Winter Warriors (5 page)

“What will you do when we find him, sir?”

“Ten lashes. But don’t tie him to the post. That’ll hurt his dignity. He’ll stand there and hold to it. His back will bleed, and you’ll not hear a sound from him.”

“I take it you like the man.”

Banelion shook his head. “Can’t stand him. He has the strength of an ox and the brains to match. A more irritating, undisciplined wretch I have yet to see. But he symbolizes the strength, the courage, and the will that have brought us across the world. A man to move mountains, Dagorian. Now you best get some rest. We’ll finish in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Can I fetch you some mulled wine before you retire?”

“Wine does not sit well with me these days. Warm milk and honey would be pleasant.”

Dagorian saluted, bowed, and left the room.

2

R
EGIMENTAL DISCIPLINE WAS
observed in ritual fashion. Every one of the two thousand men of the regiment, in their armor of black and gold, stood in a giant square around the barracks ground. At the center the twenty senior officers waited, and seated on a dais behind them was the White Wolf. He wore no armor but was dressed in a simple tunic of gray wool, black leggings, and boots. Around his shoulders was a hooded sheepskin cloak.

The morning was bright and clear as Bison was led out. The lumbering giant had been stripped to the waist, and Dagorian suddenly understood the man’s bizarre nickname. His head was totally bald, but thick curling hair grew from his neck and over his massive shoulders. More like a bear than a bison, though, thought Dagorian. The young officer’s dark gaze flickered to the men walking with Bison. One was Kebra, the famed bowman who had once saved the king’s life, sending a shaft through the eye of a Ventrian lancer. The other was the blue-eyed black man Nogusta, swordsman and juggler. Dagorian had once watched the man keep seven razor-sharp knives in the air, then, one by one, send them flashing into a target. They walked straight and tall. Bison cracked a joke with someone in the first line.

“Silence!” shouted an officer.

Bison approached the whipping post and stood beside the lean, hawk-faced soldier who had been ordered to complete the sentence. The man looked ill at ease and was sweating despite the morning cold.

“You just lay on, boy,” Bison said amiably. “I’ll hold no grudge toward you.” The man gave a weak, relieved smile.

“Let the prisoner approach,” said the White Wolf. Bison marched forward and saluted clumsily.

“Have you anything to say before sentence is carried out?”

“No, sir!” bellowed Bison.

“Do you know what is special about you?” asked the general.

“No, sir!”

“Absolutely nothing,” said the White Wolf. “You are an undisciplined wretch and the clumsiest man ever to serve under me. For a copper coin I’d hang you and be done with it. Now get to the post. This cold is chilling my bones.” So saying, he lifted the sheepskin hood over his head and pulled the cloak around him.

“Yes, sir!” Bison spun on his heel and marched back to the post, reaching up and taking hold of the wood.

The man with the whip untied the thong binding the five lashes and cracked it into the air. Then he shrugged his shoulders twice and took up his position. His arm came back.

“Hold!” came a commanding voice.

The soldier froze. Dagorian turned to see a small group of men striding onto the barracks ground. They were all Ventrian officers wearing golden breastplates and sporting red capes. At the center was Prince Malikada, the king’s general, a tall, slender nobleman who had been chosen to replace the White Wolf. Beside him was his champion, the swordsman Antikas Karios. A fox and a cobra, thought Dagorian. Both men were slim and graceful, but Malikada’s power was in his eyes, dark and brooding, gleaming with intelligence, while Antikas Karios radiated a physical strength built on a striking speed that was inhuman.

Malikada strode to the dais and bowed to the general. His hair was jet black, but his beard had been dyed with streaks of gold and then braided with gold thread. Dagorian watched him closely.

“Greetings, my lord Banelion,” said Malikada.

“This is hardly the time for a visit,” said Banelion. “But you are most welcome, Prince.”

“It is
exactly
the time, General,” Malikada said with a wide smile. “One of my men is about to be disciplined incorrectly.”

“One of
your
men?” the White Wolf inquired softly. Dagorian could feel the tension in the officers around him, but no one moved.

“Of course one of my men. You were present when the king—glory be attached to his name—named me as your successor. As I recall, you are now a private citizen of the empire, about to head for home and a happy retirement.” Malikada swung around. “And this man has been accused of striking one of my officers. That, as I am sure you are aware, under Ventrian law, is a capital offense. He shall be hanged.”

An angry murmur sounded throughout the ranks. Banelion rose. “Of course he shall hang—if convicted,” he said, his voice cold. “But I now change his plea to not guilty and—on his behalf—demand trial by combat. This is
Drenai
law, set in place by the king himself. Do you wish to deny it?”

Malikada’s smile grew wider, and Dagorian realized in that moment that this was exactly what the Ventrian wanted. The swordsman Antikas was already removing his cloak and unbuckling his breastplate.

“The king’s law is just,” said Malikada, raising his left arm and clicking his fingers. Antikas stepped forward, drew his sword, and spun it in the sunlight. “Which of your … former … officers will face Antikas Karios? I understand your aide, Dagorian, is considered something of a swordsman.”

“Indeed he is,” said Banelion. Dagorian felt fear rip into him. He was no match for the Ventrian. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and fought to keep his emotions from his face. Glancing up, he saw Antikas Karios staring at him. There was no hint of a sneer or mockery of any kind. The man simply stared. Somehow it made Dagorian feel even worse. Rising from his seat, Banelion gestured for Nogusta to come forward. The black man approached the dais, saluted, then bowed. “Will you defend the honor of your comrade?” asked the White Wolf.

“But of course, my general.”

Dagorian’s relief was intense, and he reddened as he saw a slight smile appear on the face of the Ventrian swordsman.

“This is not seemly,” Malikada said smoothly. “A common soldier to face the finest swordsman alive? And a black savage, to boot? I think not.” He turned to a second Ventrian officer, a tall man with a long golden beard crimped into horizontal waves. “Cerez, will you show us your skills?”

The man bowed. Wider in the shoulder than the whip-lean Antikas, Cerez had the same economy of movement and catlike grace found in all swordsmen. Malikada looked up at Banelion. “With your permission, General, this student of Antikas Karios will take his place.”

“As you wish,” said Banelion.

Nogusta stepped forward. “Do you wish me to kill the man or merely disarm him, General?”

“Kill him,” said Banelion. “And do it swiftly. My breakfast is waiting.”

Both men removed their armor and upper clothing and strode out bare-chested into the center of the barracks ground. Nogusta lifted his sword in salute. Cerez attacked immediately, sending out a lightning thrust. Nogusta parried it with ease. “That was discourteous,” whispered Nogusta, “but I will still kill you cleanly.”

Their blades clashed as Cerez charged forward, his curved sword flashing with bewildering speed. But every thrust or cut was parried by the black man. Cerez dropped back. Dagorian watched the contest closely. The Ventrian was younger by thirty years, and he was fast. But there was not an ounce of fat on Nogusta’s powerful frame, and his vast experience enabled him to read his opponent’s moves. Dagorian flicked a glance at Antikas Karios. The champion’s dark, hooded eyes missed nothing, and he leaned in to whisper something to Malikada.

The two warriors were circling one another now, seeking an opening. The action had been fast, and the black man, though skillful, was visibly tiring. Cerez almost caught him with a sudden riposte, the blade slashing close to Nogusta’s
cheek. Suddenly Nogusta appeared to stumble. Cerez lunged—and in that moment realized he had been tricked. Nimbly spinning on his heel, all signs of fatigue vanished, Nogusta swayed away from the blade, his own sword slicing through his opponent’s golden beard and biting deep into his throat. Cerez stumbled forward, falling to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. Dropping his sword, he tried to stem the rush of life from his severed jugular. Slowly he toppled forward, twitched once, then was still. Nogusta strode back across the barrack square and bowed to the White Wolf. “As you commanded, lord, so was it done.”

Ignoring the furious Malikada, the White Wolf rose. “The prisoner is not guilty,” he said, his voice clear and firm. “And since this is my last moment among you all, let me thank you for the service you have given the king while under my command. Those among you who have chosen to retire will find me camped on the flat ground to the west of the city. We will be ready for departure in four days. That is all. Dismissed!”

As he stepped from the dais, Malikada moved in close. “You have made an enemy this day,” he whispered.

The White Wolf paused, then met the prince’s hawkeyed gaze. “An infinitely better prospect than having you for a friend,” he said.

The king’s birthday was always celebrated with extravagant displays: athletic competitions, boxing matches, horse races, and demonstrations of magick to thrill the crowds. Spear throwing, archery, sword bouts, and wrestling were also included, with huge prizes for the winners in all events. This year promised even greater extravagances, for it was the king’s thirty-fifth birthday, a number of great mystical significance to Drenai and Ventrians alike. And the event was to take place in the Royal Park at the center of Usa, the ancient capital of the old Ventrian Empire. The city was older than time and was mentioned in the earliest known historical records. In myth it had been a home for gods, one of whom was said to have raised the royal palace in a single night, lifting mammoth stones into place with the power of his will.

Hundreds of huge tents had been pitched in the meadows at the center of the thousand-acre Royal Park, and scores of carpenters had been working for weeks building tiered seating for the nobility.

The tall towers of the city were silhouetted against the eastern mountains as Kebra the Bowman leaned on a new fence and stared somberly out toward where the archery tourney would be held. “You should have entered,” said Nogusta, passing the bowman a thick wedge of hot pie.

“To what purpose?” Kebra answered sourly, placing the food on the fence rail and ignoring it.

“You are the champion,” said Nogusta. “It is your title they will be shooting for.”

Kebra said nothing for a moment, transferring his gaze to the snow-topped peaks away to the west. He had first seen those mountains a year earlier, when Skanda the king, having won the Battle of the River, had ridden into Usa to take the emperor’s throne. Cold winds blew down now from those gray giants, and Kebra shivered and drew his pale blue cloak closer about his slender frame. “My eyes are fading. I could not win.”

“No, but you could have taken part.” The words hung in the cold air. A team of thirty workers moved to the king’s pavilion and began to raise windshields of stiffened crimson silk around it. Kebra had seen the pavilion constructed on many occasions and recalled, with a stab of regret, the last time he had stood before it, receiving the Silver Arrow from the hand of the king himself. Skanda had given his boyish grin. “Does winning ever get boring, old lad?” he had asked.

“No, sire,” he had answered. Turning to the crowd, he had raised the Silver Arrow, and the cheers had thundered out. Kebra shivered again. He looked up into black man’s pale, unreadable eyes. “I would be humiliated. Is that what you want to see?”

Nogusta shook his head. “You would not be humiliated, my friend. You would merely lose.”