Free Winter Warriors by David Gemmell Page B

of blood had ceased.
    “He really let me down,” grumbled Bison. “He let us all down.”
    Dagorian, who had stood by in silence, moved alongside the giant. “You are not being fair to him,” he said softly. “It was an act of greatness. The Ventrian was being barracked and jeered. And someone did release that dove in order to throw his aim.”
    “Of course he did,” said Bison. “I paid him to do it.”
    Dagorian’s expression changed, becoming cold. “You make me ashamed to be a Drenai,” he said. Turning away, Dagorian left the two warriors.
    “What’s wrong with him?” inquired Bison. “Has the world gone mad?”
    “You are an idiot sometimes, my friend,” said Nogusta. “Perhaps you should go back to the barracks and rest.”
    “No. I want to see Kalizkan’s magick. There might be a dragon.”
    “You could ask him,” said Nogusta, pointing to a section of open lands between the tents. The silver-garbed wizard was sitting on a bench, surrounded by children.
    “I don’t think so,” Bison said doubtfully. “I don’t like wizards much. I think I’ll collect my winnings and get drunk.”
    “What about your debts?”
    Bison laughed. “We’re leaving next week. They’ll never follow me back to Drenan.”
    “Is the word ‘honor’ just a sound to you?” asked Nogusta. “You have built up credit on trust. You gave your word to repay. Now you will become a thief whose word cannot be trusted.”
    “What’s put you in such a foul mood?” asked Bison.
    “You would not understand if I carved the answer on your simian forehead,” snapped the black man. “Go and get drunk. A man should always stick to what he does best.” Leaving Bison, he walked across the meadow, threading his way through the crowd.
    Antikas Karios approached him as he passed the king’s pavilion. The swordsman gave a thin smile. “Good morning to you,” he said. “That was a clever trick you used against Cerez. I had warned him in the past about arrogance. I will not have to warn him again.”
    Nogusta was about to move on, but the Ventrian stepped into his path. “The king would like you to entertain his guests before the races.”
    Nogusta nodded and followed the officer toward the front of the pavilion. Skanda saw him coming and gave a broad smile, then turned to say something to Malikada. Nogusta approached the king and gave a deep bow. “My congratulations on your birthday, sire,” he said.
    Skanda leaned forward. “I have told Prince Malikada of your skill with knives. I fear he doubts my word.”
    “Not at all, Majesty,” Malikada said smoothly.
    Skanda clapped him on the shoulder, then rose. “What can you show us today, my friend?” he asked Nogusta.
    The black man called for one of the archery targets to be brought up. While that was being done, a sizable crowd began to gather. Nogusta removed five throwing knives from the sheaths stitched to his baldric, then spread the blades in his left hand.
    “Is the target large enough?” asked Malikada, as the six-foot-high target was placed within ten feet of the black man. The Ventrian officers around him laughed at the jest.
    “I will make it smaller, my lord,” said Nogusta. “Perhaps you would care to stand in front of it.”
    Malikada’s smile froze in place. He glanced at the king.
    “Either you or me, old lad,” said Skanda.
    Malikada rose and walked to the front of the pavilion, where a soldier opened the gate for him. He strode out to the target and turned, his dark eyes staring intently at Nogusta.
    “Do not move, my lord,” said Nogusta.
    The black man spun a razor-sharp knife in the air, then caught it. He repeated this with the other blades, throwing each one higher than the last. Then, while one was still in the air, he sent up another, then another, until all five were spinning and glittering in the sunlight. There was absolute silence now as the crowd waited in tense expectation. Still spinning the knives, Nogusta slowly backed away