David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘No,’ admitted Zani. ‘But perhaps it ought to be. I have spoken to the neighbours. He was devoted to his mother. And even he no longer knows why his rage exploded.’

Dagorian approached the distraught young man sitting by the hearth. ‘What do you recall of the crime?’ he asked him. The man looked up.

‘I was sitting in my room, and I just got angrier and angrier. The next thing I knew I was here … in this room. And I was stabbing, and stabbing . . .’ He broke down and hid his face in his hands.

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‘What made you angry?’

It seemed at first that the young man had not heard the question, but the sobbing subsided and he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I can’t remember now. I really can’t.’

‘Why did your mother make the ward signs on the doors?’

‘She was frightened. She wouldn’t see any customers and she wouldn’t come out of the room. We were run­ning out of money. I think, maybe, that’s why I got angry. We couldn’t afford fuel, and my room was so cold. So terribly cold.’ He began to sob once more.

‘Take him away,’ Dagorian told the soldiers. They lifted the man to his feet and marched him from the house. A small crowd had gathered outside. Some of them shouted abuse at the prisoner.

‘There is something very wrong here,’ said Zani.

‘Send me the details of the other crimes,’ Dagorian told him. ‘I will look into them.’

‘You think you will solve the mystery in a day?’ asked Zani. ‘Or will you not be marching with the army tomorrow?’

‘I leave tomorrow,’ said Dagorian. ‘But still I wish to see the reports.’

Leaving the house he mounted his horse and rode back to the new barracks. Once there he waited for the reports, read them carefully, then requested a meeting with his immediate superior, the Ventrian swordsman Antikas Karios.

He was kept waiting outside the Ventrian’s office for an hour, and when he was at last ushered inside, he saw Antikas walk in from the garden beyond, where he had been exercising. Stripped to the waist he was sweating heavily. A servant brought him a towel. Antikas sat

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down behind the broad desk and drank a cup of water. Then he towelled his dark hair. The servant moved behind him with a brush and a jar of oil. Lightly he massaged the Ventrian’s scalp, before brushing his hair back and tying it in a pony-tail. With a flick of his hand Antikas dismissed the man, then turned his dark eyes on Dagorian.

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Swiftly he told the officer of the spate of murders, and the concerns of the official Zani that some orchestrated campaign of killing might be under way.

‘Zani is a good man,’ said Antikas. ‘He has been a city official for fourteen years, and served with distinction. He has a fine mind. What is your opinion?’

‘I have read the reports, sir. In each case the killers have been apprehended, and confessed, without torture. But I do share Zani’s concern in one respect.’

‘And that is?’

‘Twenty-seven mystics in sixteen days. And, according to the reports, every one of them was living in fear.’

Antikas rose from his desk, crossed the room and took a fresh shirt from a drawer. Shaking the rose petals from it he pulled it over his head. Then he returned to the desk. ‘You are a good swordsman,’ he said. ‘Your moves are well executed.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dagorian, confused by the change of subject.

‘It is your footwork that lets you down.’

‘So Nogusta told me, sir.’

‘Yes,’ said Antikas, with a cold smile. ‘If he were twenty years younger I would challenge him. He is exceptional.’ Antikas sat down and took a second drink from the water cup. ‘I see from your dossier that you were training for the priesthood.’

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‘I was, sir. Until my father died.’

‘Yes, a man must uphold family honour. Did your teaching incorporate mysticism?’

‘Only briefly, sir. But no sorcery.’

‘I think you will find that these crimes are based on rivalry among petty wizards. Even so, such actions can­not be tolerated. Find out which mystics are still alive. The true source of the murders will be one of those.’