Winter Warriors (41 page)

“It is all very complicated,” said Antikas. “I am glad that I do not have visions. I do have one observation, however. The demon lord needs to sacrifice the babe in order to bring about the end of the spell. If the child were to die before the sacrifice, the spell would be thwarted.”

“That has occurred to me,” admitted Nogusta.

“And what conclusion did you reach?”

“Whatever destiny holds in store for me, it will not be as a killer of children. What the demon lord plans is evil. I do not believe that the way to fight great evil is to commit a lesser one. My role now is to protect the child. That I will do.”

“You are very rigid in your thinking,” Antikas pointed out. “Kill one babe to save the world? It seems a small price to pay.”

“It is not a question of scale,” said Nogusta. “If it were, then ten thousand babes would be a small price for such a great reward. It is a question of right and wrong. That child may prove to be one of the greatest men ever born, a peacemaker and a builder, a prophet or a philosopher. Who can say what wonders he may bring about?”

Antikas chuckled. “More likely he will be another Skanda, full of vanity and arrogance.”

“Is your advice, then, Antikas Karios, to kill the child?”

“Answer me this first,” responded the Ventrian. “If your vision told you that the babe was certain to fall into the clutches of the demon lord, would you reconsider?”

“No. I will defend it to the last drop of my blood. Now answer my question.”

“I am no longer a general, Nogusta. I am merely a man.
You are in command here. As long as you live, I will follow your orders, and I, too, will defend the child to the last.”

“And if I do not live and you survive me?”

“I will do whatever I think is right by my own principles. Does that satisfy you?”

“Of course.”

Antikas smiled and began to turn away. Then he stopped. “You are a romantic, Nogusta, and an idealist. I have often wondered how men like you find happiness in such a corrupt and selfish world.”

“Perhaps one day you will find out,” Nogusta told him.

Antikas returned to the camp. Conalin was rubbing down the horses, while Bison sat by the fire eating roasted meat, the juices running down his chin and staining his already filthy tunic. Antikas moved to where Axiana was sitting with Ulmenetha and the young girl Pharis. The priestess was holding the sleeping babe, and the queen was daintily picking at her food.

“A far cry from palace banquets,” observed Antikas, making a deep bow.

“And yet very welcome, sir,” she told him. Axiana’s dark eyes met his gaze. “We thank you for coming to our assistance.”

“My pleasure, Highness.”

As Antikas moved away, Ulmenetha leaned in to the queen. “Do you trust him, child?” she asked.

“He is a Ventrian noble,” she replied, as if that answered the question. Reaching out, she took back her son and held him close to her, carefully supporting his head. His tiny hand flapped out from the blanket. “Look at his fingernails,” she said, “how small and perfect they are. So tiny. So beautiful.” She gazed down into his face. “How could anyone wish to hurt him?”

Ulmenetha gave no answer. Stretching out on the cold ground, she released her spirit and flew high above the trees. The fierce winds were merely a sound here, and they shrieked around her, as if angry that they could not buffet her spirit. Like a shaft of light she sped south, searching the land for sign of the Krayakin.

*   *   *

Her spirit soared over woodland and valleys, over tiny settlements and farms. Nowhere could she find evidence of the black-armored riders. She moved north, back over the canyon and along the Great River. The army of Ventria was marching there in columns of threes, cavalry riding on the flanks. Ulmenetha drew away from them, afraid that the demon lord would sense her spirit.

Back over the canyon she flew until, far below, she saw the campsite.

Pain struck her like an arrow, claws digging into her spirit flesh. Instantly she produced the fire of
halignat
, which blazed around her. The claws withdrew, but she could sense a presence close by. Hovering in the air, she gazed around but could see nothing.

“Show yourself,” she commanded.

Just outside the white fire, so close that it shocked her, a figure materialized. It was that of a man with ghost-white hair and a pale face. His eyes were blue and large, his mouth thin-lipped and cruel. “What do you want of me?” she asked him.

“Nothing,” he told her. “I want only the child.”

“You cannot have him.”

He smiled then. “Six of my brothers have returned to the Great Void. You and your companions have done well and have acted with great courage. I admire that. I always have. But you cannot survive, woman.”

“We have survived so far,” she pointed out.

“By flight. By running into the wilderness. Think about where you are heading. To a ghost city whose walls have long since crumbled. A stone shell offering no sanctuary. And what is behind you? An army that will reach the city by dusk tomorrow. Where will you run then?”

Ulmenetha could think of no answer.

“You seek to protect a flower in a blizzard,” he said. “And you are ready to die to do so. But the flower will perish. That is its destiny.”

“That is
not
its destiny,” she told him. “You and your kind have great powers. But they have not prevailed so far. As you
say, six of your brothers have gone. The rest of you will follow. Nogusta is a great warrior. He will kill you.”

“Ah, yes, the descendant of Emsharas. The last descendant. An old man, tired and spent. He will defeat the Krayakin and the army of Anharat? I think not.”

Ulmenetha remembered the demon lord’s words as he floated above the wagon. He had looked at Nogusta and said, “Yes, you look like him, the last of his mongrel line.” Ulmenetha smiled and looked into the eyes of the Krayakin. “Do you not find it strange that the descendant of Emsharas should be here now, defying you as his ancestor defied you? Does it not cause you concern? Does it not have a feeling of destiny at work?”

“Yes, it does,” he admitted. “But it will not alter the outcome. He has no magick. He is not a sorcerer. All his gifts stem from the talisman he wears. It can turn aside spells but cannot deflect a sword blade.”

“Your evil will not conquer,” she said.

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Evil? Why is it you humans always speak of evil as something that exists outside of yourselves? Do your cattle think of you as evil because you devour them? Do the fish of the ocean see you as evil? Such arrogance. You are no different from the cattle, and we are not evil for feeding upon you. You wish to hear my view of evil? The actions of Emsharas, banishing his people to a soulless hell, void of sound and smell, of taste and joy. I see our return as no more than simple justice.”

“I will not debate with you, demon,” she told him, yet she did not move away.

“Not ‘will not,’ woman. ‘Cannot!’ By what right do you deny us a chance at life under the moon and stars?”

“I do not deny you,” she said. “But by what right do you seek to kill a child?”

“Kill? Another interesting concept. Do you believe in the soul?”

“I do.”

“Then we kill nothing. All we do is end the mortal existence of humans. Their souls go on. And since their mortal
existence is fragile and short-lived anyway, what have we really taken from them?”

“Your kind are immortal. You can never know the value of what you so casually remove from others. Death is alien to you. Yes, I believe in the soul, but I do not know if it is immortal. All I know is the pain you cause to those who are left behind. The misery and the despair.”

He smiled again. “These things you speak of are our food source.”

“There is no point in this conversation,” she told him.

“Wait! Do not go yet!”

In that moment, as she looked into his eyes, Ulmenetha saw a moment of panic. Why did he want her to stay? Could it be she was reaching him in some indefinable way? She relaxed and prepared to talk on. Then, though he tried to hide it, she saw the triumph in his eyes. And she knew! She was the only one among the group who could use magick. His only purpose was to detain her.

Spinning away from him, she sped for her body.

It was too late. Three Krayakin burst from the bushes and charged into the camp.

Drasko stepped into the clearing, Mandrak to his left and Lekor to his right. Their swords were in their hands, and Drasko felt the long-forgotten surging of battle fever in his veins. The bald giant who had killed Nemor ran at him. Drasko spun and plunged his sword through the man’s ribs, then backhanded him across the face, hurling the giant to the ground.

On the far side of the fire a hawkeyed swordsman leapt to his feet. Drasko saw that he carried two storm swords. Beyond him a silver-haired man had rolled to his left, coming up with a bow and notching an arrow to the string. Opening his hand, Drasko tossed a small, black crystal globe across the clearing, then closed his eyes.

The explosion was deafening, and Drasko’s eyes, even through tightly closed lids, were hurt by the blinding light that followed. Opening his eyes, he saw that the swordsman
had been hurled across the clearing and was lying, stunned, beside a tall pine. The bowman was sprawled some distance from him. The queen had also been caught by the blast and was lying unconscious by the bushes, the babe beside her. A redheaded youngster came running from the trees, grabbing the hand of a skinny girl and dragging her away. Drasko had no interest in them.

He turned toward the queen. At that moment the blond-haired woman lying beside her lunged to her feet. The holy fire of
halignat
burst around his helm. He staggered back. The priestess advanced, holy fire blazing from her fingers. Instantly all was confusion. A fireball enveloped Mandrak, who fell back into the undergrowth. Then Lekor hurled a knife that spun through the air, slamming hilt first into the woman’s temple. She dropped to her knees, the fire extinguished. The stunned swordsman was stirring, and Drasko turned once more to where the queen lay unconscious.

Flipping open the visor of his helm, he looked for the baby. It was nowhere in sight. The shock was immense. The infant could not have vanished. He knew enough of humans to know that newborn babes could not crawl! He glanced around. The giant human had also gone, and where he had fallen there was now only a bright red stain of blood upon the grass.

“The bald one has the child,” he told the others. “Find him, kill him, and then return here.”

Lekor and Mandrak turned and ran back through the undergrowth, following a grisly trail of blood.

Drasko moved toward the swordsman. The man was on his knees now, sucking in great gulps of air.

“Gather your swords and face me,” said Drasko. “It is long since I killed a storm swordsman.”

“Then face me, demon,” came a voice from behind.

Drasko spun on his heel and saw the black warrior Nogusta standing by the campfire. He, too, held a storm sword. “Very well, old one,” said Drasko. “You shall be—as you humans say—the appetizer before the main course.”

Behind him Antikas Karios fell once more, then rolled to his side, his vision swimming.

Drasko leapt to meet Nogusta. The black man moved in, then swayed away from a wild cut. Their swords met, and lightning flared from the blades. The sound of clashing swords filled the clearing with savagely discordant music. As his vision cleared, Antikas Karios watched the warriors circle one another, their blades shimmering in the sunlight, lightning leaping up from every exchange. He knew what Nogusta was going through and, worse, knew the end result.

Drasko knew also that the old man was tiring. Always a careful fighter, he took no chances. The moment a swordsman went for the kill was also the most dangerous time. If such an attack was mistimed, a fatal riposte could follow. Therefore, Drasko fought on, making no attempt to end the contest, merely waiting for the tiring old man to leave an opening.

Nogusta leapt back, then stumbled, his fatigue obvious. From the ground Antikas watched him. A slow smile began as he recalled the fight with Cerez. Nogusta was trying the same tactic. It worked. Drasko suddenly leapt to the attack. Nogusta swayed away from the thrust, but not fast enough. The blade slammed home in his shoulder, smashing the bone and emerging at the back. Then his own storm sword swept across and down, striking Drasko’s sword arm at the elbow. The enchanted blade slid through armor, flesh, and bone, severing the limb in one strike. Drasko screamed in pain. The severed arm flopped to the ground, and the black man stood stock still facing his enemy, the sword jutting from his shoulder.

“Time,” said Nogusta, “to return whence you came.”

Drawing a dagger with his left hand, Drasko lunged. But the storm sword flashed in a glittering arc, beheading the warrior cleanly. As the body fell, Nogusta staggered, then fell to his knees beside it. Flipping his sword, he held it dagger fashion, plunging it into Drasko’s heart.

Antikas Karios came to his feet and stumbled to where Nogusta knelt. “Let me help you,” he said.

“No. Follow the trail. Bison has the babe.”

Antikas began to run through the trees. He had seen Bison
stabbed. The wound had been mortal. And Bison’s sword was still lying where it fell.

Unarmed and dying, he was the only hope now for the child.

Bison stumbled on, his body wracked by spasms of pain. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he ran. Sufia’s arms were around his neck, and she was crying. He could not remember picking her up. He did, however, remember picking up the baby and staggering into the wood. It was all so confusing. He glanced down. There was blood on the baby’s head. For a moment he was worried. Then he realized that the blood was his and that the child was unhurt. Relieved, he moved on. Why am I running? He thought suddenly. Why am I hurting? His shoulder struck a tree trunk, and he spun and almost fell. Regaining his balance, he pushed on.

The Krayakin had come. One of them had stabbed him, then struck him on the temple. He had never felt such a blow in his life.