The Winter Warriors

Chapter Three

Kebra the bowman was relaxed, his mind focused, his emotions suppressed, all thoughts of Bison's actions forgotten. Anger would not be an ally now. Archery required calm concentration and great timing.

He had entered the tourney in the fifth stage with only twenty archers left. The target, thirty paces away, was a straw man, with a round red heart pinned to the chest. Kebra had struck the heart ten times with ten shafts, giving him 100 points. The Ventrian bowman standing to his right had hit nine, and two other men had seven.

These four alone moved on to the sixth stage.

The crowd among the competitors was swelling now, and once again Kebra could feel the old excitement coursing through him. He had watched the other three competitors, and only the stocky Ventrian posed any real danger. But the man was being unsettled by the mainly Drenai crowd, who jeered and shouted as he took aim.

The next event was one of Kebra's favourites. He had always enjoyed the Horse, for it was the closest the tourney could offer to combat shooting. Led by running soldiers four ponies bearing figures of straw tied to the saddle, would pass before the bowmen. Each archer was allowed three shafts. There was a larger element of luck in this event, as the horses would swerve, causing the straw figures to sway in the saddle. But the crowd loved it. And so did the Drenai champion.

Kebra stood waiting, one shaft notched to the string, two others stuck in the ground before him. He glanced at the four ostlers, watching them eke out the guide ropes. A trumpet sounded. The men ran forward, exhorting the ponies to follow them. Three obeyed immediately, the fourth hanging back. Kebra drew back on the string, sighting carefully, allowing for the speed of the first horse. He loosed the shaft. Without waiting to see it strike home he ducked down and notched a second arrow. Coming up smoothly he shot again at the second target. An angry roar went up from the crowd. Kebra ignored the impulse to see what had caused it and brought his bow to bear. The last pony, an arrow jutting from its flank had reared up and was fighting the rope. It broke loose and galloped towards the king's pavilion. Kebra loosed his last shaft, and watched as it arced towards the panic-stricken pony. The arrow punched home in the back of the straw man.

Angry jeers turned to a roar of applause at the strike. Several men ran out onto the meadow and gathered the wounded pony, which was led away. The man whose arrow caused the wound was disqualified.

Only then did Kebra have a chance to check his score. All three shafts had scored. Another thirty points.

The Ventrian archer, a small, chubby man, turned to him. 'It is an honour to see you shoot,' he said. He held out his hand. 'I am Dirais.' Kebra accepted the handshake. He glanced at the scoreboard, held aloft by a young cadet. The Ventrian was ten points behind him. The other archer, a slim, young Drenai, was a further twenty points adrift.

A dozen soldiers moved out onto the meadow, dragging a wheeled, triangular scaffold, 2.0 feet high, across the grass. As they were setting it into place Kebra saw the king and Malikada striding out from the pavilion, coming towards them.

Skanda gave a wide grin and clapped Kebra on the shoulder. 'Good to see you, old lad,' he said. 'That last shot reminded me of the day you saved my life. A fine strike.'

'Thank you, sire,' said Kebra, with a bow. Malikada stepped forward.

'Your legend is not exaggerated,' he said. 'Rarely have I seen better bowmanship.' Kebra bowed again. Skanda shook the young Ventrian's hand.

'You are competing with the finest,' he told Dirais. 'And you are acquitting yourself well. Good luck to you.' Dirais gave a deep bow.

Malikada leaned in close to the Ventrian. 'Win,' he said. 'Make me proud.'

The king and his general moved back and the last three archers faced the Hanging Man.

A figure of straw was hung from the scaffold. A soldier dragged the figure back, then released it to swing like a pendulum between the supports. The young Drenai stepped up first. His first shaft struck the straw man dead centre, but his second hit a support pole and glanced away. His third missed the Hanging Man by a whisker.

Next came Dirais, and the Hanging Man was swung back once more. It seemed to Kebra that it was given an extra push by the Drenai soldiers, and was moving at greater speed. And the Drenai soldiers in the crowd began again to jeer and shout in an effort to unsettle the Ventrian. Even so the chubby archer hammered his first two shafts into the dummy. His third also struck a support pole.

Kebra stepped up. The figure was swung again, this time more sedately. For the first time anger flared in the bowman. He did not need this advantage. Even so he did not complain, and, calming himself, sent three arrows into the target. The applause was thunderous. He glanced towards Dirais, and saw the fury in the man's dark eyes. It was bad enough for him to be facing the Drenai champion without such partisan efforts from the officials.

The young Drenai archer was eliminated, and now came the final test. Two targets were set up thirty paces distant. They were the traditional round targets, with a series of concentric circles, each of a different colour, surrounding a gold circle at the centre. The outer rim was white, and worth two points. Within this was blue, worth five, then silver worth seven, and lastly gold for ten.

Kebra shot first, and struck gold. Dirais equalled him. The targets were moved back ten paces. This time Kebra only managed blue. Dirais, despite the increased jeering struck gold once more.

With only two shafts left Kebra was leading by 175 points to 160. Keep calm, he told himself. The targets were lifted and carried back another ten paces. The colours were a distant blur to Kebra now. He squinted hard and drew back on the string. The crowd was silent. He loosed, the shaft arcing gracefully through the air to thud home into the white. There were no cheers from the crowd now. Dirais took aim and struck gold once more — 177 points to 170, with only one shaft left.

The targets were moved back again. Kebra could only dimly make out the outline. He rubbed his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath he took aim at the target he could barely see — and let fly! He did not know where the shaft landed, but heard one of the judges shout: 'White!' He

was relieved to have hit the target at all — 179 points to 170.

Dirais would need gold to win. Kebra stepped back. The crowd were shouting now at the top of their voices.

Please miss, thought Kebra, wanting the championship more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. His chest felt tight and heavy, and his breathing was shallow. He glanced at the crowd, and saw Nogusta. Kebra tried to force a smile, but it was more like a death's head grin.

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 was 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 congratulation. 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 humour 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 signalled 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 honour,' said Nogusta. 'Come, it is time that wound was stitched.'

'What has honour 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 on 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?' enquired 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 magic. 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,' said Bison, 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 honour 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 towards 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,' said Malikada, 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 this was being done a sizeable 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 6 foot high target was placed within 10 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 left 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 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 sabres, 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 defences, lightly touching his sabre 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 Sabre 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 centre 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 armour glowing, his sword held high. He rode to the centre 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 overlooked. 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 ale houses 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 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 upon a bridge of stone. But the third was altogether more mysterious; he was facing someone wearing black armour. 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 towards him. Nogusta shivered. He had experienced the vision during Kalizkan's magical 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 is 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.

Nogusta had no wish to kill these men. They were merely obeying the orders of their commander. But it would not be easy to evade them. A woman approached him. She was young and blonde, her face and lips painted. He smiled at her and she took his arm, leading him into an alley. A narrow flight of stairs led to a small room and a grimy bed. Nogusta paid her, then opened the window and stared down. The three assassins were waiting in the shadows.

'Is there another way out of here?' Nogusta asked the girl.

'Yes.' She pointed to a curtain. 'Through there, along the corridor, and down into the back streets. Why?'

Thank you,' he said, opening his pouch and tossing her a silver coin. He was about to leave when she opened her dress and lay back on the bed, moonlight gleaming from her full breasts, her ivory belly and her pale thighs. Nogusta chuckled. Let them wait in the cold, he thought.

And moved to the girl.

An hour later he slipped through the curtain, along the corridor and out into the night.

The feeling of unease was still strong upon him, and he had long ago learned to trust his instincts. He smiled as he remembered the lion. It had been a night like this, cold and bright. He had awoken, nostrils flaring, aware of danger. Armed with only a knife the fourteen-year-old Nogusta had slipped from his room and out into the night. His father's horses had been uneasy, and they stood in a tight group, watching warily. The lion had burst from the undergrowth, and leapt the paddock fence. In one movement Nogusta had hurled his knife. It slammed into the lion's side. With a startled roar it turned on the boy. Nogusta had sprinted towards the barn, knowing the lion would catch him. But then Palarin, the lord of the herd, a huge black stallion of seventeen hands charged the lion, rearing up and lashing out with his hooves. The sudden attack made the lion swerve, but then he continued after the boy. Nogusta made it to the barn, grabbed a pitchfork, and turned just in time. The lion leapt, impaling itself on the twin blades. In its dying rage it lashed out, snapping the pitchfork and slashing Nogusta's chest, breaking three ribs.

He smiled at the memory. Never as good with horses as his brothers he had, for a time at least, been the hero who saved the herd. It was a good memory. Palarin had sired many fine warhorses, and from his line came the king's great war mount, Starfire.

Yet, like me, even he is getting old now, thought Nogusta, with a sigh. And he had been missing from the afternoon races. The rumour was that Starfire was ill. Nogusta decided to seek out the horse tomorrow, and see what treatment had been recommended.

He moved off into the back streets, enjoyed a meal at a small tavern, then headed for the barracks. He had no doubt the men, having lost him, would be waiting there. How he would handle the situation would depend entirely on their skill. If they were clumsy he would disable them, but if they were skilful he would have to kill them. This thought was not a happy one. In truth Nogusta had seen enough killing in his life, and wanted nothing more than to return to the high mountains and find the descendants of the herd. It would, he thought, at least make some sense of the remainder of his life. His thoughts turned to Skanda. The man was brave and adored by his troops. He was charismatic and intelligent. Yet there was something missing in him, some cold empty place untouched by human warmth. Despite this Nogusta liked him. Who could not? The man was capable of immense generosity. Yet equally he could be suddenly vain and jealous, and act with incredible malice. Perhaps all kings are this way, thought Nogusta. Perhaps it is the nature of powerful men.

The sky was clear, the moon and stars bright as he made his way through the back streets. The smell of freshly baked bread from the barracks kitchens wafted to him on the breeze, and he slowed his walk. Some thirty paces ahead the street intersected the Avenue of Light. Across the avenue, past the statues of the emperors was the old barracks building. Nogusta halted. Three men, armed with knives or short swords, were waiting somewhere ahead. Three men he had never met, who had been ordered to kill him. He did not hate them. They were merely soldiers obeying orders.

Yet neither was he prepared to die. Taking a deep breath he strode out onto the Avenue of Light. Lanterns were placed on tall poles along both sides of the Avenue, the bronze statues of the emperors gleaming like gold.

Nogusta moved out into the open and walked across the broad paved road. As he skirted the statue of the ancient king, Gorben, two men sprinted from the shadows. Both carried knives. Nogusta let them come. As the fastest man approached him Nogusta spun to one side, then launched a kick into the man's kneecap. The strike was not perfect, but the assassin was hurled from his feet. Nogusta ignored him and leapt to meet the second man, knocking aside the knife arm and hammering a right hook to the man's chin. He too spun to the ground, but rolled to his feet immediately. The first man was sitting in the road, unable to stand on his twisted knee. But he hurled his knife. Nogusta swayed aside from the blade, which flashed harmlessly by to clatter against the base of Gorben's statue. The second assassin attacked again, this time more warily. Nogusta stood very still, encouraging the man to move in close. He did so with a sudden rush. Nogusta grabbed his wrist and dragged him into a savage head butt which smashed the man's nose. He groaned and sagged against the black warrior. Nogusta spun him then slammed the edge of his palm against the assassin's neck. The man fell without a sound. The third man had not shown himself.

Nogusta walked on. The barracks gate was only thirty paces ahead now. Nogusta glanced back. The Ventrian with the injured knee had hobbled to his comrade and was sitting beside him. The black man moved into the shadow of the gate arch. A whisper of movement! Nogusta dived forward just as a knife sliced the air above him. The assassin was fast and leapt upon Nogusta before he could rise. Nogusta's elbow slammed back into the man's ribs, bringing a grunt of pain. The black man swivelled and sent a straight left into the Ventrian's face. The man lashed out, his fist cracking against Nogusta's cheek. Nogusta's head thumped against the stone walkway. Bright stars exploded before his eyes and Nogusta felt a wave of dizziness threatening to engulf him. For a while the two men grappled, and the older warrior felt his strength draining away. The assassin drew a second knife. With the last of his strength Nogusta hit him in the throat with stiffened fingers. The man gagged and reared up. Nogusta grabbed him by his shirt and threw him to one side. Rolling to his feet the black warrior kicked the assassin under the chin, catapulting him backwards. He moved in for a second strike, but his opponent was unconscious.

Breathless and exhausted Nogusta slumped to a bench seat under the arch. It would have been less effort to kill them all, he thought.

Hooded and cloaked against the night winds Ulmenetha walked slowly up the winding path towards the white marble temple that crowned the hill. She was tired, her calves burning as she reached the open gates. There was a time, back in Drenan, when she would have run this hill for the sheer pleasure of it. In the days of her youth she had been slim and fast, and physical exertion had been a joy that lifted her spirits. Not now. Now it was a chore to drag her overweight frame up such an incline. Panting she sat herself down on the steps of the temple entrance and waited for her hammering heart to slow down.

A young priest in white robes walked by her, bowing as he passed.

Heaving herself to her feet she entered the building, curtsying towards the High Altar. Dipping her finger into a stone bowl full of holy water she traced a circle upon her brow then walked to the back of the temple, seating herself in an alcove beneath a wreath of elegantly carved vines.

Another priest, a tall, balding young man with a prominent nose and a weak chin, saw her there and approached. 'What do you seek, mother?' he asked her. 'The Oracle Voice is not present.'

'I need no Voice,' she told him.

'Then why are you here at this late hour?' He was wearing the grey robes of a Senior Brother and his blue eyes looked world-weary and bored.

'Are you a Seer?' she asked him.

'Sadly, no, mother. I am still a student in such matters. But I have hopes that one day the curtain will part for me. What encouragement do you seek?'

'I seek a place without demons,' she told him. Instantly his face changed, and he made the sign of the Protective Horn.

'Such a word should not be used here,' he admonished her, his voice less friendly.

She smiled. 'If not here, then where? Never mind,' she added, seeing his confusion. 'Is there one among your order who is a Seer?'

'There was one,' he told her. 'Father Aminias. But he died last week. We were all saddened, for he was a fine man.'

'Was he ill?'

'No. He was attacked while out on his pastoral duties. A madman, it seems. He was screeching at the top of his voice, and he stabbed poor Aminias many times before he was dragged away.'

'And there is no-one else?'

'No, mother. Such Gifts are becoming increasingly rare, I think.'

'And yet they are ever more important,' she said, pushing herself to her feet.

'You spoke of… unholy beings. Why was that?' His blue eyes were suddenly fearful. Ulmenetha shook her head.

'You do not have the power to help me,' she said.

'Even so, mother, I would be grateful if you would enlighten me.'

Ulmenetha was silent for a moment. She looked at the grey robed priest. Her first impression had been of a weak man, but as she looked more closely she felt she might have mistaken sensitivity for weakness. And she desperately needed someone to confide in. Ulmenetha took a deep breath, and sat down once more. 'Someone is summoning demons,' she said, at last. 'They are everywhere, and growing in number. I have the eyes to see them, but not the wit to discern their purpose.' The balding priest sat down beside her.

'Father Aminias said the same thing,' he told her. 'It was his belief that a great spell was being wrought. But I cannot see these. . these creatures. And I know not how to combat them. Nor even if I should try.' He gave a wan smile. 'Who are you, mother?'

'I am the Priestess Ulmenetha, the companion of Axiana the queen.'

'And what did you hope to achieve here?'

'I sought answers. I have had three visions, and can make no sense of any of them.' She told him of the four warriors and the white crow, of the demon in the lake, and of the sacrifice of the emperor. He listened in silence.

'I have never been blessed with your Gift,' he said, 'but what I have been given is the Gift of Discernment. Your visions are true ones. This I know. You saw three scenes. Three is a number of great power among mystics, and your experience is not unique. What you saw is called a kiraz. The first scene concerns the cause of the problem. The second illuminates how the problem will manifest itself. The third is more complex. It always reveals the protagonists, but also often reveals a clue to the solution of the problem. Now let us examine them in detail. The Demon of the Lake — the cause — is more of a symbolic vision. It came out of the ice, you say. If I read it correctly the lake is a symbol for a gateway between its world and ours. You say it flowed like smoke into the body of a man. This is a man being possessed. But more than that it is a man being possessed after having been slain. What we have is a demon inhabiting a corpse. This demon must therefore be a most powerful creature. He now dwells in the world of men. He it is who has summoned the creatures you see over the city. It is his purpose that must be discerned.

'As to the emperor being sacrificed. . this is not a symbol. There were many rumours when he was slain, and the body was never recovered. But the voice you heard was interesting. "The day of Resurrection is at hand. You are the first of the Three." Once again we have the number three. But what is to be resurrected? And who are the other two? This is the manifestation of the problem. Three are to be sacrificed in order for the Demon to achieve his purpose. One is already slain.

'Now to the scene in the forest. You and the queen stand protected by a few soldiers. Three old men and a youngster are all that stand between you and a terrible evil. The clue here, I believe is the person you are protecting. Axiana is obviously one of the Three. It makes sense, since her father was the first. Perhaps there is something in the bloodline that the Demon requires.' He smiled and spread his hands. 'I can tell you no more, Ulmenetha.'

'Should I try to find these soldiers?'

He shook his head. 'What you saw is what will be, whether you seek them out or not.'

'You did not mention the white crow,' she pointed out.

'No,' he said, sadly. 'Nor did I need to. You know what that means.'

'Aye, I know,' she said, wearily. She gazed around the temple, unwilling to leave its quiet sanctuary. On the wall above the High Altar was carved the symbol of Emsharas, the slender hand holding a crescent moon. 'I thought this to be a Source temple,' she said. It is unusual to find the crescent moon in such a place.'

'You perceive Emsharas to be a creature of evil?'

'Was he not, according to legend, a demon?' she asked.

'He was indeed one of the Windborn, a spirit being. The name "demon" is a description devised by man. We have here in this temple many of the oldest scrolls in existence, and even some legends engraved on gold foil. I have studied them over the years. I have come to admire Emsharas, and I believe he was Source driven. Did your studies include the legends of the Demon Wars?'

'Very briefly,' she told him. 'Thousands of years ago Emsharas and his brother, Anharat, were enemies. Emsharas joined the human armies of the Three Kings, and banished all demons from the world. That is the sum total of my knowledge.'

'In truth that is probably the sum total of all our knowledge,' he said. 'But you notice the figure three appearing again? It is of great mystical significance. However, he did not merely banish demons from the world. All the creatures of the Windborn vanished as a result of the Great Spell.'

'And now they are coming back,' she said.

'It would appear so,' he agreed.

Banelion summoned his twenty senior officers soon after dawn. All were veterans, many of them men who had served with him for more than thirty years. They were survivors, tough and lean, hard eyed and iron willed. They stood to attention around him, filling the tent. No-one could ever have accused the White Wolf of sentimentality, and yet, as he looked into their faces, he felt an acute sense of family. These men had been his brothers, his sons. He had raised them, and trained them, and led them across the world. Now he was taking them home, to a retirement few desired, but all deserved.

Banelion rarely looked into mirrors. He had lost that vanity at sixty. But now, looking at these men he felt the weight of his years. He could remember them all as they had been, bright eyed, fresh of face, their hearts burning to serve — aye and to save — the country of their birth.

'There will be no easing of discipline,' he told them. 'We will have eighteen hundred men with us, all private citizens now. But I will not lead an unruly mob back to Drenan. Every man who travels with us will sign on for the journey as a soldier, subject to my discipline and under my orders. Any who do not wish to do so will be turned away. The payment will be one half silver per man per month, to be paid out of my own treasury. Officers will receive five full silvers. The payment will be made upon landing at Dros Purdol. Any questions?'

There were many, and for more than an hour he discussed the logistics of the journey with the officers, then dismissed them.

Alone once more he sat down on his pallet bed and spent a further half-hour planning for the problems he expected upon the journey. Satisfied he had covered most of the areas of possible delay he finally allowed his mind to dwell on the immediate danger posed by the threat of Malikada.

Despite what he had told Dagorian about the king, and his lack of concern over the fate of his oldest general, the White Wolf knew that Malikada was unlikely to send Ventrian assassins to kill him. Such a move would cause uproar in the army, and affect the king's plan to march on Cadia. That march would begin in three days. If the White Wolf was murdered Skanda would be forced to call for an inquiry. No, Malikada's attempt would be more subtle. A Drenai might be paid to kill him, a man known to harbour resentment against Banelion. And there were plenty of those, common soldiers who had suffered under the lash for minor infringements of discipline, junior officers who felt they had been overlooked for advancement, senior officers who had suffered public rebuke. Then there were men stripped of their rank for incompetence. Banelion smiled. If Malikada offered enough money he could be trampled to death under a stampede of men anxious to earn it.

Banelion poured himself a goblet of water. But if the murderer was taken alive and questioned under torture such a payment would come to light, and that would throw suspicion back upon Malikada, no matter who he hired to make the transaction. The White Wolf dismissed the idea. It was too unsubtle for the Ventrian fox.

What then? Banelion lifted the goblet to his lips. He hesitated, and stared down at the clear liquid. Poison would be the likeliest answer. Not a cheerful prospect, he thought, putting down the goblet. From now on he would eat at the communal kitchen, standing in line with the rest of his men.

Satisfied he had considered every possibility for attack he relaxed.

He was wrong.