David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

Only around 40 yards separated them now. Antikas

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would have no time to seek cover, for they would catch him at the city walls!

Suddenly one of his men shouted a warning. Nayim soon saw why.

Armed men were pouring from the ruins of the city, forming a deep fighting line before the broken gates. They were Drenai soldiers, wearing full-faced helms and sporting long, red cloaks. Hundreds of them, moving smoothly into place with the easy discipline of veterans. Nayim could scarce believe his eyes.

The Drenai army had been destroyed. How then could this be?

Then he realized with shock that he was charging down towards them. Hauling on the reins he held up his arm. All around him his men slowed their mounts.

The fleeing group rode towards the fighting line, which parted smoothly before them, allowing them access to the city.

Ordering his men to wait Nayim rode slowly forward. ‘Where is your commander?’ he called out. Silence greeted his words. He scanned the line, calculating num­bers. There were close to a thousand men in sight. It was inconceivable!

The line parted once more and a tall, thin old man walked out to stand before him.

Nayim felt a sudden chill touch him, as he gazed into the cold eyes of the White Wolf.

As soon as he rode past the old city wall Conalin jumped down from his horse and ran back, scrambling up a jut­ting stump of stone and squatting down to watch the soldiers. They looked terrifyingly impressive in their bronze breastplates, full-faced bronze helms and crimson cloaks. Their spears were held steady, and their shields

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presented a strong wall between Conalin and those who had sought to kill him. For the first time in his young life he felt utterly safe. What force on earth could penetrate such a wall of men. He wanted to leap up and dance, to shout his scorn at the waiting Ventrian riders. They looked so puny now. Conalin glanced up at the blue sky, and felt a cool breeze upon his face.

He was safe – and the world was beautiful.

Pharis scrambled up to sit beside him. He took her hand. ‘Look at them!’ he said. ‘Are they not the most wonderful soldiers you ever saw?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but where did they come from? Why are they here?’

‘Who cares? We get to live, Pharis. We get to have that house in Drenan.’ Conalin fell silent, for the old general was talking to the Ventrian lancer. Conalin strained to hear their words, but they were speaking softly.

Nayim dismounted and approached Banelion, offering a respectful bow, which the old man acknowledged with a brief nod. ‘We are instructed by the Lord Malikada to return the queen to her palace,’ said Nayim. ‘We have no quarrel with you, sir.’

‘The queen and her son travel with me to Drenan,’ said the White Wolf. ‘There she will be safe.’

‘Safe? You think I mean to do her harm?’

Banelion looked into the young man’s eyes. ‘What you do or do not do is entirely your own affair. Malikada -or the beast who inhabits Malikada – intends to kill the babe. This I know. This I shall prevent.’

Nayim was taken aback by the words, but, on reflec­tion, was not surprised by them. If Malikada wished to seize the throne then he would certainly see that all rivals were put to the sword. ‘Let us assume, sir, for the sake of argument, that you are correct in your assessment. By

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my judgement you have less than a thousand men here, and no cavalry. A half a day to the north is the Ventrian army. We are three times your number. And we were trained by you, sir. You cannot prevail.’

Banelion gave a mirthless smile that chilled the younger man. ‘I have followed your recent career with interest, Nayim Pallines. You are an efficient, cour­ageous and disciplined officer. Had I remained with the army I would have secured promotion for you. But you are wrong, young man. Armies fight best when they have something to fight for, something they believe in. In such instances numerical advantage is lessened considerably. Do you believe in what you are fighting for, Nayim? Do you believe that two armies should fight over whether a child is put to the knife?’