David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘There is little I can do now to set matters right. My powers are limited – aye, and fading. Death calls me and I will not be here to see the end.

‘But what I can do in the time that remains is teach you, Ulmenetha. I can instruct you in the magick of the land. I will teach you to use halignat — the holy fire. I will show you how to heal lesser wounds.’

‘I have never been adept at such skills,’ she said.

‘Well now you must learn,’ he told her. ‘I can no longer use the child. She is malnourished and her heart is weak. It almost failed when I burned the bridge. I will not have another innocent life upon my hands.’

‘I cannot do it,’ said Ulmenetha. ‘I cannot learn in a day!’

‘Where we sit is not governed by time, Ulmenetha. We are floating in the open heart of eternity. Trust me. What

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you take from here will be vital to the safety of the child and the future of the world.’

‘I do not want such responsibility. I am not. . . strong enough.’

‘You are stronger than you think!’ he said, forcefully. ‘And you will need to be stronger yet.’

Angry now, Ulmenetha rose from the bench. ‘Bring Nogusta here. Teach him! He is a warrior. He knows how to fight!’

He shook his head. ‘Yes, he is a warrior. But I do not need someone who knows how to kill. I need someone who knows how to love.’

The night air was cold, but Conalin, a blanket round his shoulders, sat in quiet contentment alongside Kebra. The bowman did not speak, and this, in itself, pleased Conalin. They were together in silence. Companions. Conalin flicked a glance at Kebra’s profile, seeing the moonlight glinting on the old man’s white hair.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked the boy.

‘I was remembering my father.’

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ said Kebra. ‘They were not pleasant memories.’ He turned to the boy. ‘You look cold. You should sit by the fire.’

‘I am not cold.’ The open sores on his arms and back were troubling him. Pushing up his sleeve he scratched at the scabs on his arm. ‘What will you do if you reach Drenan?’

Til try my hand at farming. I own a hundred acres in the mountains close to the Sentran Plain. I’ll build a house there. Maybe,’ he finished, lamely.

‘Is that what you really want?’

Kebra gave a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps not. It is a dream.

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My last dream. The Sathuli have a blessing which says: May all your dreams – but one – come true.’

‘Why is that a blessing? Would not a man be happier if all his dreams came true?’

‘No,’ said Kebra, shaking his head, ‘that would be awful. What would there be left to live for? Our dreams are what carry us forward. We journey from dream to dream. At this moment your dream is to wed Pharis. If that dream comes true, and you are happy, you will want children. Then you will dream for them also. A man without dreams is a dead man. He may walk and talk, but he is sterile and empty.’

‘And you have only one dream left? What happened to all the others?’

‘You ask difficult questions, my friend.’ Kebra lapsed into silence. Conalin did not disturb it. He felt a great warmth within, that all but swamped the cold of the night. My friend. Kebra had called him, my friend. The boy stared out over the silhouette of the mountains and watched the bright stars glinting around the moon. There was a harmony here, a great emptiness that filled the soul with the music of silence. The city had never offered such harmony, and Conalin’s life had been an endless struggle to survive amid the cruelty and the squalor. He had learned early that no-one ever acted without selfish motives. Everything had a price. And mostly Conalin could not afford it.

Nogusta strolled towards where they sat. Conalin felt his irritation rise. He did not want this moment to be disturbed. But the black warrior moved silently past them and down to the camp-site.