12.3
Nogusta unsaddled the black gelding, let him roll, then groomed him. The horse was huge, almost eighteen hands, with a strong, arched neck and a beautiful back. A white blaze, in the shape of a star, adorned his brow. ‘Rest now, my friend,’ said Nogusta. ‘The grass here is good.’ The weary gelding plodded onto the meadow and began to crop grass.
‘This is a fine place,’ said Kebra. ‘Good farming land. If I was twenty years younger I’d build here.’
As dusk deepened jack rabbits began to appear. Kebra shot two, skinned and cleaned them, adding the fresh meat to the broth.
Nogusta wrapped himself in his cloak and sat with his back to a tree. It was peaceful here, and the view was majestic. Snow-crested mountains broke the line of the horizon, and folds of hills and valleys lay before them. Away to the east he could see a deep forest part bathed in mist. To the west a lake glimmered blood red in the dying sunlight. Kebra was right. It was a place to build on, and he imagined a wide, low house, with windows that looked out on the mountains. Horses and cattle would prosper here. He gazed lovingly upon the mountains. What were the works of Man, when set against these giants of nature, he wondered? Man’s evil seemed small here, tiny and insubstantial. The mountains cared nothing for the whims of kings and princes. They were here before Man, and they would outlast him, surviving perhaps even when the sun failed and eternal darkness fell upon the planet.
Kebra brought him a plate of food and the two men sat in companionable silence, eating their meal. Bison finished his swiftly, then took a flat pan and headed off upstream to search for gold.
‘He’ll find nothing,’ said Kebra. ‘There is no gold here.’
12.4
‘It will keep him occupied,’ said Nogusta, sadness in his voice.
‘You still expect us to be followed?’
Nogusta nodded. ‘Malikada is not a forgiving man. He will send men, and I will kill them. And for what? One man’s arrogance.’
‘We might be able to avoid them,’ offered Kebra. Nogusta took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet.
‘Maybe. I have had no fresh visions to tell me otherwise. But death is coming, Kebra. I can smell it.’ Kebra did not reply. Nogusta was rarely wrong about these things.
Starfire moved closer to the two men. His breathing was still ragged. Nogusta moved smoothly to his feet and stroked the gelding’s long neck. ‘Bison could be right,’ said Kebra. ‘Trying to escape pursuit upon a sick horse does not seem to make a great deal of sense.’
‘He has been poorly stabled,’ said Nogusta. ‘My father knew about these things. He always soaked the straw, and ensured the stables were clean. And Starfire has not been exercised.’
‘That’s not my point,’ said Kebra, softly.
‘I know, my friend. It is not sensible.’ He grinned. ‘But I would do it again.’
Ulmenetha watched from the roof gardens as the army marched from the city. Four thousand Drenai foot soldiers, in ranks of threes, and three thousand Ventrian cavalry in columns of twos. Behind them were the wagons, bearing supplies, or dismantled siege engines and ballistae. Word had reached Usa that the Cadian army was on the march and Skanda was eager to meet them.
12-5
The king had not bothered to visit Axiana, but had sent a farewell message via Kalizkan. Ulmenetha had avoided the wizard, keeping to her rooms until he had gone. Now she stood high above the cheering crowds as Skanda rode from the city. The populace were scattering rose petals before his horse, and he was waving and smiling.
Amazing, thought Ulmenetha. A few years ago he had been an invading foreigner, feared by all. Now, despite the endless battles and the destruction of empire, he was a hero to them. He was a god.
She wondered idly whether it would have been different had he been ugly. Could a man with an ugly face command such devotion? Probably not. But then Skanda was not ugly. He was handsome and tall, golden haired, with a winning smile and enormous charm. We are so stupid sometimes, she decided. Last year Skanda had donated 10,000 raq to the city orphanage – one hundredth of the amount he spent on his wars. Yet the people loved him for it. It was the talk of the city. In the same month a respected holy man had been accused of trying to seduce a young priestess. He was savagely condemned and banished from Usa. This also was the talk of the city. Such extremes, thought Ulmenetha. All the holy man’s life work was dust following one misguided action. People scorned him. Yet the greatest killer in the empire could win love by giving away a tiny portion of the money he had plundered from the city treasury.