David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘We will not forget him,’ said the silver-haired bow­man.

‘No, we will not. And what does that count for? We are old men, you and I. Our time is passing. And when I look back over my life I wonder whether it has been for good or ill. I have fought for most of my life. I defended the Drenai cause, even though most of my comrades either feared me or loathed me for the colour of my skin. Then I took part in the invasion of Ventria, and saw the destruction of an ancient empire. All for the vanity of one arrogant man. What will I say to the Keeper of the

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Book when I stand before him? What excuses shall I offer for my life?’

Kebra looked closely at his friend, and he thought carefully before speaking. ‘This is probably not the time to consider it,’ he said, at last. ‘Despair touches you, and there is no comfort to be found in melancholy. You have in your life rescued many, and risked yourself for others. You do so now. Such deeds will also be recorded. I am not a philosopher, Nogusta, but there are things I know. If your Gift sees us fail, and the child is destined to fall into the hands of evil, no matter what we do, will you ride then away and leave him to his fate? No you will not. Even if death and defeat are inevitable. No more will I. No-one can ask more of us than that.’

Nogusta smiled. He would have reached out and embraced the man, save that Kebra was not tactile, and disliked being touched. ‘My father once told me that if a man could count true friends on the fingers of one hand then he was blessed beyond riches. I have been blessed, Kebra.’

‘I too. Now get a little rest. I will keep watch for a while.’

‘Listen for a single horse, for Antikas Karios will be trying to find us.’

‘I have to say that I do not like the man,’ admitted Kebra. ‘His arrogance sticks in my throat.’

Nogusta smiled again. ‘Reminds you of us some twenty years ago, doesn’t he?’

Kebra nodded and walked to the mouth of the cave. Sitting back from the wind he looked out over the peaks and shivered. They were thousands of feet above the valley floor, and the clouds looked close enough to touch. Drawing his cloak about him he leaned back against the wall. Dagorian’s death had saddened him

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also. He had liked the young man. His fear had been great, his courage greater still. He would have raised fine sons, thought Kebra.

The rocks were cold and he lifted his hood into place. Fine sons. The thought saddened him. What kind of a father would I have been, he wondered? He would never know. And, unlike Bison or Nogusta, there was no chance that he had sired children with any of the whores he had encountered through thirty years of campaigning, for he had never coupled with any of them. He had, of course, visited the brothels with both his comrades, but upon reaching the quiet of the bedroom he had merely paid the girls to sit and talk with him. To make love one had to touch, and Kebra could not even bear the thought of it. Flesh upon flesh? He shuddered.

From out of the past the memory came. It caught him unawares, for he had long ago buried it beyond the reaches of his imagination. The dark walls of the barn, the huge hairy hands of his father, the pain and the terror, and the threats of death if ever he spoke of it. He blinked and focused his gaze on the mountain peaks.

Conalin crept up to sit alongside him, a blanket wrapped tight around his thin shoulders. ‘I brought your bow and arrows,’ said the boy.

‘Thank you – but I don’t think we’ll need them tonight.’ He glanced down at the boy, seeing the fear in his eyes.

‘Antikas Karios and Dagorian held the bridge. Antikas will be coming soon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Nogusta had a vision. His visions are always true.’