David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘You told me, you wanted to be a priest. Well, think on this, my friend, is it not a priest’s duty to keep a lantern lit against the dark? Is it not his purpose to stand against evil in all its forms?’

‘That is true,’ agreed Dagorian.

‘Then today you are a priest, for the demons are coming. They seek the blood of innocence.’

Dagorian smiled. ‘I did not need encouragement, but I thank you for it anyway.’

Nogusta rose. ‘When your mission here is done, head south, follow the high road. You will see the ghost city of Lem in the distance. We will meet you there.’

Dagorian said nothing, but he gave a knowing smile. Then he held out his hand. Nogusta clasped it firmly. Then he mounted Starfire and rode away.

Nogusta walked his horse to the far end of the bridge. Ulmenetha stepped in front of his horse.

‘Did you tell him?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he told her, sadly.

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‘Why? Does he not have a right to know?’ ‘Would he fight the better if he did?’ he countered.

As the others rode away Dagorian took a deep breath then stared around the bridge. Built of stone it was around 80 feet across and zo wide. He had seen it on two of Nogusta’s maps. Once it must have had a name, for it was a fine structure, carefully constructed. But it was lost to history now, as was the name of the river it spanned. Built when Lem was a thriving city it must have cost a fortune, he thought, picturing the hundreds of men who had laboured here. There had once been statues at both ends of the bridge, but only the plinths remained. It was as Nogusta had said, ‘History forgets us all eventually.’ Walking to the bridge wall he looked down at the river bank. A stone arm jutted from the mud. Dagorian strolled down to it, pushing the earth away, and exposing a mar­ble shoulder. The head was missing. Casting around he saw a section of a stone leg, covered by weeds. Someone had toppled the statues. He wondered why.

He drank from the river then climbed back to the bridge. ‘Time for a little work, Drenai,’ said Antikas.

The area around the north of the bridge was heavy with rocks and boulders. Dagorian and Antikas laboured for two hours, rolling large stones onto the bridge to impede enemy horses. The two men spoke little as they worked, for Dagorian remained uneasy in the presence of the hawk-eyed Ventrian. This man had planned to kill him, and had been instrumental in the destruction of the Drenai army, and the murder of the king. Now he was to stand beside him against a terrible foe. The thought was not a pleasant one.

Antikas cut several large sections of brush and used his horse to drag them to the bridge, wedging thick branches

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into the stone side supports, and angling them to jut out over the rocks. At last satisfied he carefully led his horse through the obstacles, tethering him at the far end of the bridge alongside Dagorian’s mount.

‘That is all we can do,’ he told the young officer. ‘Now we wait.’ Dagorian nodded and moved away from the man to sit on the bridge wall. The mist was clearing now, and the sun shone clearly in a sky of pale blue.

‘We should practise,’ said Antikas.

‘I need no practice,’ snapped Dagorian. Antikas Karios said nothing for a moment, then he stepped in close.

‘Your hatred means less than nothing to me, Drenai,’ he said, softly. ‘But your petulance is irritating.’

‘You are a murderer and a traitor,’ said Dagorian. ‘It should be enough that I am prepared to stand beside you. I don’t need to talk to you, and I certainly have no wish to engage in a meaningless training drill. I already know how to fight.’

‘Is that so?’ Antikas drew his sword. ‘Observe!’ he ordered. Lifting a thick piece of wood he held the black sword to it. The blade slid through the old wood like a hot knife through butter. ‘You and I,’ said Antikas, softly, ‘will be fighting alongside one another. One clumsy sweep, one careless move and one of us could kill the other. How many times, in close order battle, have comrades accidentally caused injury to one another?’