Winter Warriors (36 page)

“What is it you want of me, lady?” he said.

Her voice when it came was a faint whisper. “You are … an evil man … Antikas. But you will hurt us … no longer.” Her eyes held to his for a moment more, then they closed and her head sagged back. For a moment only he thought she had swooned. Then he saw the pool of blood around the base of the chair. Stepping forward, he wrenched the blanket from her. Both her wrists were cut, and her clothes were drenched in blood. Still wearing her wedding dress and her garland, she had died without another word.

Antikas tried to push away the memory, but it clung to him like a poisoned vine. “It was not evil,” he said. “She should have waited for me. Then it would not have happened. I am not to blame.”

Who, then, do we blame? The thought leapt unbidden from his subconscious.

It had not ended there. Her brother had challenged Antikas. He, too, had died. Antikas had tried to disarm the boy, to wound him and stop the duel. But his attack had been ferocious and sustained, and when the moment came, Antikas had responded with instinct rather than intent, his blade sinking into his opponent’s heart.

Antikas Karios rose from the wall and turned to gaze down into the rushing water below. He saw the broken branch of an old oak floating there, drifting fast. It stuck for a moment against a jutting rock, then twisted free and continued on its way. Farther down the bank a brown bear ambled out of the woods and waded into the water. Antikas watched it. Twice its paw splashed down. On the third try it caught a fish, propelling it out to the bank. The fish flopped against the earth, its tail thrashing wildly. The bear left the river and devoured the fish.

Antikas swung away and walked to where his horse was cropping grass. From his saddlebag he took the last of his rations.

Thoughts of Kara intruded as he ate, but this time he suppressed them, concentrating instead on the escape from Usa. Kalizkan’s spirit had taken him first to an old church by the south wall, and there he had directed him to a secret room behind the altar. By the far wall was an ancient chest. It was not locked. The hinges were almost rusted through. One snapped as Antikas opened the lid. Inside were three scabbarded short swords, each wrapped in linen. Antikas removed them.

“These are the last of the storm swords,” said Kalizkan, “created when the world was younger. They were fashioned by Emsharas the Sorcerer for use against the demonic Krayakin.”

Antikas had carried them from the city to where the army was camped beyond. There he had obtained a horse and supplies and had ridden out into the mountains.

On his first night he had unwrapped one of the swords. The pommel was inset with a blue jewel, heavy and round, held in place by golden wire. The tang was covered by a wooden grip wrapped in a pale, grayish-white skin, while the upwardly curved quillons were deeply engraved with gold lettering.
The scabbard was simple and without adornment. Slowly Antikas drew the sword forth.

“Do not touch the blade!” warned the voice of Kalizkan. In the moonlight the blade was black, and at first Antikas believed it to be of tarnished silver. But as he turned it, he saw the moon reflected brilliantly on its dark surface.

“What is the metal?” he asked Kalizkan.

“Not metal, child. Enchanted ebony,” replied the sorcerer. “I don’t know how he did it. It can cut through stone, yet it is made of wood.”

“Why is it called a storm sword?”

“Stand up and hold the flat of your hand just above the blade.”

Antikas did so. Colors swept along the ebony, then white-blue lightning lanced up into his palm. In surprise he leapt back, dropping the sword. The point vanished into the earth, and only the curved quillons prevented the blade from sinking from sight. Antikas drew it clear. Not a mark of mud had stained the sword. Once again he held his hand over it. Lightning danced to his skin. There was no pain. The sensation was curious, and he noticed that the hairs on the back of his hand were tingling.

“What causes the small lightning?” he asked Kalizkan.

“I wish I knew. Emsharas was Windborn. He knew far more than any human sorcerer.”

“A demon? Yet he made swords to fight demons? Why would that be?”

“You have a penchant for asking questions I cannot answer. Whatever his reasons, Emsharas allied himself with the three kings, and he it was who cast the great spell that banished all demons from the earth.”

“Including himself?”

“Indeed so.”

“That makes no sense,” said Antikas. “He betrayed more than his own people; he betrayed his entire race. What could induce a man to commit such an act?”

“He was not a man; he was—as you rightly say—a demon,”
said Kalizkan. “And who can know the minds of such creatures? Certainly not I, for I was foolish enough to trust one and paid for it with my life.”

“I loathe mysteries,” said Antikas.

“I have always been rather partial to them,” admitted Kalizkan. “But to attempt an answer to your question, perhaps it was simply hatred. He and his brother, Anharat, were mortal enemies. Anharat desired the destruction of the human race. Emsharas set out to thwart him. You know the old adage, The enemy of my enemy must be my friend? Therefore, Emsharas became a friend to humans.”

“It is not convincing,” said Antikas. “There must have been some among his people that he loved, and yet he caused their destruction also.”

“He did not destroy them—merely banished them from the earth. But if we are questioning motivations, did you not cause the destruction of the one you loved?”

Antikas was shocked. “That was entirely different,” he snapped.

“I stand corrected.”

“Let us talk of more relevant matters,” said the swordsman. “These warriors I am to fight are Krayakin, yes?”

“They are indeed—the greatest fighters ever to walk the earth.”

“They have not met me yet,” Antikas pointed out.

“Trust me, my boy, they will not be quaking in their boots.”

“They ought to,” said Antikas. “Now tell me about them.”

Antikas was sitting once more on the bridge wall when the riders emerged from the mist. The black warrior, Nogusta, was leading them. Antikas could see the queen, sitting sidesaddle, her horse led by a tall, slim, blond-haired woman in a flowing blue robe. Behind them came the man Bison. Antikas had last seen him tied to the whipping post on the day Nogusta had slain Cerez. A small, fair-haired child was seated before him. Behind the giant came two more youngsters, riding double, a red-haired boy of around fourteen and a wand-thin girl with long dark hair. Then he saw Dagorian.
The officer was holding a small bundle in his arms. Bringing up the rear was the bowman Kebra.

Nogusta saw him and left the group, cantering his horse down the shallow slope.

“Good morning to you,” said Antikas, rising and offering a bow. “I am pleased to see you alive.”

Nogusta dismounted and moved closer, his expression unreadable. Antikas spoke again. “I am not here as an enemy, black man.”

“I know.”

Antikas was surprised. “Kalizkan told you about me?”

“No. I had a vision.” Slowly the group filed to the bridge. Nogusta waved them on, and they rode past the two swordsmen. Antikas bowed deeply to Axiana, who responded with a smile. She looked wan and terribly weary.

“Is the queen sick?” he asked Nogusta after she had passed.

“The birth was not easy, and she lost blood. The priestess healed her, but she will need time to recover fully.”

“Is the child strong?”

“He is strong,” said Nogusta. “It is our hope that he will remain that way. You know that we are followed?”

Antikas nodded. “By the Krayakin. Kalizkan told me. I will remain here and bar their path.”

Nogusta smiled for the first time. “Not even you can defeat four such warriors. Even with the black swords.”

“It was a good vision you had,” said Antikas. “Would you care to share it with me?” Nogusta shook his head. “Ah,” said Antikas with a wide grin, “I am to die, then. Well, why not? It is something I’ve not done before. Perhaps I shall enjoy the experience.”

Nogusta remained silent for a moment. Dagorian, Kebra, and Bison came running back across the bridge to stand alongside him.

“What is he doing here?” said Dagorian, his face flushed and angry.

“He is here to help us,” said Nogusta.

“That’s not likely,” hissed Dagorian. “He sent assassins after me. He is in league with the enemy.”

“Such indiscipline in your ranks, Nogusta,” said Antikas. “Perhaps that is why you never gained a commission.”

“Shall I break his neck?” asked Bison.

“How novel,” muttered Antikas, “an ape that speaks.”

Bison surged forward. Nogusta threw out his arm. The effort of blocking the giant made him wince as his injured shoulder flared with fresh pain.

“Calm down,” he said. “There is no treachery here. Antikas Karios is one of us. Understand that. The past is of no consequence. He is here to defend the bridge and buy us time. Let there be no more insults.” He turned to Antikas. “The Krayakin will come tonight. They do not like the sun and will wait for the clouds to clear and the moon to shine bright. There will be four of them. But riding with them will be a unit of Ventrian cavalry sent by the demon who inhabits Malikada.”

“You say I cannot defeat them alone? Will you then stand with me?”

“I would like nothing more.”

“No,” Dagorian said suddenly. “Your shoulder is injured. I have watched you ride. You are in great pain, and your movements are slow and sluggish. I will stay.”

“I, too,” said Kebra.

Nogusta shook his head. “We cannot risk everything on one encounter. There are only four of the Krayakin directly behind us. Four more are out there, moving to cut us off. We need to put distance between us. Antikas Karios has chosen to defend this bridge. Dagorian has offered to stand beside him. That is how it will be.” He swung to Kebra. “You and Bison ride on with the others. Keep heading south. About a mile ahead the road branches. Take the route to the left. You will pass over the highest ridge. Move with care, for it will be cold and treacherous. I will join you soon.”

The two men moved away, and Nogusta sat down on the bridge wall and rubbed his injured shoulder. Ulmenetha’s newfound magick had knitted the broken collarbone, and he could feel himself healing fast. But not fast enough to be of use to the two men who would guard the bridge.

“Bring out the black swords,” he told Antikas. The swordsman moved to his horse and lifted clear the bundle tied to the rear of the saddle. Warning Nogusta and Dagorian to beware of the blades, he unwrapped them. They were identical except for the crystal jewels in the pommels. One was blue, the second white as freshly fallen snow, the third crimson. The blue blade Antikas took for himself. Nogusta waited for Dagorian. The young officer chose the sword with the white pommel. Nogusta accepted the last.

“There is little I can say to advise you,” he told Dagorian. “Stay close to Antikas Karios; guard his back as best you can.”

“You have seen the coming fight, haven’t you?”

“Glimpses of it only. Do not ask me about the outcome. You are a good man, Dagorian. Few would have the courage to face the warriors coming against you.”

“This is all very touching, black man,” said Antikas, “but why don’t you ride on? I will take Dagorian under my wing, as it were.”

“I don’t need your protection,” snapped Dagorian.

“You Drenai are so touchy. It comes from lacking any sense of true nobility, I expect.” Antikas strode back to his horse, mounted, and rode past them down the bridge.

“Are you sure he can be trusted?” asked Dagorian.

Nogusta nodded. “Do not be fooled by his manner. He is a man of great honor, and he carries a burden of shame. He is also frightened. What you are seeing is merely a mask. He is of the old Ventrian nobility, and he is drawing on its values in order to face a terrible enemy.”

Dagorian sat alongside the black swordsman. “I never wanted to be a soldier,” he said.

“You told me you wanted to be a priest. Well, think on this, my friend. Is it not a priest’s duty to keep a lantern lit against the dark? Is it not his purpose to stand against evil in all its forms?”

“That is true,” agreed Dagorian.

“Then today you are a priest, for the demons are coming. They seek the blood of innocence.”

Dagorian smiled. “I did not need encouragement, but I thank you for it, anyway.”

Nogusta rose. “When your mission here is done, head south; follow the high road. You will see the ghost city of Lem in the distance. We will meet you there.”

Dagorian said nothing, but he gave a knowing smile. Then he held out his hand. Nogusta clasped it firmly. Then he mounted Starfire and rode away.

Nogusta walked his horse to the far end of the bridge. Ulmenetha stepped in front of his horse.

“Did you tell him?” she asked.

“No,” he told her sadly.

“Why? Does he not have a right to know?”

“Would he fight the better if he did?” he countered.

As the others rode away, Dagorian took a deep breath and then stared around the bridge. Built of stone, it was around eighty feet across and twenty wide. He had seen it on two of Nogusta’s maps. Once it must have had a name, for it was a fine structure, carefully constructed. But it was lost to history now, as was the name of the river it spanned. Built when Lem was a thriving city, it must have cost a fortune, he thought, picturing the hundreds of men who had labored here. There had once been statues at both ends of the bridge, but only the plinths remained. It was as Nogusta had said: “History forgets us all eventually.” Walking to the bridge wall, he looked down at the riverbank. A stone arm jutted from the mud. Dagorian strolled down to it, pushing the earth away and exposing a marble shoulder. The head was missing. Casting around, he saw a section of a stone leg covered by weeds. Someone had toppled the statues. He wondered why.

He drank from the river and then climbed back to the bridge. “Time for a little work, Drenai,” said Antikas.

The area around the north of the bridge was heavy with rocks and boulders. Dagorian and Antikas labored for two hours, rolling large stones onto the bridge to impede enemy horses. The two men spoke little as they worked, for Dagorian remained uneasy in the presence of the hawkeyed
Ventrian. This man had planned to kill him and had been instrumental in the destruction of the Drenai army and the murder of the king. Now he was to stand beside him against a terrible foe. The thought was not a pleasant one.