Nogusta sighed. Now Orendo was on the run with two other soldiers, having murdered a merchant and raped his daughter. She too had been left for dead, but the knife had missed her heart, and she had lived to name her attackers.
‘Don’t bring them back,’ the White Wolf had told him. ‘I want them dead. No public trials. Bad for morale.’ Nogusta had looked into the old man’s pale, cold eyes.
‘Yes, my general.’
‘You want to take Bison and Kebra with you?’ asked the general.
‘No. Orendo was Bison’s friend. I’ll do it alone.’
‘Was Orendo not your friend also?’ said Banelion, watching him closely.
‘You want their heads as proof that I killed them?’
‘No. Your word is good enough for me,’ said Banelion. That was a source of pride to Nogusta. He had served Banelion now for almost thirty-five years – almost all his adult life. The general was not a man given to praise, but his men served him with an iron loyalty.
14
Nogusta stared into the fire. It had been more than a surprise when Orendo had betrayed him. But then Orendo was being sent home. Like Bison and Kebra. And even the White Wolf himself.
The king wanted the old men culled. The same old men who had fought for his father, saving the Drenai when all seemed lost. The same old men who had invaded Ventria, smashing the emperor’s armies. Paid off and retired. That was the rumour. Orendo had believed it, and had robbed the merchant. Yet it was hard to believe he had also taken part in the rape and attempted murder of the girl. But the evidence was overwhelming. She said he had not only been the instigator of the rape, it had been he who had plunged the knife into her breast.
Nogusta stared moodily into the fire. Had the crime shocked him? A good judge of men he would not have thought Orendo capable of such a vile act. But then all those years ago he had learned what good men were capable of. He had learned it in fire and blood and death. He had learned it in the ruin of dreams and the shattering of hopes. Banking up the fire he moved the bed closer to the hearth. Pulling off his boots he lay down, covering himself with the thin blankets.
Outside the wind was howling.
He awoke at dawn. The cabin was still warm. Rising from the bed he pulled on his boots. The fire had died down to glowing embers. He took a long drink from his canteen, then put on his cloak, hefted his saddlebags, and went out to the gelding. The back stones of the hearth were hot, the temperature in the lean-to well above freezing. ‘How are you feeling, boy?’ he said, stroking the beast’s neck. The gelding nuzzled his chest. ‘We’ll catch them today, and then I’ll take you back to that warm stable.’ Back in the cabin he put out the
15
remains of the fire, then laid a fresh one in its place, ready for any other weary traveller who came upon it. Saddling the gelding he rode out into the winter woods.
Orendo stared gloomily at the jewels, purple amethysts, bright diamonds, red rubies, sparkling in his gloved hand. With a sigh he opened the pouch and watched them tumble back into its dark interior.
‘I’m going to buy a farm,’ said the youngster, Cassin. ‘On the Sentran Plain. Dairy farm. I’ve always loved the taste of fresh milk.’ Orendo’s weary eyes glanced up at the slim young man and he said nothing.
‘What’s the point?’ countered Eris, a thickset bearded warrior with small dark eyes. ‘Life’s too short to buy hard work. Give me the whorehouses of Drenan and a fine little house high on the Sixth Hill. A different girl every day of the week, small, pretty and slim hipped.’
A silence grew among them, as each remembered the small, pretty girl they had murdered back in the city of Usa. ‘Looks like we’re clear of snow today,’ said Cassin, at last.
‘Snow is good for us,’ said Orendo. ‘It covers tracks.’
‘Why would anyone track us yet?’ asked Eris. ‘No-one saw us at the merchant’s house, and there’s no roll-call until tomorrow.’