David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

One by one Nogusta dug the graves, refusing all offers of help.

When they were all buried the pale-eyed officer returned. ‘We have rounded up some of your horses. The rest escaped into the mountains. The tack room was

141

largely intact and I have had a horse saddled for you. I need you to come with me to the garrison to make a report on the . . . incident.’

Nogusta did not argue. They rode for most of the day, and camped that night at Shala Falls. Nogusta had spoken to no-one during the ride. Now he lay within his blankets, his emotions numbed. It was as if he could feel nothing. He kept seeing Ushuru’s face, and her smile.

Two of the soldiers were talking nearby, their voices low. ‘Did you see it?’ said one. ‘It was horrible. I’ve never seen the like. Don’t want to again. Made me feel sick.’

Even through the numbness Nogusta felt grateful for the sympathetic reaction in the soldier.

‘Yes, it was gross,’ said his companion. ‘The White Wolf blowing air into a black man’s mouth! Who’d believe it?’

Even now – more than thirty years later – Nogusta felt a cold anger rising in him at the memory. Still, anger is a better emotion than sorrow, he thought. Anger is alive and can be dealt with. Sorrow is a dead creature and sits like a weight that cannot be released.

He rose and wandered away into the trees, gathering more dead wood for the fire. You should sleep, he told himself. There will be killers coming. You will need all your strength and skill.

Returning to the fire he fed it then settled down under his blanket, his head resting on his saddle.

But sleep would not come, and he rose again. Bison groaned and woke. Pushing back his blanket the giant pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to a nearby tree, where he urinated noisily. Retying his leggings he turned and saw Nogusta sitting by the fire.

‘Didn’t find any gold today,’ he said, squatting down beside the black man.

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

142

‘You want me to keep watch?’

Nogusta grinned. ‘You never could keep watch, Bison. By the time I lie down you’ll be asleep.’

‘I do find it easy to sleep,’ admitted Bison. ‘I was dreaming about the Battle at Purdol. You, me and Kebra on the wall. Have you still got your medal?’

‘Yes.’

‘I sold mine. Got twenty raq for it. Wish I hadn’t now. It was a good medal.’

‘You can have mine.’

‘Can I?’ Bison was delighted. ‘I won’t sell it this time.’

‘You probably will, but it doesn’t matter.’ Nogusta sighed. ‘That was the first great victory. It was on that day we realized the Ventrians could be beaten. I re­member it rained all that day, lightning in the sky, thunder over the sea.’

‘I don’t remember much about it,’ admitted Bison. ‘Except that we held the wall and the White Wolf supplied sixty barrels of rum for the army.’

‘I think you drank most of it.’

‘That was a good night. All the camp whores gave it away for free. Have you slept?’

‘Not yet,’ said Nogusta.

Bison tugged at his white walrus moustache. He could see his friend was unhappy, but did not have the courage to broach the subject. Nogusta and Kebra were both thinking men, and much of what they spoke of sailed high above Bison’s head. ‘You ought to sleep,’ said Bison, at last. ‘You’ll feel better for it.’ At the thought of sleep he yawned. Then he wandered back to his blankets. Nogusta settled down again and closed his eyes.

In that moment he experienced a sudden vision. He saw ten riders moving slowly across green hills, white-topped mountains behind them. Nogusta looked at the

riders. The sun was high, the ten riders hooded against its glare. They rode into a wood. One of them pushed back his hood and removed a helm of black iron. His hair was long, and ghost white, his face grey, his eyes blood red. An arrow flashed from the trees. The rider threw up his hand, and the shaft sliced through it, driving on to pierce the flesh of his face. He dragged it clear. Both wounds healed instantly.