Winter Warriors (29 page)

Then a board cracked, and the wagon lurched. For a sickening heartbeat Dagorian thought he was about to be pitched into the river. He sat very still for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest, then carefully climbed down. The left rear wheel was halfway through the boards, being supported only by the jutting axle head. Dagorian let out a soft curse. Putting both hands under the tailboard, he struggled to lift it clear. It did not move a hair’s breadth.

“They’re coming!” shouted Conalin.

Dagorian swung to see Nogusta, Kebra, and Bison. They were galloping their horses, riding hard and fast. Nogusta reached the bridge first, dragging on the reins. Then he leapt from the saddle and led the giant black gelding out onto the bridge. Kebra and Bison followed his lead. There was no room for them to pass.

Bison tossed his reins to Kebra and strode to where Dagorian stood at the rear of the wagon. “Get back in the driver’s seat,” said the giant, “and give them a lash when I call.”

“It won’t move,” said Dagorian.

“Riders!” yelled Conalin.

The warriors of the Krayakin breasted the slope and, swords drawn, rode for the bridge. Dagorian scrambled up to the wagon. Bison grabbed the wheel. “Now!” he shouted. The giant heaved, and the wagon rose. At the same time Dagorian lashed the reins across the backs of the team. The wagon lurched forward. Bison was hurled from his feet but rolled clear of the iron-shod wheel.

Dagorian lashed the backs of the team, and the wagon picked up speed. Nogusta and Kebra came running behind.

The child Sufia climbed into the wagon as it reached the bank. In a high-pitched voice she chanted something in an alien tongue.

The Krayakin had reached the bridge, and two of them set off across it.

A ball of flame flew from Sufia’s hand, striking the bridge. A column of fire reared up, and the bridge began to blaze. One of the Krayakin backed his horse to safety, but the second spurred his mount, riding through the blaze. Bison ran at the charging horse, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. The beast reared. Bison hurled himself forward, ducking under the flailing hooves. Throwing up his arms, Bison clamped his hands to the horse’s chest and pushed with all his strength. The horse toppled back, hurling its rider into the flames. The boards gave way. Horse and warrior crashed through to the roiling river below. Fingers of fire swept along the boards. Bison’s leggings caught alight. Spinning on his heel, the giant ran, panic-stricken, to the bank. Nogusta and Kebra leapt upon him, hurling him to the ground. They tried to beat out the flames on Bison’s burning clothing, but to no avail. Then Sufia stepped forward and held out her hand. The fire leapt from Bison to the child’s waiting fingers, where it vanished. Bison tore off his leggings. His flesh was badly burned on the left thigh. Sufia moved to him, dropping to her knees. Her tiny hand reached out. Bison winced as her fingers touched the blistered flesh of his thigh. Then, as if a cool breeze were whispering over the burn, all pain ceased. She lifted her hand. The burn was gone.

“Such small magick is still left to me,” said the voice of Kalizkan. The body of the child settled down against Bison, her blond head resting on his chest. “Let her sleep,” said Kalizkan. Bison carefully lifted the sleeping child and carried her to the wagon, where he laid her down and covered her with a blanket.

Ulmenetha approached the giant warrior. “That was a brave act,” she said, “to charge a mounted knight. I must say, you surprised me.”

Bison turned to her and gave a wide, gap-toothed grin. “If you’d like to thank me properly, we could move farther back into the bushes.”

“Now, that reaction
doesn’t
surprise me,” she said. With a
withering glance at his naked lower body she added: “And find some fresh leggings. There are ladies present.”

“That’s when I normally need it,” he said, still grinning.

Swinging away, the priestess walked back to where Axiana and Pharis were sitting together. From the wagon Conalin grinned at the old man.

“Women,” said Bison. “Who can understand them?”

Conalin shrugged. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know enough to realize that she doesn’t like you.”

“You think so?” asked Bison, genuinely surprised. “What makes you believe that?”

Conalin laughed aloud. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”

“I think you might be,” agreed Bison.

Black smoke was rising from the blazing bridge, and Nogusta strode to the bank, staring across the river to where the eight remaining Krayakin warriors waited. Dagorian joined him. “There are other bridges,” he said. “But we have gained a little time.”

The Krayakin divided into two groups. Four warriors rode downriver toward the west, the other four heading east.

“We have had more luck than we deserve,” Nogusta said softly.

“What happened back in the forest?”

“We killed one. But only because the leader wanted him dead. They are deadly foes, Dagorian. More terrible than any I have faced before.”

“And yet two are dead, and we have suffered no losses.”

“Not yet,” whispered Nogusta.

Dagorian shivered suddenly. He glanced at the black warrior. “What have you seen with that third eye of yours?”

“Do not ask,” advised Nogusta.

Ulmenetha’s spirit rose above the campsite, hovering in the night air. The moon was bright, the sky clear over the mountains. From here she could see Nogusta, sitting alone on a hillside. Close by Kebra was talking to Conalin. Axiana, Pharis, and Sufia were asleep in the wagon. Bison sat alone
by the campfire, finishing the last of the stew prepared by Kebra.

There was freedom here in this astral solitude, and Ulmenetha gloried in it. There were no demons over the forest, no Entukku with their slashing talons. She allowed herself to rise farther, the moonlit forest shrinking below her. Ulmenetha flew north, over the ruined bridge, intending to seek out the Krayakin.

A glowing form materialized in the air alongside her. This time she could make out a face. It was that of a young man, golden-haired and handsome. “It is not wise,” he said, “to journey far. The Krayakin will be able to see you, and they can summon the Entukku to attack you.”

“I need to know how close they are,” said Ulmenetha.

“The group heading east will lose two days. Those heading west will cross the river at Lercis, forty miles from here. They will not catch up with you by tomorrow.”

“Why is this happening to us, Kalizkan? What did you do?”

“It is not safe here, lady. Return to your body and sleep. We will talk again in a place of sanctuary.”

The figure vanished.

Ulmenetha flew back to the campsite and there hovered for a while, enjoying a last taste of freedom.

Back within her body she settled down, covering herself with a blanket. Sleep came easily, for she was very tired.

She became aware of the smell of honeysuckle and opened her eyes to see a small garden. A latticework arch was close by, red and cream honeysuckle growing up and through it. There were flower beds full of summer plants, blazing with color in the sunlight. Ulmenetha looked around and saw a small cottage with a thatched roof. She recognized it instantly. It was her grandmother’s house.

The door opened, and a tall man stepped out. He was silver-haired and silver-bearded and was dressed in a long robe of silver satin. Kalizkan bowed. “Now we can talk,” he said.

“I preferred you as the golden-haired young man,” said Ulmenetha.

Kalizkan chuckled. “I must admit to you, lady, that he is a conceit. I never was golden haired or handsome … save in the spirit form. Were you ever as you appear now? So slim and innocent.”

“Indeed I was. But those days are long gone.”

“Not here,” said Kalizkan.

“No, not here,” she agreed wistfully.

“So what would you have me tell you?”

“All of it.”

Kalizkan led her to a wooden bench beneath the honeysuckle arch, and they sat down in the shade. “I was dying,” he said. “Cancer was spreading through me. For more than ten years I used my magick to hold it at bay, but as I grew older, my powers began to fade. I was frightened. Simply that. I studied many ancient grimoires, seeking spells to prolong my life but always avoiding blood magick. Finally I sank to that. I sacrificed an old man. I told myself he was dying anyway—which he was—and I was only robbing him of a few days of life. He came willingly, for I offered to create a pension for his widow.” Kalizkan lapsed into silence. Then he spoke again. “The deed was an evil one, though I tried to convince myself otherwise. I thought of all the good I could still do if I lived. I reasoned that a small evil was acceptable if it led to a greater good.” He smiled ruefully. “Such is the path to perdition. I summoned a demon lord and sought to control him, ordering him to heal me. Instead he possessed me. With the last of my strength I hurled my spirit clear. From that day to this I have watched all the good I have done in my life eroded and stained by the evils he used my form to commit. All my children were sacrificed. And now thousands are dead, and the city of Usa is in torment.

“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 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 around 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?”

“I’ll 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. My last dream. The Sathuli have a blessing that 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 toward 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 campsite.

“Is he your best friend?” asked Conalin.

“Best friend? I don’t know what that means,” Kebra told him.

“Do you like him better than Bison?”

“That’s easier to answer,” Kebra said with a smile. “After
all, nobody
likes
Bison. But no, he’s not a
better
friend.” Reaching down, he plucked two grass stems. “Which of these stems is better?” he asked Conalin.

“Neither. They are just grass.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I when I was young. In those days I thought that anyone who smiled at me was a friend. Anyone who offered me food was a friend. The word had little real meaning. But true friendship is rarer than a white raven and more valuable than a mountain of gold. And once you find it, you realize there is no way to grade it.”

“What did he do to become your friend? Did he save your life?”

“Several times. But I can’t answer that question. I really can’t. No more, I think, could he. And now my tired old bones need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”

Kebra rose and stretched his back. Conalin stood, and they walked back to the campsite. Bison was asleep by the fire and snoring loudly. Kebra nudged him with his foot. Bison grunted and rolled over.