David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

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satin covered birthing stool, and quietly explained all the processes of birth. It had almost seemed an adventure then. Fresh pain seared through her and she cried out.

‘Don’t breathe too fast,’ said Bison. His gruff voice cut through her rising panic. The contractions continued, the rhythm of pain rising and falling. The girl, Pharis, lifted a cup to Axiana’s lips. The water was cool and sweet. Sweat dripped into Axiana’s eyes. Pharis wiped it away with a cloth.

Cramp stabbed through her right thigh. She reared up against Bison and screamed. ‘My leg! My leg!’ Lifting her easily he turned her to her back, leaning her against a fallen tree. Kneeling beside her his huge hands began to rub at the muscles above her knee. Pharis offered her more water. She shook her head. The humili­ation was colossal. No man but her husband had ever seen her naked, and on that one night she had bathed in perfumed water and waited in a room lit with the light of three coloured lanterns. The light now was harsh and bright, and the ugly peasant was rubbing her thighs with his huge calloused hands.

And yet, she thought suddenly, he cares! Which is something Skanda never did.

Axiana remembered the night the king had come to her. He cared nothing that she was a virgin, untutored and unskilled. He had made no attempt to ease her fears, nor even arouse her. There had been no pleasure in the act. It had been painful and – thank the Source – short lived. He had not said a word throughout, and when he had finished he rose from her bed and stalked from the room. She had cried for hours.

Axiana felt dizzy. She opened her eyes to see bright lights dancing before her vision. ‘Breathe slowly,’ advised Bison. ‘You’ll pass out else. And we don’t want that, do we?’

Pain flared once more, reaching new heights. ‘There’s blood! There’s blood!’ wailed Pharis.

‘Of course there’s blood,’ snapped Bison. ‘Just stay calm, girl. Go and fetch some more water!’

Axiana moaned. Bison leaned in to her. ‘Try to think of something else,’ he said. ‘One of my wives used to chant. You know any chants?’

Anger replaced the pain in Axiana, roaring up like a forest fire. ‘You oaf! You stupid . . .’ Suddenly she let fly with a stream of coarse and obscene swear words, in both Drenai and Ventrian, words she had heard but had never before uttered; would never have believed herself capable of uttering. It was, as she had always believed, the language of the gutter. Bison was completely unfazed.

‘My third wife used to talk like that,’ he said. ‘It’s as good as a chant,’ he added, brightly.

Axiana sagged against him, exhausted. All the years of nobility, the education and the instilled belief that nobles were a different species to mere mortals, peeled away from her, like the layers of an onion. She was an animal now, sweating, grunting and moaning; a creature with­out pride. Tears welled as the pain soared to fresh heights. ‘I can’t stand it!’ she whispered. ‘I can’t!’

‘Course you can. You’re a brave girl. Course you can.’ She swore at him again, repeating the same word over and over.

‘That’s good,’ he said, with a grin. Her head sagged against his shoulder. His hand pushed back the sweat-drenched hair from her brow. More than anything else this one small gesture restored her courage. She was not alone. The pain eased momentarily.

‘Where is Ulmenetha?’ she asked Bison.

‘She’ll be here when she wakes. I don’t know why

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she’s still sleeping. Nogusta thinks it’s magick of some kind. But I’m here. You can trust old Bison.’

Pharis leaned in and wiped her face, then offered her more water. Axiana drank gratefully.

The morning wore on, the sun passing noon and drift­ing slowly across the sky. For a time Bison lifted her once more to a kneeling position, but the cramps returned, and by mid-afternoon she was sitting once more with her back against the fallen tree. Her strength was almost gone, and she was floating in pain, semi-conscious. She remembered her mother, the wan young face, the eyes dark circled. She had died in childbirth. Her son born dead, her body torn, her life blood draining away. Axiana had been six years old. Her nurse had brought her in to say goodbye. But her mother had been delirious, and had not recognized her. She had called out a name, screamed it loud. No-one knew who she was calling for.