Dagorian removed his black and gold helm, and absently brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume. ‘I don’t doubt you are right about the older men, sir. But not you. Without you some of the battles would have been . . .’ The White Wolf raised his finger to his lips, the movement sharp and swift.
‘All my battles have been fought. Now I will go home and enjoy my retirement. I will breed horses, and watch the sun rise over the mountains. And I will wait for news of the king’s victories, and I will celebrate them quietly in my home. I have served Skanda, as I served his father. Faithfully and well, and to the best of my considerable abilities. Now I need a little fresh air. Walk with me in the garden.’
Swinging a sheepskin cloak around his shoulders
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Banelion pushed open the doors and strode through to the snow-covered garden. The paved path could no longer be seen, but the statues that lined it pointed the way. Crunching the snow underfoot the two men walked out past the frozen fountain. The statues were all of Ventrian warriors, standing like sentries, spears pointed towards the sky. The older man took Dagorian’s arm and leaned in close. ‘It is time for you to learn to curb your tongue, young man,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Every whisper spoken inside the palace is reported to the king and his new advisers. The walls are hollow, and listeners write down every sentence. You understand?’
They even spy on you? I cannot believe it.’
‘Believe it. Skanda is no longer the boy-king who charmed us all. He is a man, ruthless and ambitious. He is determined to conquer the world. And he probably will. If his new allies are as trustworthy as he thinks.’
‘You doubt the Prince Malikada?’
Banelion grinned and led the young man around the frozen lake. ‘I have no reason to doubt him. Or his wizard. Malikada’s cavalry are superbly disciplined, and his men fight well. But he is not Drenai, and the king puts great faith in him.’ On the far side of the lake they came to a stone arch, beneath which was a bust of a handsome man, with a forked beard, and a high sloping brow. ‘You know who this is?’ asked Banelion.
‘No, sir. A Ventrian noble of some kind?’
‘This is the general, Bodasen. He died three hundred and fifty years ago. He was the greatest general the Ventrians ever had. He it was – with Gorben – who laid the foundations of their empire.’
The old man shivered and drew his cloak more tightly
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about him. Dagorian stared hard at the white stone of the bust. ‘I have read the histories, sir. He is described as a plodding soldier. Gorben was said to have led the army to victory.’
Banelion chuckled. ‘As indeed has Skanda. And in the months to come you will hear the same of me. That is the way of the world, Dagorian. The victorious kings write the histories. Now let us go back, for this cold is eating into my bones.’
Once back inside Dagorian banked up the fire and the general stood before it, rubbing his hands. ‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘have they found Bison yet?’
‘No, sir. They are scouring the whorehouses. The man with the cracked skull has regained consciousness. The surgeons say he will not die.’
‘That is a blessing. I would hate to hang old Bison.’
‘He’s been with you from the first, I understand.’
‘Aye, from the first, when the old king was merely a young prince, and the kingdom was in ruins. Days of blood and fire, Dagorian. I would not want to live them again. Bison is – like me – a relic of those days. There are not many of us left.’
‘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 has brought us across the world. A man to move mountains, Dagorian. Now you best get some rest. We’ll finish in the morning.’