David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

She had been buried on a bright summer afternoon, her son beside her.

‘I am going to die like her,’ thought Axiana.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Bison.

‘I didn’t . . . mean to say that . . . aloud,’ whispered Axiana.

‘You’re not going to die, girl. In a little while I’ll lay your son on your breast, and the sunlight will touch you both.’

‘My . . . son.’ The thought was a strange one. For the duration of her pregnancy Axiana had thought only of the baby inside her. Skanda’s baby. Skanda’s child. An object created by a virtual rape which had changed her young life.

My son is waiting to be born.

‘I can see the head,’ said Pharis. ‘The baby is coming!’

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Bison wiped away the sweat from Axiana’s face. ‘Do not push,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

She heard the advice, but the urge to propel the obstruction from her body was overpowering. ‘I can’t .. . stop myself!’ she told him, taking a deep breath.

‘No!’ he thundered. ‘The head is not engaged fully.’ Her face reddened with the effort of pushing. ‘Pant!’ he ordered her. ‘Pant. Like this!’ Pushing out his tongue he made quick shallow breaths.

‘I’m not… a … dog!’ she hissed at him.

‘You’ll damage the child if you don’t. His head is soft. Now pant, damn you!’ Summoning Pharis to support the queen’s shoulders Bison moved back to observe the birth. The head was almost clear, and one shoulder. Then he saw the umbilical cord, tight around the baby’s neck like a blue-grey serpent, choking the life away. His fingers were too thick and clumsy to dislodge it. Fear touched him then. Twice before he had observed this phenomenon. The first time a surgeon had cut the cord. The baby had lived, but the woman had died, for the afterbirth had not come away cleanly, remaining inside to rot and poison the blood. The second time the cord had effectively strangled the infant. ‘Don’t push!’ he told the queen. Taking a deep breath Bison supported the infant’s head with his left hand then, as gently as he could eased the little finger of his right hand under the cord. Twice it slipped back into place, but the third time he hooked it, drawing it carefully over the head.

With the threat removed Bison called out. ‘Now you can push! Push like the Devil!’

Axiana grunted, then cried out as the baby slid clear into Bison’s hands. The babe’s face and body were covered in grease and blood. Swiftly Bison tied the umbilical cord, then cut it. Then he wiped the child’s

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nostrils and mouth, clearing its airways. The babe’s tiny arm moved, then it drew in its first breath.

A thin wail sounded into the forest.

Bison heard the sound of running feet outside the roof­less tent. ‘Stay back!’ he yelled. He swung to Pharis. ‘Get some fresh water.’ Moving forward on his knees he laid the babe on Axiana’s breast. Her arms went around it. Pharis was staring open mouthed at the tiny, wrinkled creature in the queen’s arms. ‘Get water, girl,’ said Bison. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to gawp later.’

Pharis scrambled up and ran from the tent.

Axiana smiled at Bison. Then she began to sob. The old man kissed her brow. ‘You did well,’ he said, gruffly.

‘So did you,’ said Ulmenetha, from behind him.

Bison sucked in a deep breath and released his hold on the queen. Glancing up at the priestess he forced a grin. ‘Well, if you really want to thank me . . .’ he began.

Ulmenetha raised her hand to silence him. ‘Do not spoil this moment, Bison,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Go back to your friends. I will finish what you have done so well.’ Bison sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He was tired now. Bone weary.

He wanted to say something to the queen, something to show how much these last few hours had meant to him; how proud he was of her, and how he would never forget what had happened here. He wanted to say he was privileged to have attended her.