Winter Warriors (9 page)

Dirais stood up to the mark and drew back on the string. He stood rock steady. Kebra’s heart was pounding now. What were the odds on a man striking three golds in a row? A minor fluctuation in the breeze, a slight imperfection in the shaft or the flights. The gold was no bigger than a man’s fist, and the distance was great: sixty paces. During his best days Kebra would have hit only four in five at this distance. And this Ventrian is not as skilled as I once was, he thought. What, three in five? Two in five? Sweet heaven, just miss!

Just as Dirais was about to loose his final shaft, a white dove flew up out of the crowd in a frantic flurry. His concentration momentarily lost, he shot too quickly, his arrow punching home into silver. Kebra had won.

Strangely there was no joy. The crowd was cheering wildly,
but Kebra looked at Nogusta. The black man was standing very still. Dirais turned away, offering no congratulations. Kebra took him by the arm. “Wait!” he commanded him.

“For what?” asked the Ventrian.

“I want you to shoot again.” Dirais looked puzzled, but Kebra drew him to the line.

“What is happening here?” asked one of the judges.

“Someone released that dove deliberately,” said Kebra. “I have asked Dirais to shoot again.”

“You cannot ask this,” said the judge. “The last shaft has been fired.”

The king moved through the crowd, and the judge explained what had happened. Skanda approached Kebra.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his good humor vanished, his face hard and cold. “It makes no sense.”

“I have been champion for fifteen years, sire. I have beaten every man who stood beside me at the line. I beat them with skill. The jeering was unpleasant, but a true champion rises above that. The dove, however, is a different matter. Such a sharp and flurried movement would have unsettled anyone. It was a deliberate act to sabotage the man’s chances. And it succeeded. I ask you, sire, to let him shoot again.”

Suddenly Skanda grinned, and for a moment he looked like the boy-king again. “Then let it be so,” he said.

The king climbed to a fence rail and stood above the crowd. “The champion has requested that his opponent be allowed to shoot one more arrow,” he bellowed. “And there will be silence when he does so.” He leapt down and signaled Dirais.

The young Ventrian notched his shaft and sent it unerringly into the gold.

Kebra’s heart sank. Ventrian soldiers swarmed forward and hoisted Dirais into the air. Kebra stood by silently. The king approached him. “You are a fool, man,” he whispered. “But the deed was not without merit.”

Skanda handed him the Silver Arrow, and Kebra waited until the celebrations had died down. The Ventrians lowered Dirais, and the small archer stepped up and bowed deeply
before Kebra. “This is a day I shall remember all my life,” he said.

“As shall I,” Kebra told him, presenting the arrow. The little man bowed again.

“I am sorry your eyes let you down.”

Kebra nodded and swung away. No one approached him as he stalked from the meadow.

Stunned and disbelieving, Bison watched him go. “Why did he do that?” he asked, dabbing at his wounded cheek with a blood-soaked cloth.

“He is a man of honor,” said Nogusta. “Come, it is time that wound was stitched.”

“What has honor to do with paying my debts?”

“I fear it would take too long to explain,” the black man told him. Taking him by the arm, he led the bewildered Bison to a medical tent. Nogusta borrowed a sickle-shaped needle and a length of thread and carefully drew the folds of the cheek wound together. Altogether ten stitches were needed. Blood slowly seeped between them. The cuts above Bison’s eyes were shallow and needed no stitches. Already scabs were forming there, and the trickle of blood had ceased.

“He really let me down,” grumbled Bison. “He let us all down.”

Dagorian, who had stood by in silence, moved alongside the giant. “You are not being fair to him,” he said softly. “It was an act of greatness. The Ventrian was being barracked and jeered. And someone did release that dove in order to throw his aim.”

“Of course he did,” said Bison. “I paid him to do it.”

Dagorian’s expression changed, becoming cold. “You make me ashamed to be a Drenai,” he said. Turning away, Dagorian left the two warriors.

“What’s wrong with him?” inquired Bison. “Has the world gone mad?”

“You are an idiot sometimes, my friend,” said Nogusta. “Perhaps you should go back to the barracks and rest.”

“No. I want to see Kalizkan’s magick. There might be a dragon.”

“You could ask him,” said Nogusta, pointing to a section of open lands between the tents. The silver-garbed wizard was sitting on a bench, surrounded by children.

“I don’t think so,” Bison said doubtfully. “I don’t like wizards much. I think I’ll collect my winnings and get drunk.”

“What about your debts?”

Bison laughed. “We’re leaving next week. They’ll never follow me back to Drenan.”

“Is the word ‘honor’ just a sound to you?” asked Nogusta. “You have built up credit on trust. You gave your word to repay. Now you will become a thief whose word cannot be trusted.”

“What’s put you in such a foul mood?” asked Bison.

“You would not understand if I carved the answer on your simian forehead,” snapped the black man. “Go and get drunk. A man should always stick to what he does best.” Leaving Bison, he walked across the meadow, threading his way through the crowd.

Antikas Karios approached him as he passed the king’s pavilion. The swordsman gave a thin smile. “Good morning to you,” he said. “That was a clever trick you used against Cerez. I had warned him in the past about arrogance. I will not have to warn him again.”

Nogusta was about to move on, but the Ventrian stepped into his path. “The king would like you to entertain his guests before the races.”

Nogusta nodded and followed the officer toward the front of the pavilion. Skanda saw him coming and gave a broad smile, then turned to say something to Malikada. Nogusta approached the king and gave a deep bow. “My congratulations on your birthday, sire,” he said.

Skanda leaned forward. “I have told Prince Malikada of your skill with knives. I fear he doubts my word.”

“Not at all, Majesty,” Malikada said smoothly.

Skanda clapped him on the shoulder, then rose. “What can you show us today, my friend?” he asked Nogusta.

The black man called for one of the archery targets to be brought up. While that was being done, a sizable crowd began to gather. Nogusta removed five throwing knives from the sheaths stitched to his baldric, then spread the blades in his left hand.

“Is the target large enough?” asked Malikada, as the six-foot-high target was placed within ten feet of the black man. The Ventrian officers around him laughed at the jest.

“I will make it smaller, my lord,” said Nogusta. “Perhaps you would care to stand in front of it.”

Malikada’s smile froze in place. He glanced at the king.

“Either you or me, old lad,” said Skanda.

Malikada rose and walked to the front of the pavilion, where a soldier opened the gate for him. He strode out to the target and turned, his dark eyes staring intently at Nogusta.

“Do not move, my lord,” said Nogusta.

The black man spun a razor-sharp knife in the air, then caught it. He repeated this with the other blades, throwing each one higher than the last. Then, while one was still in the air, he sent up another, then another, until all five were spinning and glittering in the sunlight. There was absolute silence now as the crowd waited in tense expectation. Still spinning the knives, Nogusta slowly backed away until he was ten paces from where Malikada stood at the target.

The Ventrian prince watched the whirling blades. He seemed relaxed, but his eyes were narrowed and unblinking. Suddenly Nogusta’s right arm shot forward. One of the knives slashed through the air, punching home in the target no more than an inch from Malikada’s left ear. The Ventrian jerked but remained where he was. A bead of sweat began at his temple, trickling down his right cheek. Nogusta was juggling once more with the four remaining blades. Another knife thudded home alongside Malikada’s right ear. The third and fourth slammed into the target alongside his arms.

Nogusta caught the last knife, then bowed deeply to Skanda. Led by the king, the crowd burst into applause.

“You want to risk the blindfold,” asked Skanda, “or is that the end of the display?”

“Let it be as you desire, sire,” said Nogusta.

The king looked across at Malikada. “What do you think, my friend? Would you like to see him throw blindfolded?”

Malikada gave an easy smile but stepped away from the target. “I accept that his skills are remarkable, Majesty, but I have no wish to stand before a blind man with a throwing knife.” The crowd laughed and applauded the prince, who returned to the pavilion.

“I’d like to see it,” said Skanda, moving down the steps and vaulting the gate. He strode to the target and stood before it. “Don’t let me down, old lad,” he told Nogusta. “It’s bad luck for a king to be killed on his birthday.”

Antikas Karios moved alongside Nogusta. He was holding a black silk scarf, which he folded to create a blindfold. This he tied over Nogusta’s eyes. The black man stood for a moment, statue still. Then he spun on his heel, making a complete circle. The throwing knife flashed through the air. The crowd gasped. For just a moment they believed it had slammed into the king’s throat. Skanda lifted his hand, touching his finger to the ivory hilt, which was nestling alongside his jugular. Nogusta pulled clear the blindfold. Skanda stepped up to him. Applause and cheers rang out.

“Just for a moment there you had me worried,” said the king.

“You take too many chances, sire,” Nogusta told him.

Skanda grinned. “That is what makes life worth living.” Without another word he turned back to the pavilion. Nogusta gathered his knives and sheathed them, then made his way back through the crowd.

Three men followed him at a discreet distance.

As Nogusta had predicted, Dagorian won his way through to the final of the sabers and there met Antikas Karios. The Ventrian was faster in the strike than any man Nogusta had ever seen, his blade a shimmering blur. Three times in swift succession he pierced Dagorian’s defenses, lightly touching his saber to the padded chest guard. The contest was short and embarrassingly one-sided.

With the contest over Dagorian waited courteously while
Antikas Karios received the silver saber, and then faded back into the crowd.

Nogusta tapped him on the shoulder. “You fought well,” said the black man. “Your arm is swift, your eye good, but your narrow stance let you down. Your feet were too close together. When he attacked, you were off balance.”

“Even so, he is the most formidable swordsman I have ever seen,” said Dagorian.

“He is deadly,” agreed Nogusta.

“Do you think you could have beaten him?”

“Not even at my best.”

Dusk was closing in, and the crowd began to mill at the meadow. Kalizkan strode out alone to the center of the field. As the sky darkened, he raised his slender arms. Bright light shone from his fingers, spraying up into the air in vivid parallel flashes. The crowd applauded. In the sky the lights became a sea of stars, flowing together to form a male face crowned with horns. This was the bat god Anharat. Other divine faces glowed into view, gods and goddesses from Ventrian mythology. The faces spun in the air, creating a colossal circle of light that filled the sky. Lastly a white horse and rider could be seen, galloping between the stars. It came closer and closer. The rider was a handsome man, his armor glowing, his sword held high. He rode to the center of the circle of gods and reared his horse. Then he pulled off his helm, and the crowd roared to see it was Skanda, the king of kings to whom even the gods showed obeisance. Applause rang out. The image shimmered for several seconds, then the eldritch stars broke up once more, flowing over the heads of the crowd and lighting the way to the three exit gates.

The carriages of the nobles had been drawn up outside the pavilion. The king and Malikada rode together, Skanda waving to the people as the carriage made its slow way to the gates. Then the crowd was allowed to leave. Nogusta bade farewell to the young Drenai and wandered away.

Night fell upon the meadow, and workmen moved in to dismantle the tents and the pavilion.

A lone wagon pulled up outside the tent of Kalizkan, and
four men climbed from it. Furtively they glanced around to be sure they were not being watched. Then they entered the tent and removed the blood-drenched bodies of six young children.

Nogusta was troubled as he made his way through the city streets. The crowd was thinning now, many stopping at alehouses and taverns or moving through to the lantern-lit night markets and the whores who plied their trade there. Nogusta was uneasy, and it was not the three men following him who made him so. He had become aware of them earlier in the day. No, it was the talisman he wore. Sometimes a year could pass without a vision. Yet today he had experienced three bright, vivid scenes. The first he had outlined to Dagorian. The second he had withheld, for it showed the young man fallen and bleeding on a bridge of stone. But the third was altogether more mysterious: He was facing someone wearing black armor. His enemy was not human, and when their swords clashed, lightning leapt up from the blades. And there was something else: the shadow of huge wings descending toward him. Nogusta shivered. He had experienced the vision during Kalizkan’s magickal display and wondered if somehow the sorcery had affected the talisman, causing a false vision. He hoped so.

He glanced up into the night sky and shivered. The last of the winter could be felt now that the sun had gone down, and the temperature was barely above freezing. Lifting his head, he scented the night, the city smells: hot food, spicy and rich, smoke from wood fires, the musty human scents left by the crowd. The last vision had left him on edge. It was like the night before a battle, when the air was charged with tension.

Pausing in the lantern market, he stopped at a stall and examined the wares: glazed pottery and necklaces of jade. He glanced back the way he had come. Two of the assassins were engaged in conversation. The third he could not see. Swiftly he scanned the crowd. Then he saw him, some way ahead, in a shadowed doorway.