David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

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four warriors. Where was the king and his army? Where were the royal guards?

‘Dismiss the visions from your mind,’ she told herself. ‘They are flawed in some way. Perhaps your preparation was at fault.’

Axiana moaned in her sleep and the priestess rose and moved to the bedside. ‘Be still, my pet,’ she whispered, soothingly. ‘All is well.’

But all was not well, Ulmenetha knew. Her lorassium visions were certainly mysterious, and might indeed be symbolic. They were, however, never false.

And who were the four men? She summoned their faces to her mind. One was a black man, with bright blue eyes, the second a huge bald man, with a white, droop­ing moustache. The third was young and handsome. The fourth held a bow. She remembered the white crow and a shudder went through her.

This was one sign she could read without interpret­ation.

The white crow was Death.

Kebra the Bowman dropped a small golden coin into the palm of the outraged innkeeper. The fat man’s anger faded instantly. There was no feeling in the world quite so warming as that of gold against the skin. The seething anger at the thought of broken furniture and lost business receded into minor irritation. The innkeeper glanced up at the bowman, who was now surveying the wreckage. Ilbren had long been a student of human nature, able to read a man swiftly and accurately. Yet the friendship of Kebra and Bison remained a mystery. The bowman was a fastidious man. His clothes were always clean, as were his hands and skin. He was cultured and softly spoken, and he had a rare talent for creating

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space around himself, as if he disliked crowds and the closeness of bodies. Bison, on the other hand, was an un­cultured oaf and Ilbren despised him. The sort of man who would always drink two more flagons of ale than he could handle, and then became aggressive. Innkeepers loathed such customers. Bison’s saving grace, however, was that to reach the last two flagons he could drink an inn dry, and would make every effort to do so. This naturally created large profits. Ilbren wondered how Kebra could tolerate such a friend.

‘He did all this?’ asked Kebra, shaking his head. Two long bench tables had been smashed, and several chairs were lying in pieces on the sawdust-covered floor. The far window had been smashed outward, and shards of broken glass still clung to the lead frame. An un­conscious Ventrian officer was being tended by the window, and two other victims, common soldiers, were sitting near the doorway, one still bleeding from a gashed cheek, the other holding his bandaged head in his hands.

‘All this and more. We have already swept away the broken crockery and two bent pots, which cannot be used again.’

‘Well, at least no-one is dead,’ said Kebra, his voice deep and sombre, ‘so we must be grateful.’

The innkeeper smiled and lifted a flagon of wine, gesturing the grey clad bowman to join him at a nearby table. As they sat down he looked closely at Kebra’s face. Deeply lined, as if carved from stone, Kebra looked every inch his fifty-six years. The bowman rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Bison’s like a child,’ he said. ‘When things go against him he loses control.’

‘I do not know how it started,’ said Ilbren. ‘The first 1 knew of trouble was when I saw that officer flying

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through the air. He hit that table there, and cracked it clean through.’

Two Ventrian soldiers came in carrying a stretcher. Tenderly they lifted the unconscious man onto it, and carried him out. A Drenai officer approached Kebra. He was a veteran, and well known to the bowman as a fair man. ‘You’d better find him fast!’ he warned Kebra. ‘The wounded man is an officer on Malikada’s staff. You know what the penalty will be if he dies.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘Gods, man! As if we haven’t enough trouble with the cursed Ventrians as it is, without one of our men crack­ing the skull of one of their officers.’ The Drenai swung to the innkeeper. ‘No offence meant, Ilbren,’ he said.

‘Oh, none taken I am sure,’ replied the Ventrian, with just a trace of sarcasm. The officer wandered away.