Winter Warriors (28 page)

“Not yet,” said Pelicor. “Where are my armies? Where is the glory to be found here on this miserable mountain?”

“There is none,” admitted Bakilas. “The days of ice and fire are long gone. But they will return. The volcanoes will spew their ash into the sky, and the ice will return. It will be as it was. But first we must bring the mother and babe to Anharat. Be patient, Brother.”

Bakilas touched spurs to his horse and rode for the forest.

The sunlight was less harsh in the shelter of the trees, and Bakilas once more removed his helm, his white hair flowing free in the slight breeze, his gray eyes scanning the trail. Pelicor was not alone in lusting after the days of ice and fire. He, too, longed for them. Marching with the armies of the Illohir, scattering the humans, feasting on their terror, and sucking their souls from their skulls. Heady days!

Until Emsharas had betrayed them.

It remained a source of pain that would never ease. Yet even with Emsharas’ treachery the Battle of the Four Valleys could have been won, should have been won. The Krayakin had led the countercharge and had smashed the enemy right. Bakilas himself had almost reached the battle standard of the human king, Darlic. Above the battle Anharat and Emsharas had fought on the field of spirit, and just as Bakilas had breached the spear wall around Darlic, Anharat had fallen. The dark cloud of ash shielding the Illohir from the harsh, deadly light of the sun had been ripped apart. Illohir bodies withered in their tens of thousands until only the Krayakin remained. Ten thousand of the greatest warriors ever to stride the earth. The humans had turned on them with renewed ferocity, and their storm swords—enchanted by the traitor Emsharas—had ripped into Krayakin flesh. By the end of the day only two hundred Krayakin remained in the flesh to flee the field. The rest were Windborn once more.

The days of Illohir dominance on earth were over.

In the weeks that followed the Krayakin were harried and tracked down until only ten survivors remained.

Then Emsharas had evoked the great spell, and all the remaining creatures of the Illohir, demons and sprites, wood nymphs, trolls, and warriors, were cast into the gray hell of nowhere. Existing without substance, immortal without form,
the Illohir floated in a soulless sea. Only memory survived, memories of conquest and glory, of the sweet wine of terror and the sustenance it supplied.

Nothing in all of existence could surpass the joys the Krayakin had known. Bakilas himself had once adopted human form and had partaken of all the pleasures known to man: food and drink, drugs and debauchery. All were pitiful compared to the tasting of souls. A faint memory stirred, and he remembered Darela. What he had felt for her was frightening. They had touched hands, then lips. Unused to human frailty, Bakilas had been drawn into a relationship with the woman that had left his senses reeling. With the last of his strength he had returned to the caverns of the Illohir and resumed his Krayakin form. Then he had journeyed back to the village and drunk Darela’s soul. He had thought that would end her spell over him.

But he had been wrong. The memory of their days together came back again and again to haunt him.

The Krayakin rode in silence for several hours. The smell of death was strong upon the wind as they rode down a short slope and emerged by the shores of a glittering lake. Keeping to the shadows of the trees, Bakilas took in the campsite. There were five dead wolves on the ground and a sixth body by the waterline. Bakilas dismounted and lifted his hood into place. Then he walked out into the sunshine. Pain prickled his skin, but he ignored it. At the center of the camp the grass was singed in a circle around five feet in diameter. Removing his black gauntlet, he reached out and touched the earth. His hand jerked back. Pulling on his gauntlet, he returned to the shadows.

“Magick,” he said. “Someone used magick here.”

Tethering their mounts, the Krayakin sat in a circle. “Anharat did not speak of magick,” said Mandrak, at just under six feet tall, the smallest of the warriors. “He spoke only of three old men.”

“How strong was it?” asked Drasko, next to Bakilas the eldest of the group.

“By the power of four,” he answered. “The wolves must
have been possessed by the Entukku, and the wizard used the light of
halignat
. Only a master could summon such power.”

“Why should the wolves have been possessed?” asked Pelicor.

Bakilas felt his irritation rise. “Study was never a strength of yours, Brother. Had they been merely wolves, then any bright flash of light would have dispersed them.
Halignat—
the holy light—is used only against the Illohir. It would have hurled the Entukku back to the city—and perhaps beyond. Those closest to the flash might even have died.”

“If there is such a wizard,” said Drasko, “why did we not sense his presence before now?”

“I do not know. Perhaps he is using a mask spell unknown to us. Whatever, we must proceed with more caution.”

“Caution is for cowards,” said Pelicor. “I have no fear of this wizard, whoever he may be. His spells may vanquish the Entukku, but they are little more than mind maggots. What spells can he hurl against the Krayakin?”

“We do not know,” said Bakilas, struggling to remain patient. “That is the point.”

Bakilas strode to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Mandrak rode beside him as they set out after the wagon. “He has always been impatient,” said Mandrak.

“It is not his impatience that offends me—but his stupidity. And he is a glutton. I have always abhorred that trait.”

“His hunger is legendary,” admitted Mandrak.

Bakilas did not reply. They had reached the end of the tree line, and the bright sun scorched his face. Putting on his helm, he pulled up his hood and spurred his mount onward. The brightness hurt his eyes, and he longed for the onset of night, the freshness of the breeze, the dark, cold beauty of the star-filled sky.

Their mounts were tired as they reached the base of a tall hill. Bakilas examined the trail. The fugitives had stopped there to change the horses, and the occupants of the wagon had walked up the hill. Two women and a child. He rode on. One of the women had picked up the child and carried it. A heavy woman whose imprints were deeper than the rest.

Spurring his mount up the hill, he rode over the crest and saw the tracks wending away into another wood. He was grateful for the promise of shadow.

Did they know they were being followed? Of course they did. No one could hope to spirit away a queen without pursuit. Did they know they were being followed by the Krayakin? Why should they not, since a wizard was among them? Bakilas thought hard about the wizard. Drasko’s point had been a good one. Why could they not sense the presence of his magick? The air should be thick with it. Closing his eyes, Bakilas reached out with his senses.

Nothing. Not a trace of sorcery could be detected. Even a mask spell would leave a residual taste in the air. It was worrying. Anharat had always been arrogant. It was his arrogance that had led to the defeat of the Illohir at the Battle of the Four Valleys. What had he said? How far had the enemy fallen that he could rely on only three old men? It could be viewed quite differently. How mighty was the enemy that all he
needed
was three old men? He thought of the black warrior. Such a man was not built for retreat. Somewhere along this trail he would seek to attack his pursuers. It was the nature of the man.

They approached the trees with caution, swords drawn, then entered the wood.

There was no attack. For another hour they followed the wagon tracks. They were fresher now, the edges of the wheel imprints clean and sharp.

Bakilas drew back on the reins. The wagon tracks turned off from the road and vanished into the trees. There was thick undergrowth beyond the tree line, and the wagon had crushed bushes and saplings beneath it. Why would they take such a difficult trail? Bakilas removed his helm and sniffed the air.

Mandrak moved alongside his leader. “Can you smell it?” he asked. Bakilas nodded. Humans could never surprise the Krayakin, for human glands secreted many scents, oozing from their pores in the disgusting sweat that bathed them. Of all of the brothers Mandrak’s sense of smell was the most keen. Bakilas drew rein and scanned the tree line and the
bushes beyond, careful not to let his gaze dwell on two of the hiding places he had identified.

“Three men are hidden there,” said Mandrak.

“I have identified two,” whispered Bakilas.

“One is behind the large oak overhanging the rise; another is crouched behind a bush just below it. The other one is farther back. Yes … with the horses.”

“Why are we stopping?” asked Pelicor.

“Remove your helmet and you will know,” Bakilas told him, his voice low.

Pelicor did so. Like his brothers, his hair was white, but his face was broad and flat, the eyes small and set close together. His nostrils flared, and he smiled. “Let me take them, Brother. I am hungry.”

“It might be wiser to circle them,” offered Mandrak. “Cut off their means of escape.”

“There are three of them!” snapped Pelicor. “Not thirty. How can they escape us? Come, let us put an end to this dismal mission.”

“You wish to take them alone, Pelicor?” asked Bakilas.

“I do.”

“Then by all means charge. We will await your victory.”

Pelicor replaced his helm, drew his longsword, and slashed his spurs into the horse’s flanks. The beast reared and then galloped into the trees. Just beyond the trail the black warrior stepped from behind a tree. Pelicor saw him and dragged on the reins. The warrior was holding a slim knife by the blade.

“You think to hurt me with that?” yelled Pelicor, spurring the horse once more.

The warrior’s arm came back, and the knife flashed forward, missing the charging rider. The blade slammed into a small wedge of wood beside the trail, slicing through a length of stretched twine. A young tree, bent like a bow, snapped upright. Three pointed stakes lashed to it slammed into Pelicor’s chest, smashing through his black armor, breaking his ribs and spearing his lungs. The horse ran on. The body of the Krayakin warrior hung in the air, twitching.

Bakilas heard a whisper of movement. Flinging up his
arm, he took the arrow through his gauntleted hand. The arrowhead sliced through the limb and buried itself in the pale flesh of his face, cutting his tongue. The wood of the shaft burned like acid. At first he tried to pull the arrow loose from his cheek, but the barbs caught against the inner flesh. With a grunt he pushed the shaft through his other cheek, snapped off the head, then drew the arrow clear of his face and hand. The wounds began to heal instantly. But where the wood had touched him the soreness continued for some time.

“They have run,” said Mandrak. “Do we give chase?”

“Not through the woods. There will be other traps. We will catch them upon the road … very soon.”

Bakilas rode to where Pelicor hung from the stake. His eyes were open, his body in spasm.

“Help me,” he whimpered.

“Your body is dying, Pelicor,” Bakilas said coldly. “And soon you will be Windborn again. We can taste your fear. It is most exquisite. Drasko, Mandrak, and myself fed only recently. Therefore, our brothers shall draw sustenance from what remains of your form.”

“No … I … can … heal.”

Bakilas shivered with pleasure at the increase in fear emanating from the impaled warrior. Like the others Pelicor had endured thousands of years in the torment that was nowhere. The thought of returning to it filled him with horror. “Who would have thought you could be capable of such intense terror, Pelicor? It is almost artistic,” said Bakilas.

Bakilas drew back, and the remaining six Krayakin moved in with daggers drawn.

Dagorian moved out onto the old bridge, testing each step. The ancient boards beneath his feet were ten feet long, eighteen inches wide, and two inches thick. They creaked ominously as he moved out upon them. Less than twelve feet wide, the bridge spanned just over one hundred feet. Below it the swollen river rushed on down the mountains, white water surging over massive rocks and sweeping on to a rumbling
fall some two miles downriver. If he fell through, he would be swept to his death. No man could swim in such a torrent.

The boards were nailed to huge cross-beams set every nine feet, and gaping cracks showed between them. Dagorian was sweating heavily as he moved out over the river. Since the attack by the wolves his fears had been growing, preying on his mind. Doubt had crept in, and with it a fierce longing to live. To be free of his duty. Only his sense of honor held him to this doomed quest, and even this was fraying. You should have stayed in the temple, he thought, as he moved carefully out over the rotting boards. Nogusta had ordered him to get the wagon across, if possible. He glanced back to where the others waited. They were all looking at him, including the queen. Carefully he moved on to the safety of the far bank.

There was still no way to be sure the bridge would take the weight of the wagon.

Moving swiftly back to where the others waited, he instructed them to walk with care, keeping to the stone-reinforced rail. Ulmenetha took Axiana by the arm and led her out onto the bridge. Pharis followed with Sufia. Conalin remained with the wagon.

“Get across, boy,” ordered Dagorian.

“I can drive it,” insisted Conalin.

“I don’t doubt your skill. I just don’t want to see you die.” The boy was about to argue, but Dagorian shook his head. “I know you have courage, Conalin, and I respect it. But if you want to help me, then lead the spare horses across. I will follow when you are safe on the far bank.”

Conalin climbed down and moved to the rear of the wagon. Dagorian took his place, gathered up the reins, and waited. The boy moved out past him. “Talk to them as you walk,” advised Dagorian, “for the rushing water will frighten them.”

The boy was halfway across when one of the boards suddenly moved. A horse reared, but Conalin stepped in close, whispering to it, stroking its long neck. Dagorian looked on admiringly. Conalin continued on his way. Upon reaching the far side, he turned and waved. Dagorian flicked the reins, and the team moved out onto the bridge. The horses were nervous,
and, keeping his voice low and even, Dagorian encouraged them. Underneath the wagon the boards groaned. One split but did not give way. Dagorian was sweating as they reached the center of the bridge. The rushing of the water below sounded thunderous now. One of the horses slipped but righted itself.