more stark: Palima’s heart
was
like gold: cold, hard, and well hidden.

She lay now on her bed, staring at the hulking figure by the
window. Bison was well known to her, a generous giant, unhindered by imagination or intellect. His needs were simple, his demands limited, his energy prodigious. For a year now—ever since the Drenai had taken the city—he had come to her at least once a week. He paid well, never troubled her with small talk or promises, and rarely outstayed his welcome.

This night was different. He had come to her bed and had cuddled her close. Then he had fallen asleep. Bison usually paid with a single silver coin upon leaving. Yet tonight he had given her a gold half Raq just after he had arrived. Palima had tried to rouse him—not usually a difficult feat. But Bison had been in no mood for sex. This did not concern Palima. If a man wanted to pay for a hug with gold, she was more than happy to oblige. He had slept fitfully for two hours, holding her close. Then he had dressed and moved to the window. Bison had been standing there in the lantern light for some time now, a huge man with great sloping shoulders and long, powerful arms. Idly he tugged at his bristling white walrus mustache and stared out at the night-dark square below.

“Come back to bed, lover,” she said. “Let Palima work her magic.”

“Not tonight,” he told her.

“What is wrong?” she asked. “You can tell Palima.”

He turned toward her. “How old do you think I am?” he asked suddenly.

Sixty-five, if you’re a day, she thought, staring at his bald head and white mustache. Men were such children. “Maybe forty,” she told him.

He seemed satisfied with the answer, and she saw him relax. “I’m older than that, but I don’t feel it. They’re sending me home,” he said. “All the older men are going home.”

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“I was one of the first to join the White Wolf,” he said. “Back when Drenan was beset on all sides and the king’s army had been all but destroyed. We beat them all, you know. One after another. When I was a child, my country was ruled from afar. We were just peasants. But we changed the world. The king’s empire stretches for—” He seemed to struggle for
a moment with the mathematics. “—thousands of miles,” he concluded lamely.

“He is the greatest king who ever lived,” she said softly, hoping that was what he wanted to hear.

“His father was greater,” said Bison. “He built from nothing. I served him for twenty-three years. Then the boy-king for another twenty. Twenty-six major battles I’ve fought in. There. Twenty-six. What do you think of that?”

“It’s a lot of battles,” she admitted, not knowing where the conversation was heading. “Come back to bed.”

“It’s a lot of battles, all right. I’ve been wounded eleven times. Now they don’t want me anymore. Eighteen hundred of us. Thank you and good-bye. Here’s a bag of gold. Go home. Where’s home, eh?” With a sigh he moved to the bed, which creaked as his huge frame settled upon it. “I don’t know what to do, Palima.”

“You are a strong man. You can do anything you want, go anywhere you want.”

“But I want to stay with the army. I’m a front ranker! That’s what I am. That’s what I want.”

Sitting up, she cupped his face in her hands. “Sometimes—most times—we don’t get what we want. Rarely do we even get what we deserve. We get what we get. That’s it. Yesterday is gone, Bison. It will never come again. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet. What we have is now. And do you know what is real?” She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her naked breast, pressing his fingers to her flesh.
“This
is real, Bison.
We
are real. And at this moment
we
are all there is.”

His hand fell away, then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. He had never done that before. In fact, she could not remember the last time a man had kissed her cheek. Then he rose. “I’d better be getting back,” he said.

“Why not stay? I know you, Bison. You’d feel better afterward. You always do.”

“Aye, that’s true. You are the best, you know. And I speak from a lifetime of having to pay for it. But I have to go. I’ll be on charges. The watch is probably looking for me.”

“What have you done?”

“Lost my temper. Tapped a few soldiers.”

“Tapped?”

“Well, maybe more than tapped. One of them laughed at me. Ventrian scum! Said the army would be better off without the graybeards. I picked him up and threw him like a spear. It was really funny. But he landed on a table and broke it with his head. That upset the Drenai soldiers who were eating there. So I tapped them all.”

“How many were there?”

“Only five or so. I didn’t really hurt no one. Well, not badly.” He grinned. “Well, not
very
badly. But I’ll be on charges.”

“What kind of punishment will you get?”

“I don’t know … ten lashes.” He shrugged. “Twenty. No problem.”

Palima climbed from the bed and stood naked before him. “How did it feel when you were ‘tapping’ them?” she asked.

“It was … good,” he admitted.

“You felt like a man?”

“Yes. I felt young again.”

Her hand slid down over his leggings. “Like a man,” she whispered huskily. She felt him swell at her touch.

“And how do you feel now?” she asked him.

He let out a long sigh. “Like a man,” he said. “But they don’t want me to be one anymore. Good-bye, Palima.”

Without another word he walked out into the night.

Palima watched him from the window. “A pox on you and all your kind, Drenai,” she whispered. “Go away and die!”

Banelion, the legendary White Wolf, gathered his maps and carefully placed them inside a brassbound chest. He was tall and lean, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck. The general’s movements were swift and precise as he packed the chest with the expertise of a lifetime soldier. Everything neatly in its place. The maps were stacked in the order they would be needed during the fourteen-hundred-mile journey to the western port. Alongside them were notes listing the names of tribes and their chieftains, way stations, fortresses,
and cities along the route. As with everything else he undertook, the journey home would be planned meticulously.

Across from the broad desk a young officer in full armor of gold and bronze stood watching the general. The old man glanced up and gave a swift grin. “Why so sad, Dagorian?”

The young man took a deep, slow breath. “This is wrong, sir.”

“Nonsense. Look at me. What do you see?”

Dagorian stared at the white-haired general. Leathered by desert sun and winter winds, the White Wolf’s face was seamed and wrinkled. Beneath bristling white brows his eyes were pale and bright—eyes that had seen the fall of empires and the scattering of armies. “I see the greatest general who ever lived,” said the younger man.

Banelion smiled. He was genuinely touched by the officer’s affection and thought momentarily of the boy’s father. The two were so unalike. Catoris had been a cold, hard man, ambitious and deadly. His son was infinitely more likable, loyal, and steadfast. The only virtue he shared with his father was courage. “Ah, Dagorian, what you should see is a man two years past seventy. But you are looking at what was, boy. Not what is. I will be honest with you. I am disappointed. Even so, I do not believe the king is making a mistake. Like me, the soldiers who first marched against the Ventrian Empire are growing old now. Eighteen hundred men over fifty. Two hundred of those will not even see sixty again. The king is only thirty-five, and he wants to cross the Great River and conquer Cadia. All reports suggest that such a war will last five years or more. The army will have to cross deserts and mountains, wade rivers thick with crocodiles, hack its way through jungles. Young men will be needed for such an enterprise. And some of the older men are yearning for home.”

Dagorian removed his black and gold helm and absently brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume. “I don’t doubt you are right about the older men, sir. But not you. Without you some of the battles would have been—”

The White Wolf raised his finger to his lips, the movement sharp and swift. “All my battles have been fought. Now I will
go home and enjoy my retirement. I will breed horses and watch the sun rise over the mountains. And I will wait for news of the king’s victories, and I will celebrate them quietly in my home. I have served Skanda as I served his father: faithfully and well and to the best of my considerable abilities. Now I need a little fresh air. Walk with me in the garden.”

Swinging a sheepskin cloak around his shoulders, Banelion pushed open the doors and strode through to the snow-covered garden. The paved path could no longer be seen, but the statues that lined it pointed the way. Crunching the snow underfoot, the two men walked out past the frozen fountain. The statues were all of Ventrian warriors, standing like sentries, spears pointed toward the sky. The older man took Dagorian’s arm and leaned in close. “It is time for you to learn to curb your tongue, young man,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Every whisper spoken inside the palace is reported to the king and his new advisers. The walls are hollow, and listeners write down every sentence. You understand?”

“They even spy on
you
? I cannot believe it.”

“Believe it. Skanda is no longer the boy-king who charmed us all. He is a man, ruthless and ambitious. He is determined to conquer the world. And he probably will if his new allies are as trustworthy as he thinks.”

“You doubt Prince Malikada?”

Banelion grinned and led the young man around the frozen lake. “I have no reason to doubt him. Or his wizard. Malikada’s cavalry is superbly disciplined, and his men fight well. But he is not Drenai, and the king puts great faith in him.” On the far side of the lake they came to a stone arch, beneath which was a bust of a handsome man with a forked beard and a high sloping brow. “You know who this is?” asked Banelion.

“No, sir. A Ventrian noble of some kind?”

“This is the general Bodasen. He died three hundred and fifty years ago. He was the greatest general the Ventrians ever had. He it was—with Gorben—who laid the foundations of their empire.”

The old man shivered and drew his cloak more tightly
about him. Dagorian stared hard at the white stone of the bust. “I have read the histories, sir. He is described as a plodding soldier. Gorben was said to have led the army to victory.”

Banelion chuckled. “As indeed has Skanda. And in the months to come you will hear the same of me. That is the way of the world, Dagorian. The victorious kings write the histories. Now let us go back, for this cold is eating into my bones.”

Once back inside, Dagorian banked up the fire, and the general stood before it, rubbing his hands. “So tell me,” he said, “have they found Bison yet?”

“No, sir. They are scouring the whorehouses. The man with the cracked skull has regained consciousness. The surgeons say he will not die.”

“That is a blessing. I would hate to hang old Bison.”

“He’s been with you from the first, I understand.”

“Aye, from the first, when the old king was merely a young prince and the kingdom was in ruins. Days of blood and fire, Dagorian. I would not want to live them again. Bison is—like me—a relic of those days. There are not many of us left.”