The Winter Warriors

'Why should it?' asked Bison. 'Anyway, I did reach the quarters once, didn't I? It was during the Skathian campaign. I was beaten by Coris.' He grinned. 'You remember him? Big, blond fellow. Died at the siege of Mellicane.'

'You are quite right,' said Nogusta. 'Coris was beaten in the semifinal. I remember losing money on him.'

'I've never lost money on the king's birthday,' said Bison, happily. 'I always bet on you, Kebra.' His smile faded and he swore. 'This will be the last year when you pay off all my winter debts.'

'Not this year, my friend,' said Kebra. 'I'm not entered.'

'I thought you might forget,' said Bison, 'so I entered you myself.'

'Tell me you are joking,' said Kebra, his voice cold.

'I never joke about my debts. Shouldn't you be out there practising?'

* * *

The crowds were beginning to gather as Dagorian strolled out onto the meadow. He was uncomfortable in full armour, the gilded black and gold breastplate hanging heavy on his slim shoulders. Still, he thought, at least I don't have to wear the heavy plumed helm. The cheek guards chafed his face and, despite the padded cap he wore below it, the helm did not sit right. Once when the king called out to him Dagorian had turned sharply and the helm had swivelled on his head, the left cheek guard sliding over his left eye. Everyone had laughed. Dagorian had never wanted to be a soldier, but when your father was a hero general — and, worse, a dead hero general — the son was left with little choice.

And he had been lucky. The White Wolf had taken him on to his staff, and spent time teaching the youngster tactics and logistics. While Dagorian did not enjoy soldiering he had discovered he had a talent for it, and that made a life of campaigning at least marginally tolerable.

The preparations for the king's birthday were complete now, and within the hour the crowds would begin to surge through the gates. The sky was clear, the new day less cold than yesterday. Spring was coming. Only in the evenings now did the temperature drop below freezing. Dagorian saw the three old warriors talking by the fence rail. He strolled across to where they stood. As he approached, Kebra the Bowman strode away. He looks angry, thought Dagorian. The black swordsman saw Dagorian approach and gave a salute.

'Good morning to you, Nogusta,' said the officer. 'You fought well yesterday.'

'He does that,' said Bison, with a wide, gap-toothed grin. 'You're the son of Catoris, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Good man,' said Bison. 'You could always rely on the Third Lancers when he was in command. He was a hard bastard, though. Ten lashes I got when I didn't salute fast enough. Still, that's the nobility for you.' He swung to Nogusta. 'You want more pie?' The black man shook his head and Bison ambled away towards one of the food tents.

Dagorian grinned. 'Did he just praise my father, or insult him?' he asked.

'A little of both,' said Nogusta.

'An unusual man.'

'Bison or your father?'

'Bison. Are you entered in any of the tournaments?'

'No,' said the black man.

'Why not? You are a superb swordsman.'

'I don't play games with swords. And you?'

'Yes,' answered Dagorian. 'In the sabre tourney.'

'You will face Antikas Karios in the final.'

Dagorian looked surprised. 'How can you know that?'

Nogusta lifted his hand and touched the centre of his brow. 'I have the Third Eye,' he said.

'And what is that?'

The black man smiled. 'It is a Gift — or perhaps a curse — I was born with.'

'Do I win or lose?'

'The Gift is not that precise,' Nogusta told him, with a smile. 'It strikes like lightning, leaving an image. I can neither predict nor direct it. It comes or it. .' His smile faded, and his expression hardened. Dagorian looked closely at the man. It seemed he was no longer aware of the officer's presence. Then he sighed. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'I was momentarily distracted.'

'You saw another vision?' asked Dagorian.

'Yes.'

'Did it concern the sabre tourney?'

'No, it did not. I am sure you will acquit yourself well. Tell me how is the White Wolf?' he asked, suddenly.

'He is well, and preparing plans for the return home. Why do you ask?'

'Malikada will try to kill him.' The words were spoken softly, but with great authority. The black man was not venturing an opinion, but stating a fact.

'This is what you saw?'

'I need no mystic talent to make that prediction.'

'Then I think you are wrong,' said Dagorian. 'Malikada is the king's general now. Banelion does not stand in his way. Indeed he will be going home in three days, to retire.'

'Even so his life is in danger.'

'Perhaps you should speak to the general about this?' said Dagorian, stiffly.

Nogusta shrugged. There is no need. He knows it as well as I. Cerez was Malikada's favourite. He believed him to be almost invincible. Yesterday he learned a hard lesson. He will want revenge.'

'If that is true will he not seek revenge against you also?'

'Indeed he will,' agreed Nogusta.

'You seem remarkably unperturbed by the prospect.'

'Appearances can be deceiving,' Nogusta told him.

* * *

As the morning wore on Nogusta's words continued to haunt the young officer. They had been spoken with such quiet certainty that the more Dagorian thought of them, the more convinced he became of the truth they contained. Malikada was not known as a forgiving man. There were many stories among the Drenai officers concerning the Ventrian prince and his methods. One story had it that Malikada once beat a servant to death for ruining one of his shirts. As far as Dagorian knew there was no evidence to support the tale, but it highlighted the popular view of Malikada.

Such a man would indeed nurse a grudge against Banelion.

With at least another two hours before the start of his duties Dagorian decided to seek out the general. He loved the old man in a way he had never learned to love his own father. Often he had tried to work out why, but the answer escaped him. Both were hard, cold men, addicted to war and the methods of war. And yet with

Banelion he could relax, finding words easy and conversation smooth. With his father his throat would tighten, his brain melt. Clear and concise thoughts would travel from his mind to his mouth, appearing to become drunken on the way, spilling out — at least to himself — as stuttering gibberish.

'Spit it out, boy!' Catoris would yell, and the words would dry up, and Dagorian would stand very still, feeling very foolish.

In all his life he could only recall one moment when his father had shown him affection. And that was after the duel. A nobleman named Rogun had challenged Dagorian. It was all so stupid. A young woman had smiled at him, and he had returned the compliment. The man with her stormed across the street. He slapped Dagorian across the face, and issued a challenge.

They had met on the cavalry parade-ground at dawn the following day. Catoris had been present. He watched the fight without expression, but when Dagorian delivered the killing stroke he ran forward and embraced him clumsily. He remembered the incident now with regret, for instead of returning the embrace he had angrily pulled clear and hurled his sword aside. 'It was all so stupid!' he stormed. 'He made me kill him for a smile.'

'It was a duel of honour,' said his father, lamely. 'You should be proud.'

'I am sick to my stomach,' said Dagorian.

The following day he had entered the monastery at Corteswain, and pledged his life to the Source.

When his father died at Mellicane, leading a charge that saved the king's life, Dagorian had known enormous grief. He did not doubt that his father loved him, nor indeed that he loved his father. But — apart from that one embrace — the two of them had never been able to show their affection for one another.