Winter Warriors (25 page)

The priest approached Antikas. “A long time ago there was a shrine here. The remains of the altar can still be found at the rear of the cellar. Great and holy spells were once cast here. They cannot enter.”

Antikas sheathed his saber. “What are ‘they’?”

“The Entukku. Mindless spirits who live to feed. Some say they are born from the souls of the evil dead. I do not know whether that be true. But they swim in the air all around us now, like sharks, feasting on the dark emotions of the possessed. Usa is a feeding ground and faces extinction.”

“What can be done, priest?”

“Done? Nothing.”

Antikas swung on the man, grabbing his white robes at the
neck and hauling him close. “There is always something!” he hissed. “So think!”

The priest sighed. Antikas released him. “Are you a believer?” asked the priest.

“I believe in my skills and my saber.”

The priest stood for a moment, staring out into the darkness. “You cannot kill the demon lord,” he said, “for he is immortal. You could destroy the host body, but he would find another. And his strength is growing. You saw the mob. A few days ago the Entukku could merely inspire men to acts of violence. Skanda’s death gave them the ability to possess hosts utterly. How can you fight such power with a saber? Were you to step outside this door, the demons would descend upon you, and then the great Antikas Karios would be running with the mob, screaming and killing.”

Antikas considered his words. “That may be so, priest,” he said at last, “but you say his power is derived from the murder of kings. What happens if he fails to kill the third?”

“How can he fail? Who can withstand demons?”

Antikas stepped in close to the man. The words he used were softly spoken, but the priest blanched. “If I hear another negative phrase from you, I will hurl you from this window and out into the night. Do you understand me?”

“In the name of mercy—” wailed the priest.

Antikas cut him short. “I am not known as a merciful man, priest. Now answer the question. What if the third king eludes the demons?”

“I am not sure,” answered the priest. “The power he is using is derived from the previous sacrifices. Such power, though great, is finite. If he does not complete the third sacrifice in time, then he will—I believe—be drawn back into his own world.”

“What do you mean, in time?”

“The pattern of the heavens is the clue. There are times when the strength of a spell is made immeasurably more powerful if it is cast with the right conjunction of planets. I believe this to be the case now.”

“And how long does that give us?”

“That is hard to estimate, for I am no astrologer. But no more than a month. That is for sure.”

Canta returned from his hiding place upstairs. He and the man by the fire upended a table, lifting it into place against the shattered window. Antikas lit several lanterns. “What are you doing?” Canta asked fearfully.

“They cannot pass the portals of the tavern,” said Antikas, “so let us have some light.” He gestured to the priest to join him and returned to the table. “I need to get to my horse before dawn,” he said. “Have you a spell to aid me?”

The priest shook his head. “My skills were not suited to magick.”

“What then, pray, are your skills?”

“I am a healer.”

Antikas cursed, then lapsed into thought. They were silent for several minutes. Then the swordsman glanced up. “You say this place is holy. What makes it so?”

“I told you. It was once a shrine.”

“Yes, yes. But what remains here to keep it holy? Was a spell cast?”

“Yes, many spells. They are held in the stone of the walls and the wood of the beams.”

“Therefore, if we were to move the shrine to another place, that would also be holy?”

“I believe so.”

“Come with me,” ordered Antikas, rising and lifting one of the lanterns from its wall bracket. Together the two men moved through to the back of the tavern. Finding the door to the cellar, Antikas moved down the steps. It was cold below ground, and he threaded his way past barrels of beer, wine, and spirit. “Where is the altar?” he asked.

“Over here,” said the priest, leading him to a block of stone some three feet high. The shape of a bull had been carved on the front of the stone, the image all but weathered away. On each side was a sculpted hand holding a crescent moon. These, too, had been eroded by time. Antikas left the priest holding the lantern and returned upstairs.

Gathering the ax dropped by the first of the mob, he moved back to the cellar.

“What are you going to do?” asked the priest.

Antikas swung the ax, bringing it crashing down on the altar. Twice he struck, then a fist-sized section broke away. Dropping the ax, he took up the stone. “You say that spells are held in the stone. Perhaps this will shield me from the demons.”

“I cannot say that for sure,” said the priest. “What you have is a tiny fragment.”

“I have no choice but to try, priest. The queen is in the mountains, guarded by only four men.”

“And you think a fifth will make a difference?”

“I am Antikas Karios, priest. I always make a difference.”

Tucking the rock into his tunic, Antikas returned to the upper room. Moving to the upturned table that blocked the window, he peered out into the street. All was silent. His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast. Antikas Karios feared no living man, but the thought of the demons waiting threatened to unman him. Placing his hand on the table, he prepared to draw it aside.

“Don’t go out there!” pleaded Canta, echoing the voice in Antikas’ own heart.

“I must,” he said, wrenching the table aside and climbing to the sill.

The night breeze was cool on his skin, and he leapt lightly to the ground. Behind him the others hastily drew back the table. Antikas ran across the street, ducking into an alley. He had gone no more than a hundred paces when the attack came. The temperature around him plummeted, and he heard whispers on the breeze. They grew louder and louder, filling his ears like angry hornets. Pain roared inside his head. Inside his tunic the rock grew warmer. Antikas staggered and almost fell. Anger surged, but as it did, he felt the cold seep into his brain. Voices were hissing at him now in a language he had never heard, yet he knew what they were saying. “Give in! Give in! Give in!”

He lurched against the side of a building and fell to his knees. The pain from striking the cobbles cut through the discordant shrieking inside his mind. He focused on it—and on the heat from the rock against his skin.

He wanted to rage against the invasion, to scream. But some deeper instinct overrode his emotions, urging him to stay calm, to fight coolly. Yet he felt like he was drowning in this sea of voices—at one with them, sharing their hunger for blood and pain and death.

“No,” he said, aloud. “I am …” For a moment there was panic. Who am I? Scores of names surged through his mind, shouted by the voices within. He fought for calm. “I am … Antikas Karios. I am ANTIKAS KARIOS!” Over and over, like a mantra, he said his name. The voices shrieked louder still, but with less power, until they receded into dim, distant echoes.

Antikas pushed himself to his feet and ran on. The shrieking of human voices could be heard now some distance to his left. Then to his right. Then ahead.

Unable to possess him, the demons were gathering their human forces to cut him off.

Antikas paused and looked around. To his left was a high wall and, close by, a wrought-iron gate. He ran to it and climbed the gate, stepping out onto the wall some fifteen feet above the ground. Nimbly he moved along it to where it joined the side of a house. There was an ivy-covered trellis there, and Antikas began to climb. Below him a mob gathered, shouting curses. A hurled hammer crashed against the wall by his head. He climbed on. A piece of rotten wood gave way beneath his foot, but he clung on, drawing himself toward the flat roof. He heard the creaking of the iron gate below and glanced back. Several of the members of the mob were climbing the wall.

Easing himself onto the roof, Antikas gazed around in the moonlight. There was a door to the building. Moving swiftly to it, he forced it open. As he entered the stairwell beyond, he heard the sound of boots on the stairs. With a soft curse he backed out onto the roof and ran to the edge of the building.

Some sixty feet below was a narrow alleyway. He glanced
at the roof opposite, gauging the distance. Ten feet at least. On the flat he could make the jump with ease, but there was a low wall around the rooftop.

Pacing his steps, he moved back to the door, then turned and ran at the wall. He leapt, his left foot striking the top and propelling him out over the alleyway. For one terrifying moment he thought he had misjudged his leap. But then he landed and rolled on the opposite rooftop. The hilt of his saber dug into his side, tearing the skin. Antikas swore again. Rising, he drew the blade. The golden fist guard was dented, but the weapon was still usable.

The door on the second roof burst open, and three men ran out. Antikas spun toward them, the saber slicing through the throat of the first. His foot lashed out into the knee of the second, spinning the man from his feet. The third died from a saber thrust to the heart. Antikas ran to the doorway and listened. There was no sound on the stairs, and he moved down into the dark, emerging into a narrow corridor. There were no lanterns lit, and the swordsman moved forward blindly, feeling his way. He stumbled upon a second stair and descended to the first level. Here there was a window with the curtains drawn back, and faint moonlight illuminated a gallery. Opening the window, he clambered out and dropped the ten feet to the garden below.

Here there was a lower wall no more than eight feet high. Sheathing his saber, he leapt, curling his fingers over the stone and hauling himself to the top. The street beyond was empty.

Antikas silently lowered himself to the cobbles and ran on.

Emerging onto the Avenue of Kings, he raced across the street toward the palace. The mob erupted from alleyways all around him, shrieking and baying. Ducking, he sprinted for the gates. The two sentries stood stock still as he approached, showing no sign of alarm. Antikas reached them just ahead of the mob and realized he could go no farther. Angry now, he spun to face them.

But they had halted just outside the gates and were now standing silently, staring at him.

The sentries still had not moved, and Antikas stood, breathing heavily, his saber all but forgotten.

Silently the mob dispersed, moving back into the shadows on the opposite side of the avenue.

Antikas approached the first of the sentries. “Why did they not attack?” he asked.

The man’s head turned slowly toward him. The eyes were misted in death, the jaw hanging slack. Antikas backed away.

Reaching the stable, he moved to the stall where he had left his horse. The beast was on its knees. He noticed that someone had changed the blanket with which he had covered the beast. His had been gray; this was black. Opening the stall door, he stepped inside.

The black blanket writhed, and scores of bats fluttered up around him, their wings beating about his face.

Then they were gone, up into the rafters.

And the horse was dead.

Angry now, Antikas drew his sword and headed for the palace. The priest had said he could not kill the demon lord, but by all the gods in heaven, he would try. The rock grew warm against his skin, and a soft voice whispered into his mind.

“Do not throw away your life, my boy!”

Antikas paused. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“You cannot kill him. Trust me. The babe is everything. You must protect the babe.”

“I am trapped here. If I leave the palace, the mob will hunt me down.”

“I will guide you, Antikas. There are horses outside the city.”

“Who are you?” he repeated.

“I am Kalizkan, Antikas. And all this pain and horror is of my making.”

“That is hardly a recommendation for trust.”

“I know. I am hoping that the power of truth will convince you.”

“My choices appear limited,” said Antikas. “Lead on, wizard!”

*     *     *

High in the palace the demon lord raised his arms. Over the city the Entukku, in ecstasy and bloated with feeding, floated aimlessly above the buildings. The demon lord’s power swept over them, draining their energies. They began to wail and shriek, their hunger increasing once more.

Stepping back from the window, the demon lord began to chant. The air before him shimmered. Slowly he spoke the seven words of power. Blue light lanced from floor to ceiling, and a pungent odor filled the room. Where a moment before had been a wall decorated with a brightly colored mural, there was now a cave entrance and a long tunnel.

Faint figures of light moved in the tunnel, floating toward him. As they came closer, the demon lord held out his hands. Black smoke oozed from his fingers and drifted down the tunnel. The light figures hovered, and the smoke rose up around them. The lights faded, but the smoke hardened, taking shape.

Ten tall men emerged, wearing dark armor and full-faced helms. One by one they strode into the room. The demon lord spoke a single harsh word, and the tunnel disappeared.

“Welcome to the world of flesh, my brothers,” said the demon lord.

“It is good to feel hunger again,” said the first of the warriors, removing his helm. His hair was ghost-white, his eyes gray and cold. His face was broad, the lipless mouth wide.

“Then feed,” said the demon lord, raising his hands. This time a red mist flowed from his hands and floated across the room. The warrior opened his mouth, displaying long, curved fangs. The red mist streamed into his open mouth. The others removed their helms and moved in close. One by one they absorbed the mist. As they did so, their bone-white faces changed, the skin blushing red. Their eyes glittered, the gray deepening to blue and then, slowly, to crimson.

“Enough, my brother,” said the first warrior. “After so long the taste is too exquisite.” Moving to a couch, he sank down, stretching out his long black-clad limbs.