Winter Warriors (37 page)

Antikas cut several large sections of brush and used his horse to drag them to the bridge, wedging thick branches into the stone side supports and angling them to jut out over the rocks. At last satisfied, he carefully led his horse through the obstacles, tethering him at the far end of the bridge alongside Dagorian’s mount.

“That is all we can do,” he told the young officer. “Now we wait.” Dagorian nodded and moved away from the man to sit on the bridge wall. The mist was clearing now, and the sun shone clearly in a sky of pale blue.

“We should practice,” said Antikas.

“I need no practice,” snapped Dagorian.

Antikas Karios said nothing for a moment, then he stepped in close. “Your hatred means less than nothing to me, Drenai,” he said softly. “But your petulance is irritating.”

“You are a murderer and a traitor,” said Dagorian. “It should be enough that I am prepared to stand beside you. I don’t need to talk to you, and I certainly have no wish to engage in a meaningless training drill. I already know how to fight.”

“Is that so?” Antikas drew his sword. “Observe!” he ordered. Lifting a thick piece of wood, he held the black sword to it. The blade slid through the old wood like a hot knife through butter. “You and I,” Antikas said softly, “will be fighting alongside one another. One clumsy sweep, one careless move, and one of us could kill the other. How many times in close-order battle have comrades accidentally caused injury to one another?”

It was true, and Dagorian knew it. Pushing himself from the wall, he drew his own blade. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“Which side do you wish to defend, the left or the right?”

“The right.”

“Very well, take up your position and let us rehearse some
simple moves.” The two men walked out onto the bridge. “The enemy will be forced to advance on foot, clambering over the rocks and brush. We will wait for them and engage them here,” he said. “No matter what happens you must stay on my right. Do not cross over. Now, you are less skillful than I, so at no time try to move to my defense. If I move to yours, I will call out so that you know where I am.”

For a while they practiced moves, rehearsed signals, and discussed strategies. Then they broke off to eat from Dagorian’s ration of dried beef. They sat in silence on the rocks, each lost in his own thoughts.

“I have never fought a demon,” Dagorian said at last. “I find the thought unsettling.”

“It is just a name,” said Antikas. “Nothing more. They walk, they talk, they breathe. And we have the weapons to kill them.”

“You sound very sure.”

“And you are not?”

Dagorian sighed. “I do not want to die,” he admitted. “Does that sound cowardly?”

“No man
wants
to die,” responded Antikas. “But if thoughts of survival enter your mind during the fight, death will be certain. It is vital for a warrior to suspend imagination during a battle. What if I get stabbed, what if I am crippled, what if I die? These thoughts impair a warrior’s skills. The enemy will come. We will kill them. That is all you need to focus on.”

“Easier said than done,” Dagorian told him.

Antikas gave a thin smile. “Do not be frightened by death, Dagorian, for it comes to all men. For myself I would sooner die young and strong than become a toothless, senile old man talking of the wonders of my youth.”

“I do not agree. I would like to live to see my children and grandchildren grow. To know love and the joys of family.”

“Have you ever loved?” asked Antikas.

“No. I thought …” He hesitated. “I thought I loved Axiana, but it was a dream, an ideal. She looked so fragile, lost almost. But no, I have never loved. You?”

“No,” answered Antikas, the lie sticking in his throat, the memory of Kara burning in his mind.

“Do demons love, do you think?” Dagorian asked suddenly. “Do they wed and have children? I suppose they must.”

“I have never given it much thought,” admitted Antikas. “Kalizkan told me that Emsharas the Great Sorcerer fell in love with a human woman and she bore him children. He was a demon.”

“All I know of him is that he cast the great spell thousands of years ago.”

“Yes, and that I find curious,” said Antikas. “According to Kalizkan, he banished his entire race to a world of nothing, empty and void. Hundreds of thousands of souls ripped from the earth to float for eternity without form. Can there have ever been a crime worse than that?”

“You call it a crime? I don’t understand. Humanity was saved by the action.”

“Humanity, yes, but Emsharas was not human. Why, then, did he do it? Why not cast a spell that would banish
humanity
into a void and leave the earth for his own people? It makes no sense.”

“It must have made sense to him. Perhaps it was that his people were evil.”

“Come, now,” snapped Antikas, “that makes even less sense. If we are to judge his actions as good, then we must accept that he was not evil. Why, then, should he have been the only good demon in the world? What of the dryads who lived to protect the forest or the Krandyl who preserved the fields and meadows? These also are creatures of legend, spirit beings, demons.”

Dagorian suddenly laughed and shook his head.

“What is so amusing?” asked Antikas.

“You do not find it amusing that two men sitting on a bridge and waiting for death can debate the actions of a sorcerer who died thousands of years ago? It is the kind of conversation I would expect to have sitting in the library at Drenan.” His laughter faded away. “I don’t care why he did it. What does it matter now? To us?”

“Are you determined to be morbid all day?” countered Antikas. “If so, you will be a less than merry companion. You do not have to stay here, Dagorian. There are no chains.”

“Why do you stay?” asked the younger man.

“I like to sit on bridges,” Antikas told him. “It calms my soul.”

“Well, I am staying because I’m too frightened not to,” said Dagorian. “Can you understand that?”

“No,” admitted Antikas Karios.

“A few days ago I attacked five Ventrian lancers. I thought I was going to die. But my blood was up, and I charged them. Then Nogusta and Kebra came to my aid, and we won.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Antikas. “I saw you had Vellian’s horse. But what is the point of this tale?”

“The point?” said Dagorian, his face twisting in anguish. “The point is that the fear never went away. Every day it grows. There are demons pursuing us. Unbeatable and unholy. And where are we headed? To a ghost city with no hope of rescue. I could not take the fear anymore. So here I am. And look at me! Look at my hands!” Dagorian held out his hands, which were trembling uncontrollably. “So humor me, Antikas Karios. Tell me why you are here on this cursed bridge.”

Antikas leaned forward, his hand snaking out, the palm lashing against Dagorian’s cheek. The sound of the slap hung in the air. Dagorian surged to his feet, hand scrabbling for his sword. “Where is your fear now?” Antikas said softly. The softly spoken words cut through Dagorian’s fury, and he stood, hand on sword hilt, staring into the dark, cruel eyes of Antikas Karios. The Ventrian spoke again. “It is gone, is it not, your fear? Swamped by rage.”

“Yes, it is gone,” Dagorian said coldly. “What was your point?”

“You were right to stay here, Dagorian. A man would have to be a contortionist to both face his fear and flee from it.” Antikas stood and walked to the side of the bridge, leaning upon it and staring down into the water below. “Come and look,” he said.

The Drenai officer joined him. “What am I looking at?”

“Life,” answered Antikas. “It starts high in the mountains with the melting of the snow. Small streams bubbling together, merging, flowing down to join larger rivers, then out to the warm sea. There the sun shines upon the water, and it rises as vapor and floats back over the mountains, falling as rain or snow. It is a circle, an endless beautiful circle. Long after we are gone and the children of our grandchildren are gone, this river will still flow all the way to the sea. We are very small creatures, Dagorian, with very small dreams.” He turned to the young officer and smiled. “Look at your hands. They are no longer shaking.”

“They will—when the Krayakin come.”

“I don’t think so,” said Antikas.

His experience within the body form of Kalizkan had given the demon lord Anharat great insights into the workings of human mechanisms. Unable to halt the cancer spreading through the sorcerer’s body, Anharat had allowed all the mechanisms to fail, then used magick to maintain the illusion of life. Not so with this body form!

With Malikada slain and departed Anharat repaired the pierced heart and kept it pumping, the nutrients in the blood feeding the cells and keeping the form alive—after a fashion. The spell needed to be maintained at all times. If the magick ceased to flow, the body would decay immediately. This was not, however, a problem, for the spell was a small one. He had more difficulty with the autonomic responses such as breathing and blinking but after experimentation overcame them. Using Kalizkan’s corpse had been an effort, especially when corruption and decay had accelerated. More and more power had been needed to maintain a cloak spell over the disgusting form. Now, however, he merely needed to keep the blood flowing and air filling the lung sacs. There were also advantages to this new method. The senses of taste, touch, and smell were incredibly heightened.

Anharat sat now in his tent, sipping a goblet of fine wine, swilling it around his mouth and savoring the taste. Although
he preferred his own natural form, Anharat considered keeping this one for a few years in order to fully appreciate the pleasures of human flesh. They were so much more exquisite than he could have imagined. Perhaps it was because the humans were so short-lived, he thought, a gift of nature to creatures who were in existence for a few brief heartbeats. Emsharas had discovered these pleasures, and now Anharat understood them. No wonder his brother had spent so much time with the black woman.

Outside the tent he could hear the sounds of the army settling down for night camp, the rattling of pans and dishes as the men lined up for food, the smell of woodsmoke from the fires, and the laughter of soldiers listening to tall tales.

He had dispensed with his undead guards. Their blank, uncomprehending stares had unnerved the officers. Equally he had withdrawn the Entukku from the city, allowing the terrified populace to return to a semblance of normality before the army marched. Thousands had died in the riots, and none of the surviving humans had the least notion of what had caused their own murderous rages. Curiously, the Entukku, who normally thrived on terror and pain, had gorged themselves equally on the waves of remorse that had billowed forth. These humans were a constant source of all kinds of nourishment.

Anharat could hardly wait to experiment further on them.

A faint glow shone on the walls of the tent behind him. His skin prickled, and he swung toward the light, his hands opening, the first words of an incantation upon his lips. A pale figure was forming. Anharat saw that it was merely an image, for the legs of the figure were merging with the iron brazier, which was filled with hot coals. He relaxed, his curiosity aroused. Had Kalizkan returned?

Then the light began to fade, and the features of a man appeared. Anharat’s rage grew, and he began to tremble. His face twisted, and he stepped forward, aching to rip his talons through the heart of the figure. The newcomer was dressed in robes of white. His skin was black, his eyes pale blue. Upon
his brow he wore a circlet of gold. “Greetings, my brother,” he said.

Anharat was almost too angry to speak, but he fought for control. If he could hold the image here for a while, he could concoct a search spell that would follow it back to its source. “Where have you been hiding, Emsharas?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” answered the figure.

“You lie, Brother. For I was sentenced to exist in the hell of nowhere with all the creatures of the Illohir. And you were not there. Nor were you among the humans, for I have searched for you these last four thousand years.”

“I did not hide, Anharat,” the figure said softly. “Nor was it—nor is it—my intention for our people to exist in a void forever.”

“I care nothing for your intentions, traitor. Did you know that I have destroyed your descendants?”

“Not all of them. One remains.”

“I will see him dead, and I will have the babe. Then your evil will be undone. The people of the Illohir will walk free upon the earth.”

“Aye, they will,” said Emsharas. “But they will not be able to drink the water or the wine, nor will they laze under the sun.”

Anharat’s mind was working furiously, and the search spell was almost complete. “So, Brother, will you not tell me where you have been all these centuries? Have you been enjoying life as a human? Have you tasted fine wines and bedded great beauties?”

“I have done none of these things, Anharat. Where do you think I found the power for the great spell?”

“I neither know nor care,” lied Anharat.

“Oh, you care, Brother, for you know that you and I were almost equally matched, and yet I discovered a source of power hitherto unknown. You could use it, too. I will willingly tell it to you—if you will help me complete my work.”

“Complete … ? What new horror do you have in mind for the Illohir, Brother? Perhaps we could create chains of fire to torture our people down the ages.”

“I offer them a world where they can lie in the sun and swim in the rivers and lakes. A world of their own.”

“Really? How kind you are, Emsharas. Perhaps, though, you would explain why they are not already there. And why we have waited so long for this little discussion.”

“I did not have the power to complete the spell. I needed you, Anharat.”

Anharat’s finger jabbed out, and the completed search spell flowed around Emsharas, bathing him in a blue light. “Now I will find you,” hissed Anharat. “I will find you, and I will destroy you. I swear it! But first I will kill the third king and complete the prophecy.”

Emsharas smiled.
“My
prophecy,” he said. “I left it for you, Brother. And it is a true one. Upon the death of the third king the Illohir will rise again. We will speak soon.”