David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘I could carry the cursed wagon faster than these horses can pull it,’ said Bison.

‘You are in a foul mood today,’ observed Kebra.

‘It’s this damned horse. Every time I go up, he goes down. He goes up, I come down. He’s treating my arse like a drum.’ Another squeal of laughter came from the wagon, this time from little Sufia, who repeated the phrase in a sing-song voice.

‘His arse is a drum! His arse is a drum!’

Ulmenetha scolded her, gently, but was unable to keep the smile from her face.

Til ride your horse if you drive the wagon,’ said Conalin.

‘Done!’ said Bison, happily. ‘Heaven knows I’m no rider.’

Dagorian came riding up the trail. ‘About a mile further the road widens,’ he said. ‘There is even a paved area. It is overgrown now, but it will help us earn back a few miles.’

Bison climbed to his place at the driving seat and sat upon a folded blanket. ‘Ah, but that is good,’ he mur­mured, settling himself down and taking up the reins. Kebra saw the boy was having difficulty reaching the stirrup of Bison’s mount and edged closer, holding out his hand. Conalin spurned it and clumsily hauled himself up. Kebra dismounted and adjusted the stirrups.

‘Have you ever ridden, lad?’ he asked.

, 2.2.3

‘No, but I am a fast learner.’

‘Grip with your thighs, not your calves. And trust the horse. He knows what he’s doing. Come, I’ll give you a lesson.’ Swinging into the saddle he moved out over the rise and slowly rode down to the flat land below. Glancing back he saw Conalin holding the reins at chest level as the horse picked its way down the slope. At the base of the hill Kebra drew alongside Conalin, showing him the basics of guiding the mount.

‘We’ll try a trot,’ he said. ‘You must get in rhythm with the horse. Otherwise you’ll end up like Bison, and it will play a tattoo on your buttocks. Let’s go!’

Kebra’s mount moved smoothly into a trot. Behind him Conalin was being bounced around in the saddle. His horse slowed. ‘Don’t haul on the reins, lad. That’s his signal to stop.’

‘I’m no good at this,’ said the red-head, his face flush­ing. ‘I’ll go back to the wagon.’

‘Nothing good ever comes easy, Conalin. And I think you are doing fine. A born horseman.’

‘Truly?’

‘You just need to get used to the horse. Let’s try again.’

As the wagon trundled down the slope the two riders set off once more. For a while Conalin felt his spine was being bruised, but then, suddenly and without warning, he found the rhythm and the ride became a delight. The sun broke through the clouds, and the tightness in his stomach faded away. He had lived his life in the squalor of the city, and had never before seen the glory of the mountains. Now he rode a fine horse, and the breeze was fresh against his skin. He found in that moment a joy he had never known. He gave Kebra a wide grin. The bow­man smiled and rode in silence beside him. At the tree line they swung their mounts.

2.14

‘Now for a little canter,’ said Kebra. ‘Not too much, for the horses are tired.’

If trotting had been a joy, the ride back to the wagons was a delight Conalin would treasure all his life. The rags he wore were forgotten, as were the sores on his back. Today was a gift no-one could take away from him.

‘You ride so well — like a knight!’ Pharis told him as he drew alongside the wagon.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he told her. ‘It’s like . . . it’s like . . .’ He laughed happily. ‘I don’t know what it’s like. But it’s wonderful!’

‘You won’t be saying that by this evening,’ warned Bison.

Dagorian rode with them for the next hour, then headed off towards the south to find a place to camp.

As the sun began to slide towards the western mountains Nogusta came galloping up from the rear. ‘There is no sign of pursuit yet,’ he told Kebra. ‘But they are coming.’