Winter Warriors (27 page)

“I don’t understand,” said Conalin.

“You should ask Nogusta. He would explain it better.”

Ulmenetha turned toward them. “You don’t need it explained, Conalin,” she said softly. “When you rescued Pharis, it was that third instinct that came into play. And when you stood in that room in Kalizkan’s house and fought against the beast.”

“It is not the same. I love Pharis and Sufia. But I do not love the queen. I would not risk death to save her.”

“It is not about her,” said Kebra. “Not specifically, anyway. It is about many things: honor, self-worth, pride …” He lapsed into silence.

“Would you die for me?” Conalin asked suddenly.

“I’m hoping not to die for anyone,” said Kebra, embarrassed. Swiftly he rose and walked back to the camp.

“Yes, he would,” said Ulmenetha. “He is a good man.”

“I don’t want anyone dying for me,” the boy told her. “I don’t want it!”

8

N
OGUSTA AND
D
AGORIAN
were sitting by the fire, studying the maps Ulmenetha had supplied. Bison was stretched out alongside them, his head resting on his arm. “When are we going to eat?” he grumbled. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

“Soon,” promised Nogusta. He turned back to Dagorian and spread a second map on the ground beside the fire. The map was of etched leather, the hide stained white. Once there had been many colors, denoting woods, mountains, and lakes. But these were badly faded now, and some of the etching had worn away. Even so the scale was good, and both men could just make out the symbols showing the positions of forest roads and river crossings. “I would think we are close to here,” said Nogusta, indicating an etched spear on the top right-hand corner of the map. “The outer edge of the Forest of Lisaia. According to the map, there are three bridges. Two questions arise: Are they still there, and if they are, what effect will the spring floods have on them? I have seen bridges under water at this time of year in the mountains.”

“I’ll ride ahead and scout them tomorrow,” said Dagorian. The young man stared down at the map. “Once we reach the high country beyond, we will have to leave the wagon.”

Nogusta nodded. The only other route was to journey all the way to the ghost city of Lem and then take the coast road. This would add eighty miles to the journey. In the distance a wolf howled. The sound hung eerily in the air. Dagorian shivered.

Nogusta smiled. “Contrary to popular belief, wolves do not attack men,” he said.

“I know. But it chills the blood nonetheless.”

“I was bitten by a wolf once,” said Bison. “On the arse.”

“One can only pity the wolf,” said Nogusta.

Bison chuckled. “It was a she-wolf, and I got too close to her cubs, I guess. She chased me for half a mile. You remember? It was back at Corteswain. Kebra did the stitching. I had a fever for four days.”

“I remember,” said Nogusta. “We all drew lots, and Kebra lost. He says the sight haunts him to this day.”

“Left a nasty scar,” said Bison. Rolling to his knees, he dropped his leggings. “Look at that!” he said, pointing his buttocks toward Dagorian.

The officer laughed aloud. “You are quite right, Bison. That’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”

Bison hauled up his leggings and buckled his belt. He was grinning broadly. “I tell all the whores it’s a war wound from a Ventrian spear.” He swung toward Kebra. “Are we going to eat or starve to death?” he bawled.

Some way back, sitting with her back to a tree, Axiana accepted a cup of water from Pharis. The slim, dark-haired girl squatted down before the queen. “Are you feeling better now?” she asked.

“I am hungry,” said Axiana. “Fetch me something from the wagon. Some fruit.”

Pharis was delighted to obey. The order made her a servant of the queen, an honorable role, and she was determined to fulfill it well. She ran to the wagon and rummaged in the food sacks. Little Sufia was sitting there, unmoving, her eyes staring up at the sky.

“What are you looking at?” asked Pharis.

The little girl took a deep breath. “Fetch Nogusta,” she said, her voice cool and distant.

“He’s talking to the officer. I’d better not disturb him.”

“Fetch him now,” said Sufia.

Pharis looked hard at the little girl. “What is wrong?”

“Do it now, child, for time is short.”

Pharis felt gooseflesh on her arms and backed away. “Nogusta!” she called. “Come quickly!”

The black warrior ran across to the wagon, followed by Dagorian and Kebra. “What is it?” he asked. Pharis simply pointed to the small blond child. She was sitting cross-legged facing them, her face serene, her blue eyes bright.

“The wolves are coming,” said Sufia. “Draw your swords! Do it now!” Although the voice was that of the child, the words were spoken with great authority.

Suddenly the queen screamed.

A huge gray wolf padded from the trees, then another. And another.

One raced forward, straight at Bison, who was sitting beside the fire. The giant reared up and, as the gleaming fangs darted toward his throat, hammered a blow to the wolf’s face. The beast spun away, rolled, and attacked again. As it leapt, Bison grabbed it by the throat and hurled it at the pack. Nogusta grabbed Pharis and threw her onto the wagon, then drew his sword as a wolf leapt for him. The blade flashed in the moonlight, slashing through the beast’s neck. Kebra was hurled to the ground as another beast lunged at him. One of the horses screamed and went down. Dagorian lanced his blade through the chest of a huge gray male, then swung toward Axiana. She was sitting by the tree, and not one of the beasts approached her. Conalin and Ulmenetha had waded into the lake, and one of the beasts was swimming out toward them. Another wolf leapt. Dagorian jumped backward, the fangs snapping at his face. Thrusting up his sword, he plunged it into the wolf’s belly. On the ground beside him, his left hand gripping the fur of a wolf’s throat, Kebra plunged his dagger again and again into the side of the beast. The wolf slumped down over him.

On the back of the wagon Sufia stood and raised her arms over her head, bringing her hands slowly together. She was chanting as she did so. Blue fire formed around her fingers. Her right arm snapped forward, pointing to the lake. A ball of fire flew from her hand, exploding against the back of the
swimming wolf. It thrashed about, flames licking over its fur. Then it swam away.

Her left hand dropped, and the fire flew down into the earth beside the wagon, flaring up with a tremendous flash. The wolf pack scattered and ran back into the forest.

Dagorian felt a pain in his arm. He glanced down to see blood dripping from a bite to his left forearm. He could not recall being bitten. Bison walked over to where he stood. His left ear was sliced open, blood streaming to his thick neck.

Five wolves were dead in the campsite.

Kebra pushed the body of the dead wolf to one side and rose unsteadily. For a moment no one spoke. “Wolves don’t attack people, you said,” Bison pointed out to Nogusta. Lifting his hand to his blood-covered ear, he swore.

“They do if the Entukku inspire them,” said the voice of Sufia. Ulmenetha and Conalin waded ashore and approached the wagon. Pharis was sitting against the food sacks, her knees drawn up. She was staring fearfully at the child.

“Who are you?” asked Nogusta.

Sufia sat down, her little legs dangling over the tailboard. “I am a friend, Nogusta. Of that you can be sure. I helped Dagorian back in the city, when the demons were upon him. And I rescued Ulmenetha when she sat upon the palace roof and saw the monster. I am Kalizkan the Sorcerer.”

For a moment no one spoke. “You are the cause of this terror,” Nogusta said coldly.

“Indeed I am. But it was done unwittingly, and no one feels more grief than I. But time is too short to explain. I cannot stay in this child’s form for long, for it would damage her mind. So listen to me now. The enemy has sent a force against you the like of which you will never have seen. They are called the Krayakin. They are supreme warriors, but they are not immortal. Blades can cut them but not kill them. They fear only two things: wood and water.” The child turned to Kebra. “Your arrows can kill them if you pierce heart or head. The others of you must fashion weapons of wood, stakes, spears, whatever you can.”

“How many are there?” asked Nogusta.

“There are ten, and they will be upon you before you reach the river.”

“What more can you tell us?” asked Dagorian.

“Nothing now. The child must return. I will help you where I can. But death calls me, and the power of my spirit is fading. I cannot remain among the living for much longer. But trust me, my friends. I will return.”

Sufia blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Why is everyone staring at me?” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

“We were wondering if you were hungry, little one,” said Kebra. “What shall I cook for you?”

Bakilas, Lord of the Krayakin, reined in his mount. The five men lay sprawled in death, and the parallel lines of the wagon tracks could be seen disappearing into the forest. Bakilas dismounted and examined the ground around the dead men. Removing his black full-faced helm, he winced as sunlight speared against his skin. Swiftly he scanned the tracks. Replacing his helm, he moved to his horse and stepped into the saddle.

“The soldiers caught up with the wagon here and were met by a single rider. They spoke to him, and then there was a fight. At this point other men joined in, having ridden from the forest. The battle was brief. One of the soldiers fought a hand-to-hand duel and was killed cleanly.”

“How do you know they spoke first, Brother?” asked Pelicor, the youngest of the Krayakin. As well as the black armor and helm he was hooded against the sunlight.

Bakilas swung in the saddle. “One of the soldiers’ horses urinated on the grass. You can still see the stain. It was standing still at the time.”

“It is still conjecture,” muttered Pelicor.

“Then let us see,” said Bakilas. They rode their horses in a circle around the dead men, then Bakilas pointed to one of the corpses. “Rise!” he commanded. The body of Vellian twitched and slowly rose from the grass. The ten riders focused on it. The body spasmed, the air around it shimmering.

Images formed in the minds of the Krayakin: scenes drawn
from the decaying brain of the slain soldier. They saw, through the dead man’s eyes, the wagon and its occupants and watched as the young officer rode to meet them. The conversation they heard was fragmented, and they honed their concentration.

“Good morning. I am Vellian, sent … Karios … palace. The city … restore order.”

“An army … traitors.”

“Yes. Now … saber … scabbard and let … way.”

“I don’t think so … great danger … safer with me.”

There followed a sudden fracture in the image, and the Krayakin saw a brief intrusion of other memories, of a young woman running on the grass.

“The corruption has gone too far,” said Pelicor. “We cannot hold the line.”

“We can,” Bakilas said sternly. “Concentrate!”

Once more they saw the young officer facing the soldiers. The man Vellian was speaking.
“Do not be a fool, man. You may be as skilled as Antikas himself with that saber, but you cannot beat five of us. What is the point, then, of dying when the cause is already lost?”

“What is the point of living without a cause worth dying for?”
countered the officer.

The Krayakin sat silently as the scene played itself out, the young officer attacking, then being joined by a black rider and a silver-haired bowman. As Bakilas had already said, the battle was brief, and the Krayakin analyzed the skills of the victors.

The body slumped back to the grass. “The young man is fast and sure,” said Bakilas. “But the black man is a master. Speed, subtlety, and strength combined with cunning and ferocity. A worthy opponent.”

“Worthy?” snapped Pelicor. “He is human. There are no worthy opponents among them. Only sustenance. And he will supply little.”

“So angry, Brother? Are you not enjoying this return to the flesh?”