David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

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‘Yes, sir. Can I fetch you some mulled wine before you retire?’

‘Wine does not sit well with me these days. Warm milk and honey would be pleasant.’

Dagorian saluted, bowed and left the room.

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Chapter Two

Regimental discipline was observed in ritual fashion. Every one of the zooo men of the regiment, in their armour of black and gold, stood in a giant square around the barracks ground. At the centre the twenty senior officers waited, and, seated on a dais behind them was the White Wolf. He wore no armour, but was dressed in a simple tunic of grey wool, black leggings and boots. Around his shoulders was a hooded sheepskin cloak.

The morning was bright and clear as Bison was led out. The lumbering giant had been stripped to the waist, and Dagorian suddenly understood the man’s bizarre nickname. His head was totally bald, but thick, curling hair grew from his neck and over his massive shoulders. More like a bear than a bison though, thought Dagorian. The young officer’s dark gaze flickered to the men walk­ing with Bison. One was Kebra, the famed bowman, who had once saved the king’s life, sending a shaft through the eye of a Ventrian lancer. The other was the blue-eyed black man, Nogusta, swordsman and juggler. Dagorian had once watched the man keep seven razor sharp knives in the air, then, one by one send them flash­ing into a target. They walked straight and tall. Bison cracked a joke with someone in the first line.

‘Silence!’ shouted an officer.

Bison approached the whipping-post and stood beside

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the lean, hawk-faced soldier who had been ordered to complete the sentence. The man looked ill at ease, and was sweating despite the morning cold.

‘You just lay on, boy,’ said Bison, amiably. Til hold no grudge for you.’ The man gave a weak, relieved smile.

‘Let the prisoner approach,’ said the White Wolf. Bison marched forward and saluted clumsily.

‘Have you anything to say before sentence is carried out?’

‘No, sir!’ bellowed Bison.

‘Do you know what is special about you?’ asked the general.

‘No, sir!’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ said the White Wolf. ‘You are an undisciplined wretch and the clumsiest man ever to serve under me. For a copper coin I’d hang you and be done with it. Now get to the post. This cold is chilling my bones.’ So saying he lifted the sheepskin hood over his head and pulled the cloak around him.

‘Yes, sir!’ Bison spun on his heel and marched back to the post, reaching up and taking hold of the wood.

The man with the whip untied the thong binding the five lashes and cracked it into the air. Then he shrugged his shoulders twice and took up his position. His arm came back.

‘Hold!’ came a commanding voice. The soldier froze. Dagorian turned to see a small group of men striding onto the barracks ground. They were all Ventrian officers wearing golden breastplates and sporting red capes. At the centre was the Prince Malikada, the king’s general, a tall, slender nobleman, who had been chosen to replace the White Wolf. Beside him was his champion, the swordsman, Antikas Karios. A fox and a cobra, thought Dagorian. Both men were slim and graceful, but

Malikada’s power was in his eyes, dark and brooding, gleaming with intelligence, while Antikas Karios radiated a physical strength, built on a striking speed that was inhuman.

Malikada strode to the dais and bowed to the general. His hair was jet black, but his beard had been dyed with streaks of gold, then braided with gold thread. Dagorian watched him closely.

‘Greetings, my lord Banelion,’ said Malikada.

‘This is hardly the time for a visit,’ said Banelion. ‘But you are most welcome, Prince.’

‘It is exactly the time, General,’ said Malikada, with a wide smile. ‘One of my men is about to be disciplined incorrectly.’

‘One of your men?’ enquired the White Wolf, softly. Dagorian could feel the tension in the officers around him, but no-one moved.

‘Of course one of my men. You were present when the king – glory be attached to his name – named me as your successor. As I recall you are now a private citizen of the empire about to head for home and a happy retirement.’ Malikada swung round. ‘And this man has been accused of striking one of my officers. That, as I am sure you are aware, under Ventrian law, is a capital offence. He shall be hanged.’