Winter Warriors by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online

you took the Silver Arrow from the hands of Menion. He was as old as you are now when he stood against you in the final. And you beat him finally only when it came to the distant targets. Could it be that his eyes were fading?”
    Bison strolled over to where they stood. “Going to be a great day,” he said, wiping crumbs from his white mustache. “The Ventrian sorcerer Kalizkan has promised a display no one will ever forget. I hope he conjures a dragon. I’ve alwayswanted to see a dragon.” The bald giant looked from one man to the other. “What is it? What am I missing here?”
    “Nothing,” said Nogusta. “We were just involved in a philosophical debate.”
    “I hate those,” said Bison. “I never understand a word. Glad I missed it. By the way, I’ve entered the wrestling. I hope you two will be cheering for me.”
    Nogusta chuckled. “Is that big tribesman taking part this year?”
    “Of course.”
    “He must have thrown you ten feet last year. It was only luck that you landed headfirst and thereby avoided injury.”
    Bison scowled. “He caught me by surprise. I’ll take him this year—if we’re matched.”
    “How many times have you entered this competition?” asked Kebra.
    “I don’t know. Almost every year. Thirty times, maybe.”
    “You think you’ll win this time?”
    “Of course I’ll win. I’ve never been stronger.”
    Nogusta laid his hand on Bison’s massive shoulder. “It doesn’t concern you that you’ve said the same thing for more than thirty years? And yet you’ve never even reached the quarterfinals.”
    “Why should it?” asked Bison. “Anyway, I did reach the quarters once, didn’t I? It was during the Skathian campaign. I was beaten by Coris.” He grinned. “You remember him? Big, blond fellow. Died at the siege of Mellicane.”
    “You are quite right,” said Nogusta. “Coris was beaten in the semifinal. I remember losing money on him.”
    “I’ve never lost money on the king’s birthday,” Bison said happily. “I always bet on you, Kebra.” His smile faded, and he swore. “This will be the last year when you pay off all my winter debts.”
    “Not this year, my friend,” said Kebra. “I’m not entered.”
    “I thought you might forget,” said Bison, “so I entered you myself.”
    “Tell me you are joking,” said Kebra, his voice cold.
    “I never joke about my debts. Shouldn’t you be out there practicing?”
    The crowds were beginning to gather as Dagorian strolled out onto the meadow. He was uncomfortable in full armor, the gilded black and gold breastplate hanging heavy on his slim shoulders. Still, he thought, at least I don’t have to wear the heavy plumed helm. The cheek guards chafed his face, and despite the padded cap he wore below it, the helm did not sit right. Once when the king had called out to him, Dagorian had turned sharply and the helm had swiveled on his head, the left cheek guard sliding over his left eye. Everyone had laughed. Dagorian had never wanted to be a soldier, but when the father was a hero general—and, worse, a dead hero general—the son was left with little choice.
    And he had been lucky. The White Wolf had taken him onto his staff and had spent time teaching the youngster tactics and logistics. While Dagorian did not enjoy soldiering, he had discovered he had a talent for it, and that made a life of campaigning at least marginally tolerable.
    The preparations for the king’s birthday were complete now, and within the hour the crowds would begin to surge through the gates. The sky was clear, the new day less cold than the previous one. Spring was coming. Only in the evenings now did the temperature drop below freezing. Dagorian saw the three old warriors talking by the fence rail. He strolled across to where they stood. As he approached, Kebra the Bowman strode away. He looks angry, thought Dagorian. The black swordsman saw Dagorian approach and gave a salute.
    “Good morning to you, Nogusta,” said the