Winter Warriors (26 page)

The demon lord’s arms dropped to his side. “The long wait
is almost over,” he said. “Our time has come again.” The others seated themselves and remained silent.

“What is it you require of us, Anharat?”

“In the mountains to the south there is a woman. She carries the child of Skanda. It will be born soon. You must bring it to me. The Spell of Three must be completed before the blood moon.”

“She is guarded well?”

“There are eight humans with her, but only four warriors, and three of these are old men.”

“With respect, Brother, such a mission is demeaning. We are all battle lords here. The blood of thousands has stained our blades. We have feasted on the souls of princes.”

“It was not my intention,” said the demon lord, “to offer insult to the Krayakin. But if we do not take the babe, then all will be lost for another four thousand years. Would you rather I entrusted this task to the Entukku?”

“You are wise, Anharat, and I spoke hastily. It will be as you order,” said the warrior. Raising his hand, he made a fist. “It is good to feel the solidity of flesh once more, to breathe in air, and to feed. It is good.” His blood-filled eyes gazed on the body of Malikada. “How long before you can let fall this decaying form? It is ugly to the eye.”

“Once the sacrifice is complete,” Anharat told him. “For now I need this obscenity around me.”

A shimmering began in the air around Anharat, and the hissing of many voices. Then it faded.

“These humans are so perverse,” said Anharat. “I ordered one of my officers to rest in his room. Now he is fleeing the city in a bid to save the queen and her child. It seems he went to a tavern and a priest spoke to him.”

“He understands magick, this officer?” asked the warrior.

“I do not believe so.”

“Then why have the Entukku failed to seize him?”

“There are spells around the tavern, ancient spells. It is not important. He will afford you some pleasure, for he is the foremost swordsman in the land. His name is Antikas Karios, and he has never lost a duel.”

“I shall kill him slowly,” said the warrior. “The taste of
his
terror will be exquisite.”

“There is one other of the group to be considered. His name is Nogusta. He is the last of the line of Emsharas the Sorcerer.”

The warrior’s eyes narrowed, and the others tensed at the sound of the name. “I would give up eternity,” said the warrior, “for the chance to find the soul of Emsharas the traitor. I would make it suffer for a thousand years, and that would not be punishment enough. How is it that one of his line still lives?”

“He carries the last talisman. Some years ago one of my disciples inspired a mob to destroy him and his family. It was a fine night, with great terror. Pleasing to the eye. But he was not there. Many times I have tried to engineer his death. The talisman saves him. That is why he must be considered with care.”

“He is one of the old ones guarding the woman?”

“Yes.”

“I do not like the sound of it, Anharat. It is not a coincidence.”

“I do not doubt that at all,” said Anharat. “But does it not show how far the enemy has fallen in power that his only defense is a group of old men? All but one of his priests here are slain, his temples deserted, his forces routed. He has become to this world a pitiful irrelevance. Which is why it will pass to us before the blood moon.”

“Is this tavern far?” asked the warrior.

“No.”

The warrior rose and put on his helm. “Then I shall go and feast myself upon the heart of this priest,” he said.

“The spells are strong,” warned Anharat.

The warrior laughed. “Spells that would drain the Entukku are as wasp stings to the Krayakin. How many other humans are there?”

“Only two.”

The warrior gestured, and two of his fellows stood. “The
milk of the Entukku was good, but flesh tastes sweeter,” he said.

The wagon lurched as one of the rear wheels hit a sunken rock. The weary horses sagged against their traces. Conalin tried to back up the team, but the horses stood their ground. Bison swore loudly and dismounted. Moving to the rear of the wagon, he grabbed two spokes of the wheel. “Give them a touch of the whip,” he ordered. Conalin cracked it above the horses’ backs. They surged forward. At the same time Bison threw his weight against the wheel, and the wagon bumped over the rock. The giant fell sprawling to the trail, the wheel narrowly missing his arm.

The women in the wagon—except Axiana—laughed as he rose, mud on his face. “It’s not funny!” he roared.

“It is from where I’m sitting,” said Ulmenetha.

Bison swore again and trudged back to where Kebra was holding the reins of his mount. “This trail is too narrow,” he said, heaving himself into the saddle. “I don’t think we’ve made more than twelve miles today. And already the horses are exhausted.”

“Nogusta says we’ll change the team again when we reach the flatlands.”

Bison was not mollified. He glanced back to the spare mounts they had taken from the dead lancers. “They are cavalry mounts. They’re not bred to pull wagons, and they tire easily. Look at them! They were ridden hard even before we took them, and they are exhausted also.”

It was true, and Kebra knew it. The horses were all weary. Somewhere soon they would have to rest them. “Let’s move on,” he said.

The wagon finally crested a high hill and emerged from the forest. Far off to the south they could see the glittering ribbon of the River Mendea and beyond it soaring mountain peaks, snow-crested and crowned by clouds. “We’ll not make the river by dark,” said Kebra.

“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 singsong 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.

“I’ll ride your horse if you drive the wagon,” said Conalin.

“Done!” Bison said happily. “Heaven knows I’m no rider.”

Dagorian came riding up the trail. “About a mile farther 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.

“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 redhead, 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.

“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. This day 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 toward the south to find a place to camp.

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

“We won’t reach the river by tonight. The horses are tired,” said the bowman.

“As am I,” admitted Nogusta.

They rode on, and as dusk deepened, they came across Dagorian, camped beside a small lake. He had lit a fire, and the weary travelers climbed down from the wagon to sit beside it. Kebra and Conalin unsaddled the horses, wiping their backs with dried grass. Kebra showed the boy how to hobble the mounts, then they left them to graze and unhitched the wagon team. Conalin was moving stiffly, and Kebra grinned at him. “The muscles on the inside of your thighs have been stretched,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. Did you enjoy the ride?”

“It was all right,” Conalin said nonchalantly.

“How old are you, lad?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“At your age I don’t think it does. I am fifty-six.
That
matters.”

“Why?”

“Because my dreams are all behind me. Do you swim?”

“No. And I don’t want to learn.”

“It is almost as fine a feeling as riding a horse. But it is up to you.” Kebra strolled away to the lakeside and stripped off his clothing. The water was cold as he waded out. Then he dived forward and began to swim with long easy strokes. Conalin wandered to the waterside and watched him in the fading light. After a while Kebra swam back and climbed out of the water. He shivered and dried himself with his tunic, which he then stretched out on a rock. Pulling on his leggings, he sat down beside the boy.

“I don’t dream,” Conalin said suddenly. “I just sleep and then wake up.”

“Those are not the dreams I spoke of. I meant the dreams we have for life, things we wish for ourselves, like a wife and family or riches.”

“Why are they behind you? You could have these things,” said the boy.

“Perhaps you are right.”

“My dream is to wed Pharis and to fear nothing.”

The sky darkened to crimson as the sun dropped behind the
western peaks. “It would be nice to fear nothing,” admitted Kebra. Bison strolled up and draped a blanket around Kebra’s shoulders.

“Old men like you should beware of the cold,” said Bison, walking on and dipping a cup into the water. He drank noisily.

“Why did he say that?” asked Conalin. “He looks old enough to be your father.”

Kebra chuckled. “Bison will never be old. You look at his bald pate and his white mustache and you see an old man. Bison looks in a mirror and sees a young man of twenty-five. It is a gift he has.”

“I don’t like him.”

“I agree with you. I don’t like him much, either. But I love him. There’s no malice in old Bison, and he’d stand by your side against all the armies of the world. That’s rare, Conalin. Believe me.”

The boy was unconvinced, but he said nothing. Out on the lake the splintered reflection of the moon lay broken upon the water, and to the west the lake gleamed blood-red in the dying sun. Conalin glanced up at the silver-haired bowman. “Will I ride tomorrow?” he asked him.

Kebra smiled. “Of course. The more you ride, the better you’ll get.”

“It feels safer on a horse,” said Conalin, gazing out over the lake.

“Why safer?”

“The wagon is so slow. When they catch us, we’ll not be able to escape in a wagon.”

“Maybe they won’t catch us,” said Kebra.

“Do you believe that?”

“No. But there’s always hope.”

Conalin was pleased that the man had not tried to lie to him. It was a moment of sharing that made the boy feel like an equal. “What will you do when they come?” asked Conalin.

“I’ll fight them. So will Nogusta and Bison. It’s all we can do.”

“You could ride away on your fast horses,” Conalin pointed out.

“Some men could, but we’re not made that way.”

“Why?” asked the boy. It was such a simple question, yet at first Kebra was unable to answer it. He thought about it for a while.

“It is hard to explain, Conalin. You start by asking yourself what makes a true man. Is it his ability to hunt, or to farm, or to breed stock? In part the answer is yes. Is it his capacity to love his family? In part the answer is also yes. But there is something else. Something grand. It seems to me that there are three instincts that drive us on. The first is self-preservation—the will to survive. The second is tribal. We have an urge to belong, to be a part of a greater whole. But the third? The third is what counts, boy, above all things.”

Ulmenetha moved silently alongside them and removed her shoes. Sitting down, she rested her feet in the water.

“What is the third thing?” asked Conalin, angry that they had been interrupted.

“That is even harder to explain,” said Kebra, who was also disconcerted by the arrival of the priestess. “The lioness would willingly give her life to save her cubs. That is her way. But I have seen a woman risk her life for someone else’s child. The third instinct compels us to put aside thoughts of self-preservation for the sake of another life, or a principle, or a belief.”