David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

The officer moved away from the wall, and ducked down a narrow alley. Smoke, thicker than any fog, hung in the air, burning his lungs. Holding his cloak over his face Dagorian ran on. The sounds of screaming came from all around him now, from the burning buildings where people were trapped, from the alleyways, where victims had been cornered.

Anger touched him again, but he fought it down.

He came to the wide gates of a second haulier. They had been burst open and a group of men and women

carrying torches were running around the yard, setting the wagons ablaze. Others had thrown torches into the stables, igniting the straw inside. Horses were whinnying in terror. Cutting across the yard Dagorian opened the stable doors, ran inside, freeing all but two of the horses. Panic stricken the freed beasts galloped into the yard, scattering the rioters.

Moving to the remaining two horses Dagorian calmed them as best he could and led them from the stable. Fear was strong upon them, but they were used to the sure touch of their handlers, and they accepted Dagorian’s authority. In the yard he tethered them to a wagon untouched by the rioters. The traces and brasses used to hitch the horses were laid over the back of the wagon. Dagorian moved to them.

A rioter ran forwards, tossing a torch to the wagon seat. Dagorian spun on his heel and sent a thundering right cross to the man’s jaw. He fell without a sound. Hurling the torch aside he moved to the traces. A whoosh of burning air seared across the yard as flames burst through the stables’ wall. The horses reared. Once more Dagorian tried to calm them, stroking their long necks, whispering soothing words. The heat was intense and the rioters moved away. Dagorian hitched the horses and climbed to the driver’s seat. Releasing the brake he took up the whip and cracked it. The horses surged into the traces and the wagon moved forward. But to exit the yard they had to drive past the burning stables and the horses faltered, unwilling to face the flames again.

In the back of the wagon were several empty sacks. With his dagger he sliced two strips from one of them. Leaping to the ground he blindfolded the horses. Back in the driver’s seat he cracked the whip. Reluctantly the

173

team moved on. He could feel them faltering again as the heat swelled, but lashed them both with the whip and shouted at the top of his voice. The horses powered into the traces and the wagon rolled past the burning build­ing and out into the road beyond.

Swinging them to the right he took them at speed down towards the Avenue of Kings.

Another mob was gathered there, but they scattered as the wagon bore down on them. One man ran forward and leapt at him. His face was a twisted mask of hatred, his eyes staring wide. Dagorian lashed out with his foot, kicking the attacker in the chest, and pitching him to the street. Up ahead a group of men tried to block his way, but the horses were galloping now, and would not be stopped. A hurled knife thudded into the backrest behind him, but then he was clear of them, and the palace gates were in sight.

They were open. And no guards could be seen.

Dagorian drove through, then dragged on the reins, hauling the horses to a stop.

Jumping down he struggled with the wrought-iron gates, pulling them closed.

They would not hold firm against a mob, he knew. Mounting the wagon again he drove it to the main doors.

The sky was lightening as he ran into the building, and up the long, winding staircase. The queen was awake now, and dressed in a simple woollen gown of blue, edged with white cotton.

‘We must go quickly,’ said Dagorian. ‘The mob will soon be here.’

‘Go? Where should I go? I am the queen. They will not harm me,’ said Axiana. ‘They are my people and they love me.’ Her slender fingers touched the sleeve of her

174

gown. ‘And I will not wear this revolting outfit. It scratches my skin.’