Winter Warriors (7 page)

Dagorian quietly told him of the conversation with Nogusta. The White Wolf listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When the young man had finished, he gestured him to a chair. Banelion sat quietly for a moment, then leaned forward. “Do not take this amiss, Dagorian, but I want you to forget about the warning. And let us make our good-byes now, for you must not come close to me again.”

“You think it is true, sir?”

“True or false, it must not affect you. You are remaining behind and will serve Malikada as you served me—with loyalty and honor.”

“I could not do that if he was responsible for your death, my general.”

“I am no longer
your
general. Malikada is!” snapped Banelion. His face softened. “But I am your friend. What is between Malikada and myself is for me to concern myself with. It has no bearing on your dealings with the king’s general. We are not talking friendship here, Dagorian, we are talking politics. More than this, we are talking survival. I can tolerate an enemy like Malikada. You cannot.”

Dagorian shook his head. “You talk of honor, sir? How could I honor the man who murdered my friend?”

“Try to understand, boy. Two years ago Malikada was leading an army that killed Drenai soldiers. He faced the king in two battles and did his best to kill him. When the last city fell, we all expected Malikada to be executed. Skanda chose to make him his friend. And he has proved a remarkable ally. That is Skanda’s great talent. Half the army he leads used to be his enemies. That is why he took the empire and why he will hold it. Three of Skanda’s closest friends were killed by Malikada and his men, including your father. Yet Skanda honors him. If Malikada manages to have me killed, it will not matter to the king, for I am yesterday, Malikada is today. Let it not matter to you, either.”

The White Wolf fell silent. Dagorian reached out and took the old man’s hand. “I am not the king. I am not even a soldier by choice. And I cannot think as you would wish me to. All I want is to see you live.”

“Many men have tried to kill me, Dagorian. I am still here.” Banelion rose. “Now go back to the celebrations.”

Dagorian moved to the tent entrance and turned. “Thank you, sir, for all you have done for me.”

“And you for me,” said Banelion. “Farewell.”

Outside the tent Dagorian summoned the sentries to him. Both were older men, their beards flecked with silver. “The general’s life is in danger,” he told them, keeping his voice low. “Watch carefully for strangers. And if he leaves the camp for any reason, make sure someone is close to him.”

“We know, sir. They’ll not get to him while we live,” said the first.

Dagorian stepped into the saddle and rode back through the city. Leaving his horse at the stables, he joined the last of the crowd surging through the open gates. He had been gone for more than an hour, and many of the events had already begun. Threading his way through the throng, he made his way to the king’s pavilion and rejoined the guards.

The wrestling was under way. More than forty pairs of fighting men were grappling, and the crowd was cheering loudly. Dagorian saw the giant Bison hurl an opponent out of
the circle. Far to the left the archery tournament had also begun. Two hundred bowmen were shooting at straw-filled targets.

Dagorian glanced at the nobles seated around the king. Malikada was sitting beside Skanda. The king looked magnificent in his armor of polished iron. Unadorned, it gleamed like silver. Skanda laughed and gestured toward one of the wrestling bouts. Dagorian’s eyes did not follow where the king pointed. His gaze remained fixed on Skanda’s profile. The king was a handsome man; his golden hair, streaked now with silver, shone in the sunlight like a lion’s mane. This was the man who had conquered most of the world. Beside the powerful figure of Skanda the Ventrian prince Malikada seemed almost frail. Both men were laughing now.

Two rows behind the king sat the pregnant queen, Axiana. Serene and exquisitely beautiful, she seemed to have no interest in the proceedings. The daughter of the Ventrian emperor deposed by Skanda, she had been taken in marriage to cement Skanda’s claim to the throne. Dagorian wondered if the king loved her. A ridiculous thought, he chided himself. Who could not love Axiana? Dressed in white, her dark hair braided with silver thread, she was—despite the advanced state of her pregnancy—an arresting vision of beauty. Her gaze suddenly turned to Dagorian, and he looked away guiltily.

The smell of roasting meats drifted out from the huge tent behind the pavilion. Soon the tourneys would be suspended for an hour for the nobles to eat and drink. Dagorian moved back to check the guards around the tent. Sixty spearmen were waiting there. They stood to attention as the young officer approached. “Take your places,” he commanded. All but four of the men filed out around the tent. Dagorian led the last group to the entrance behind the pavilion.

“Tie your chin strap,” he ordered one of the men.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Passing his spear to a comrade, the man hastily tied the thongs.

“Remain silent and at attention until the last of the guests return to the pavilion. You are the King’s Guards. Your discipline is legendary.”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused.

Dagorian stepped into the tent. Food tables had been set all around the huge enclosure, and a score of servants waited, bearing trays on which goblets of wine had been set. Dagorian gestured the servants forward, and they moved in two lines to flank the entrance. Trumpets sounded from the park. Dagorian moved behind the first line of servants and waited. Within moments the king and queen entered, followed by Skanda’s generals and nobles.

Immediately the silent tension within the tent disappeared as wine was served and the guests made their way to the food tables. Dagorian relaxed and allowed himself to gaze on the wonder that was Axiana. Her eyes were dark blue, the color of a sunset sky just after the sun had fallen. They are sad eyes, he thought. In his young life Dagorian had never given much thought to the status of women, but now he wondered just how the queen had felt when ordered to marry the man who had taken her father’s empire. Had she and her father been close? Had she sat upon his knee as a child and tugged his long beard. Had he doted on her? Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Dagorian was about to leave when a young Ventrian officer approached him. The man gave a slight, almost contemptuous bow. “Prince Malikada would like a word with you, sir,” said the man.

Dagorian eased his way to where Malikada waited. The Ventrian prince was dressed in a black tunic embroidered with a silver hawk at the shoulder, and his beard was now braided with silver wire to match it. He gave a friendly smile as Dagorian approached and extended his hand. His grip was firm and dry. “You were Banelion’s aide, and I understand you accomplished your tasks with dedication and efficiency.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I have my own aide, Dagorian, but I wanted you to know that I appreciate your talents and that I will bear you in mind for promotion when a suitable position arises.”

Dagorian bowed and was about to step away when the prince spoke again. “You were fond of Banelion?”

“Fond, sir? He was my general,” Dagorian replied, carefully. “I respected him for his great talents.”

“Yes, of course. In his time he was a formidable foe. But now he is old and spent. Will you serve me with the same dedication?”

Dagorian found his heart beating faster. He looked into Malikada’s dark, cold eyes and saw again the fierce intelligence there. There would be no point trying to lie to this man directly. He would read it immediately. Dagorian’s mouth was dry, but his words when they came were spoken steadily. “I am dedicated to the king’s service, sir. You are the king’s general. Any order you give me will be carried out to the best of my ability.”

“That is all one can ask,” said Malikada. “Now you may go. Antikas Karios will take over your duties here.” With that he smiled and swung away.

Dagorian turned and almost collided with the heavily pregnant queen. “My apologies, my lady,” he stuttered. She gave him a distant smile and moved past him. Feeling like a dolt, Dagorian left the tent and wandered back to the open park.

Thousands of people were wandering across the grass or sitting on blankets and eating prepared lunches. Soldiers and athletes were practicing for their events; horse trainers were running their mounts, stretching them for the races ahead. Dagorian looked around for the king’s horse, Starfire. It was always entered in the races and never failed. But as he scanned the horses, he saw that the giant black gelding was not among the mounts being exercised. He strolled to one of the handlers and inquired of the horse.

“Lung rot,” said the man. “It’s a damn shame. Still, he’s getting old now. Must be eighteen if he’s a day.”

Dagorian was saddened to hear it. Every Drenai child knew of Starfire. Bought by the king’s father for a fabulous sum, it had carried Skanda into all his major battles. Now it was dying. Skanda must be heartbroken, he thought.

Relieved to be free of his duties, he wandered back to the officers’ rest area and stripped off his armor, ordering a young cul to return it to his quarters. Then he strolled out to
enjoy the festivities. The prospect of becoming Malikada’s aide had been an odious one, and he was grateful that the task had been taken from him. I should have gone home with the White Wolf, he thought suddenly. I hate soldiering. While his father had been a living hero, Dagorian had attended the Docian monastery at Corteswain, studying to become a priest. He had been happy there, his lifestyle humble and almost serene.

Then his father had died, and the world had changed.

Moving through the crowd, he saw Nogusta sitting on the grass, Bison stretched out beside him. The bald giant had a swollen eye and a purple bruise on his cheekbone. Dagorian joined them. “How are you faring?” he asked Bison.

“Quarterfinals,” said the giant, sitting up and stifling a groan. “This is my year.”

Dagorian saw the vivid bruises and the man’s obvious fatigue and masked his skepticism. “How long before your next bout?”

Bison shrugged and looked to Nogusta. “An hour,” said the black man. “He’s fighting the tribesman who beat him last year.”

“I’ll take him this time,” Bison said wearily. “But I think I’ll take a nap first.” Lying back, the giant closed his eyes. Nogusta covered him with a cloak and rose.

“You saw the general?” he asked Dagorian.

“I did.”

“He advised you to stay away from him.”

“You have a great gift.”

Nogusta smiled. “No, that was just common sense. He is a wise man. Malikada is not so wise. But that is often the way with ambitious men. They come to believe in tales of their own destiny. Everything they desire, so they believe, is theirs by right. Chosen by the Source.”

“The Source is given credit and blame for many deeds,” said Dagorian. “Are you a believer?”

“I would like to be,” admitted Nogusta. “It would certainly make life more complete if one could believe in a grand plan
for the universe. If we could be certain that evil men would receive judgment. However, I fear that life is not so simple. Wise men say that the universe is in a state of constant war, a battle between the Source and the forces of chaos. If that is true, then chaos commands the most cavalry.”

“You are a cynic,” said Dagorian.

“I think not. I am just old and have seen too much.”

The two men sat down beside the sleeping Bison. “How is it that a black man serves in the army of Drenan?” asked Dagorian.

“I am a Drenai,” answered Nogusta. “My great-grandfather was a Phocian seaman. He was captured at sea, and the Drenai made a slave of him. He was freed after seven years and became an indentured servant. Later he returned to his homeland and took a wife, bringing her back to Drenan. Their first son did the same, bringing my grandmother back to our estates in Ginava.”

“Estates? Your family has done well.”

“My people had a talent with horses,” said Nogusta. “My great-grandfather bred war mounts for the old king’s cavalry. It made us rich at the time.”

“But you are rich no longer?”

“No. A Drenai nobleman became jealous of our success and fostered stories about us among the local villagers. One night a child went missing. He told them we had taken her for an obscene sacrifice. Our house was burned to the ground, and all my family slaughtered. The child, of course, was not there. It transpired that she had wandered into the mountains and fallen down a steep slope. Her leg was broken.”

“How is it you were not killed with your family?”

“I went out to find the child. When I got back with her, it was all over.”

Dagorian looked into Nogusta’s strange blue eyes. He could read no emotion there. “Did you seek justice?” he asked.

Nogusta smiled. “Twelve villagers were hanged.”

“And the nobleman?”

“He had friends in very high places and was not even arrested. Even so, he fled to Mashrapur and hired four swordsmen as his permanent bodyguards. He lived in a house behind high walls and rarely came out in public.”

“So he was never brought to justice?”

“No.”

“What became of him? Do you know?”

Nogusta looked away for a moment. “Someone scaled his walls, slew his guards, and cut his heart out.”

“I see.” For a while both men sat in silence. “Are you pleased to be going home?” asked Dagorian.

The black man shrugged. “I am tired of constant war. What does it achieve? When the old king took arms against the emperor, we all felt the cause was just. But now …? What has Cadia ever done to us? Now it is about glory and building an everlasting name. The Ventrian Empire once boasted a thousand universities and hospitals for the sick. Now it is bled dry and all the young men want to fight. Yes, I am ready to go home.”

“To breed horses?”

“Yes. Many of my father’s horses escaped into the high country. There will be a sizable herd by now.”

“And will Bison go with you?”

Nogusta laughed aloud. “He will sign on with a mercenary regiment somewhere.” His smile faded. “And he will die in a small war over nothing.”