David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

Dagorian found his heart beating faster. He looked into Malikada’s dark, cold eyes, and saw again the fierce intelligence there. There would be no point in trying to lie to this man directly. He would read it immediately. Dagorian’s mouth was dry, but his words when they came were spoken steadily. ‘I am dedicated to the king’s service, sir. You are the king’s general. Any order you give me will be carried out to the best of my ability.’

‘That is all one can ask,’ said Malikada. ‘Now you may go. Antikas Karios will take over your duties here.’ With that he smiled and swung away.

Dagorian turned, and almost collided with the heavily pregnant queen. ‘My apologies, my lady,’ he stuttered. She gave him a distant smile and moved past him. Feeling like a dolt Dagorian left the tent and wandered back to the open park.

Thousands of people were wandering across the grass, or sitting on blankets and eating prepared lunches. Soldiers and athletes were practising for their events,

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horse trainers were running their mounts, stretching them for the races ahead. Dagorian looked around for the king’s horse, Starfire. It was always entered in the races, and never failed. But, as he scanned the horses he saw that the giant black gelding was not among the mounts being exercised. He strolled to one of the handlers and enquired of the horse.

‘Lung rot,’ said the man. ‘It’s a damn shame. Still he’s getting old now. Must be eighteen if he’s a day.’

Dagorian was saddened to hear it. Every Drenai child knew of Starfire. Bought by the king’s father for a fabulous sum it had carried Skanda into all his major battles. Now it was dying. Skanda must be heartbroken, he thought.

Relieved to be free of his duties he wandered back to the officers’ rest area and stripped off his armour, order­ing a young Cul to return it to his quarters. Then he strolled out to enjoy the festivities. The prospect of becoming Malikada’s aide had been an odious one, and he was grateful that the task had been taken from him. I should have gone home with the White Wolf, he thought, suddenly. I hate soldiering. While his father had been a living hero Dagorian had attended the Docian Monastery at Corteswain, studying to become a priest. He had been happy there, his lifestyle humble and almost serene.

Then his father had died, and the world changed.

Moving through the crowd he saw Nogusta sitting on the grass, Bison stretched out beside him. The bald giant had a swollen eye and a purple bruise on his cheekbone. Dagorian joined them. ‘How are you faring?’ he asked Bison.

‘Quarter-finals,’ said the giant, sitting up and stifling a groan. ‘This is my year.’

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Dagorian saw the vivid bruises and the man’s obvious fatigue, and masked his scepticism. ‘How long before your next bout?’

Bison shrugged and looked to Nogusta. ‘An hour,’ said the black man. ‘He’s fighting the tribesman who beat him last year.’

‘I’ll take him this time,’ said Bison, wearily. ‘But I think I’ll take a nap first.’ Lying back the giant closed his eyes. Nogusta covered him with a cloak and rose.

‘You saw the general?’ he asked Dagorian.

‘I did.’

‘He advised you to stay away from him.’

‘You have a great gift.’

Nogusta smiled. ‘No, that was just common sense. He is a wise man. Malikada is not so wise. But that is often the way with ambitious men. They come to believe in tales of their own destiny. Everything they desire, so they believe, is theirs by right. Chosen by the Source.’

‘The Source is given credit and blame for many deeds,’ said Dagorian. ‘Are you a believer?’

‘I would like to be,’ admitted Nogusta. ‘It would cer­tainly make life more complete if one could believe in a grand plan for the universe. If we could be certain that evil men would receive judgement. However, I fear that life is not so simple. Wise men say that the universe is in a state of constant war, a battle between the Source and the forces of chaos. If that is true then chaos commands the most cavalry.’