David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

His hand fell away, then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. He had never done that before. In fact she couldn’t remember the last time a man had kissed her cheek. Then he rose. ‘I’d better be getting back,’ he said.

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‘Why not stay? I know you, Bison. You’d feel better afterwards. You always do.’

‘Aye, that’s true. You are the best, you know. And I speak from a lifetime of having to pay for it. But I have to go. I’ll be on charges. The Watch is probably looking for me.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Lost my temper. Tapped a few soldiers.’

‘Tapped?’

‘Well, maybe more than tapped. One of them laughed at me. Ventrian scum! Said the army would be better off without the greybeards. I picked him up and threw him like a spear. It was really funny. But he landed on a table and broke it with his head. That upset the Drenai soldiers who were eating there. So I tapped them all.’

‘How many were there?’

‘Only five or so. I didn’t really hurt no-one. Well, not badly.’ He grinned. ‘Well, not very badly. But I’ll be on charges.’

‘What kind of punishment will you get?’

T don’t know . . . ten lashes.’ He shrugged. ‘Twenty. No problem.’

Palima climbed from the bed and stood naked before him. ‘How did it feel when you were tapping them?’ she asked.

‘It was . . . good,’ he admitted.

‘You felt like a man?’

‘Yes. I felt young again.’

Her hand slid down over his leggings. ‘Like a man,’ she whispered, huskily. She felt him swell at her touch.

‘And how do you feel now?’ she asked him.

He let out a long sigh. ‘Like a man,’ he said. ‘But they don’t want me to be one any more. Goodbye, Palima.’

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Without another word he walked out into the night.

Palima watched him from the window. ‘A pox on you and all your kind, Drenai,’ she whispered. ‘Go away and die!’

Banelion, the legendary White Wolf, gathered his maps and carefully placed them inside a brass bound chest. Tall and lean, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck, the general’s movements were swift and precise, as he packed the chest with the expertise of a lifetime soldier. Everything neatly in its place. The maps were stacked in the order they would be needed during the 1400 mile journey to the western port. Alongside them were notes listing the names of tribes and their chief­tains, way stations, fortresses and cities along the routex As with everything else he undertook the journey home would be planned meticulously.

Across from the broad desk a young officer in full armour of gold and bronze stood watching the general. The old man glanced up and gave a swift grin. ‘Why so sad, Dagorian?’

The young man took a deep, slow breath. ‘This is wrong, sir.’

‘Nonsense. Look at me. What do you see?’

Dagorian stared at the white-haired general. Leathered by desert sun and winter winds, the White Wolf’s face was seamed and wrinkled. Beneath bristling white brows his eyes were pale and bright – eyes that had seen the fall of empires, and the scattering of armies. ‘I see the greatest general who ever lived,’ said the younger man.

Banelion smiled. He was genuinely touched by the officer’s affection, and thought momentarily of the

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boy’s father. The two were so unalike. Catoris had been a cold, hard man, ambitious and deadly. His son was infinitely more likeable, loyal and steadfast. The only virtue he shared with his father was courage. ‘Ah, Dagorian, what you should see is a man two years past seventy. But you are looking at what was, boy. Not what is. I will be honest with you, I am disappointed. Even so I do not believe the king is making a mistake. Like me the soldiers who first marched against the Ventrian Empire are growing old now. Eighteen hundred men over fifty. Two hundred of those will not even see sixty again. The king is only thirty-five, and he wants to cross the Great River and conquer Cadia. All reports suggest that such a war will last five years or more. The army will have to cross deserts and moun­tains, wade rivers thick with crocodiles, hack their way through jungles. Young men will be needed for such an enterprise. And some of the older men are yearning for home.’