David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘I saw that,’ said Kebra. ‘But, gods, man, who would want to use sorcery against us?’

‘Malikada perhaps. Had I not been wearing the charm

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my rage would have surged also. We could have killed each other.’

‘Well, let’s kill Mahkada,’ said Bison.

‘Good idea,’ said Kebra. ‘Then we’ll grow our magic wings and fly away free over the mountains.’

‘Well, what then?’ asked the giant.

‘We leave the city,’ said Nogusta. ‘We won’t travel with the White Wolf. We’ll head south into the moun­tains until the army marches on the Cadian border, then we’ll join the other returnees.’

‘I don’t like the idea of running away,’ said Bison.

‘As I recall,’ said Kebra, drily, ‘I once saw you racing like a sprinter to get out of the way of a flash flood. And are you not the man who had his arse scarred while flee­ing from that lioness outside Delnoch?’

That was different,’ argued Bison.

‘No it wasn’t,’ said Nogusta. ‘Malikada is the king’s general. We cannot fight him. It would be like fighting a storm or, indeed, a flash flood. Pointless. Added to which we do not know for sure that this was Malikada’s work. No, the safest and most sensible plan is to leave the city. In two days the army marches and Malikada will have other problems to consider. He will forget about us.’

‘What will we do in the mountains?’ asked Bison.

‘Hunt a little meat, pan for gold in the streams, per­haps,’ Nogusta told him.

‘Gold. I like the sound of that,’ said Bison, tugging on his white walrus moustache. ‘We could get rich.’

‘Indeed we could, my friend. Tomorrow I will purchase horses and supplies.’

‘And pans for the gold,’ Bison reminded him.

The giant moved to his own bed and pulled off his boots. ‘I still say you shouldn’t have let that Ventrian shoot again,’ he said.

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Kebra looked up at Nogusta and shook his head. Then he smiled. ‘I would feel a lot better if I didn’t agree with him,’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe I did it.’

‘I can, my friend. It was noble,’ said Nogusta, ‘and no more than I would expect from you.’

Ulmenetha took hold of the iron chains, leaned back upon the swinging wicker chair and gazed out over the distant mountains. She could feel them calling to her, like a mother to a lost child. In the mountains of her home she had known great happiness. There was ancient wisdom there, and serenity radiated from the eternal peaks. These were not her mountains, but they called nonetheless. Ulmenetha resisted the pull and turned her attention to her immediate surroundings. The roof garden of the late emperor’s palace was a wondrous place in summer, its terraces ablaze with colour, and filled with the scent of many perfumed flowers. High above the city it seemed an enchanted place. In winter it was less so, but now, with spring but days away, the yellow and purple polyanthuses were flowering, and the cherry trees were thick with blossom, gossamer thin petals of faded coral. Sitting here alone in the bright sun­shine thoughts of demons seemed far away, like a child’s dream in a darkened bedroom. Ulmenetha had enjoyed her early childhood. Wrapped in love, and full of joy, she had played in the mountains, living wild and free. The memory lifted her, and – just for a moment – she felt like a child again. Ulmenetha swung the chair around and around on its iron chains. Then she let go and watched the mountains spin before her eyes. She giggled and closed her eyes.

‘You look foolish,’ said Axiana, sternly. ‘It does not become a priestess to play on a child’s swing.’

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Ulmenetha had not heard the queen’s approach. She leaned forward, her feet thumping to the ground, halting the swing. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘Why is it that so many people believe that religion and joy have little in common?’

Ulmenetha eased her large frame upright and walked with the pregnant queen to a wide bench seat beneath the cherry trees. Already they were rich with blossom of coral and white. ‘There is no dignity in such behaviour,’ the young woman told her. Ulmenetha said nothing for a moment. Axiana settled herself down, her slender hands over her swollen belly. You never laugh, child, thought Ulmenetha, and your eyes radiate sorrow.