David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘I am sorry for the trouble, Ilbren,’ said Kebra. ‘Do you know where Bison went?’

‘I do not know. He is old enough to know better than to wreak such . . . such devastation.’ The innkeeper filled two goblets, passing one to Kebra.

‘This has not been a good day for him,’ said Kebra, softly. ‘Not a good day for any of us.’ He sipped the wine, then laid the goblet down.

Ilbren sighed. ‘I heard of the king’s decision. We all have. For what it is worth I shall miss you.’ He smiled. ‘I will even miss Bison.’ He stared at the white-haired archer. ‘Still, war is for young men, eh? It is way past the time when you should have settled down with a wife and raised sons.’

Kebra ignored the comment. ‘Which way did Bison

go.-1

‘I did not see.’

Kebra moved away, stepping past the injured men in

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the doorway. ‘It was just a bad joke,’ said the soldier with the bandaged head. ‘Then he went berserk.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Kebra. ‘Something about his age, was it?’

The young soldier looked suddenly sheepish. ‘It was just a joke,’ he repeated.

‘Well, I’m sure Bison didn’t take it too seriously.’

‘How can you say that?’ stormed the second soldier. ‘Look what he did to my face.’ Blood was still seeping from his swollen cheekbone, and his right eye was closed tight, purple swelling distending the eyelid.

‘I can say it because you are still alive, boy,’ said Kebra, coldly. ‘Did anyone see where he went?’

Both men shook their heads and Kebra stepped out into the fading winter sunlight. Across the square market traders were packing up their wares, and children were playing by the frozen fountain, scooping snow and fashioning balls which they hurled at one another. A tall black man in a long dark cloak moved through the crowd. The children stopped to watch him. Then one child moved silently behind him, a snowball in his raised hand.

‘Not a wise move, child,’ said the black man, without looking back. ‘For if you throw it I shall be obliged to -‘ suddenly he swung around ‘- cut off your head!’ Terrified the boy dropped the snowball and sprinted back to his friends. The black man chuckled and strode on to where Kebra waited.

‘I take it he was not at the barracks,’ said Kebra. Nogusta shook his head.

‘They have not seen him.’

The two men made an incongruous pair as they walked off together, Nogusta black and powerful, Kebra wand slim, white-haired and pale. Cutting through the

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narrow streets they reached a small eating house over­looking the river. They took a table by the fire and ordered a meal. Nogusta removed his cloak and the sheepskin jerkin he wore below it and sat down, holding his hands out to the blaze. ‘I, for one, will be pleased to say farewell to this frozen country. Why is Bison so depressed? Does he not have three wives waiting for him back home?’

‘That’s enough to depress anyone,’ replied Kebra, with a smile.

They ate in companionable silence and Nogusta added another log to the fire. ‘Why is he depressed?’ he asked again, as they finished their meal. ‘There must come a time when a man is too old for soldiering, and we are all way past that. And the king has offered every soldier a pouch of gold, and a scrip to give them land when they return to Drenan. The scrip alone is worth a hundred in gold.’

Kebra thought about the question. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when I could outshoot any archer alive. Then, as the years went by, I noticed I could no longer see quite as clearly. When I turned fifty I could no longer read small script. That was when I began to think of going home. Nothing lasts for ever. But Bison is not a thinker. As far as he is concerned the king has just told him he is no longer a man. And he is hurting.’

‘There is some pain for all of us,’ said Nogusta. ‘The White Wolf will be leading almost two thousand men home. Every one of them will feel some sense of rejec­tion. But we are alive, Kebra. I fought for the king’s father – as you did – and I have carried my sword through thirty-five years of warfare. Now I am tired. The long marches are hard on old bones. Even Bison must admit to that.’