'No,' he said, aloud. 'I am . . .' For a moment there was panic. Who am I? Scores of names surged through his mind, shouted by the voices within. He fought for calm. 'I am . . . Antikas Karios. I am ANTIKAS KARIOS!' Over and over, like a mantra, he said his name. The voices shrieked louder still, but with less power, until they receded into dim, distant echoes.
Antikas pushed himself to his feet and ran on. The shrieking of human voices could be heard now, some distance to his left. Then to his right. Then ahead.
Unable to possess him the demons were gathering their human forces to cut him off.
Antikas paused and looked around. To his left was a high wall, and, close by, a wrought-iron gate. He ran to it, and climbed the gate, stepping out onto the wall some 15 feet above the ground. Nimbly he moved along it, to where it joined the side of a house. There was an ivy covered trellis here and Antikas began to climb. Below him a mob gathered, shouting curses. A hurled hammer crashed against the wall by his head. He climbed on. A piece of rotten wood gave way beneath his foot, but he clung on, drawing himself towards the flat roof. He heard the creaking of the iron gate below, and glanced back. Several of the mob were climbing the wall.
Easing himself onto the roof Antikas gazed around in the moonlight. There was a door to the building. Moving swiftly to it he forced it open. As he entered the stairwell
beyond he heard the sound of boots upon the stairs. With a soft curse he backed out onto the roof, and ran to the edge of the building.
Some 60 feet below was a narrow alleyway. He glanced at the roof opposite, gauging the distance. Ten feet at least. On the flat he could make the jump with ease, but there was a low wall around the rooftop.
Pacing his steps he moved back to the door then turned and ran at the wall. He leapt, his left foot striking the top and propelling him out over the alleyway. For one terrifying moment he thought he had misjudged his leap. But then he landed and rolled on the opposite rooftop. The hilt of his sabre dug into his side, tearing the skin. Antikas swore again. Rising he drew the blade. The golden fist guard was dented, but the weapon was still usable.
The door on the second roof burst open and three men ran out. Antikas spun towards them, the sabre slicing through the throat of the first. His foot lashed out into the knee of the second, spinning the man from his feet. The third died from a sabre thrust to the heart. Antikas ran to the doorway and listened. There was no sound upon the stairs, and he moved down into the dark, emerging into a narrow corridor. There were no lanterns lit, and the swordsman moved forward blindly, feeling his way. He stumbled upon a second stair and descended to the first level. Here there was a window with the curtains drawn back, and faint moonlight illuminated a gallery. Opening the window he clambered out, and dropped the 10 feet to the garden below.
Here there was a lower wall, no more than 8 feet high. Sheathing his sabre he leapt, curling his fingers over the stone and hauling himself to the top. The street beyond was empty.
2.16
Antikas silently lowered himself to the cobbles and ran on.
Emerging onto the Avenue of Kings he raced across the street towards the palace. The mob erupted from alleyways all around him, shrieking and baying. Ducking he sprinted for the gates. The two sentries stood stock still as he approached, showing no sign of alarm. Antikas reached them just ahead of the mob, and realized he could go no further. Angry now he spun to face them.
But they had halted just outside the gates and were now standing silently, staring at him.
The sentries still had not moved, and Antikas stood, breathing heavily, his sabre all but forgotten.
Silently the mob dispersed, moving back into the shadows on the opposite side of the Avenue.
Antikas approached the first of the sentries. 'Why did they not attack?' he asked.
The man's head turned slowly towards him. The eyes were misted in death, the jaw hanging slack. Antikas backed away.
Reaching the stable he moved to the stall where he had left his horse. The beast was on its knees. He noticed someone had changed the blanket with which he had covered the beast. His had been grey, this was black. Opening the stall door he stepped inside.
The black blanket writhed, and scores of bats fluttered up around him, their wings beating about his face.
Then they were gone, up into the rafters.
And the horse was dead.
Angry now Antikas drew his sword and headed for the palace. The priest had said he could not kill the Demon Lord, but, by all the gods in Heaven, he would try. The rock grew warm against his skin, and a soft voice whispered into his mind.
2-17
'Do not throw away your life, my boy!'
Antikas paused. 'Who are you?' he whispered.
'You cannot kill him. Trust me. The babe is everything. You must protect the babe.'
'I am trapped here. If I leave the palace the mob will hunt me down.'
7 will guide you, Antikas. There are horses outside the city.'
Who are you?' he repeated.
7 am Kalizkan, Antikas. And all this pain and horror is of my making.'
'That is hardly a recommendation for trust.'
7 know. I am hoping that the power of truth will convince you.'
'My choices appear limited,' said Antikas. 'Lead on, wizard!'
High in the palace the Demon Lord raised his arms. Over the city the Entukku, in ecstasy and bloated with feeding, floated aimlessly above the buildings. The Demon Lord's power swept over them, draining their energies. They began to wail and shriek, their hunger increasing once more.
Stepping back from the window the Demon Lord began to chant. The air before him shimmered. Slowly he spoke the seven words of power. Blue light lanced from floor to ceiling, and a pungent odour filled the room. Where a moment before had been a wall, decorated with a brightly coloured mural, there was now a cave entrance, and a long tunnel.
Faint figures of light moved in the tunnel, floating towards him. As they came closer the Demon Lord held out his hands. Black smoke oozed from his fingers and drifted down the tunnel. The light figures
zi8
hovered and the smoke rose up around them. The lights faded, but the smoke hardened, taking shape.
Ten tall men emerged, wearing dark armour and full-faced helms. One by one they strode into the room. The Demon Lord spoke a single harsh word and the tunnel disappeared.
'Welcome to the world of flesh, my brothers,' said the Demon Lord.
'It is good to feel hunger again,' said the first of the warriors, removing his helm. His hair was ghost white, his eyes grey and cold. His face was broad, the lipless mouth wide.
'Then feed,' said the Demon Lord, raising his hands. This time a red mist flowed from his hands, and floated across the room. The warrior opened his mouth, displaying long, curved fangs. The red mist streamed into his open mouth. The others removed their helms and moved in close. One by one they absorbed the mist. As they did so their bone-white faces changed, the skin blushing red. Their eyes glittered, the grey deepening to blue and then, slowly, to crimson.
'Enough, my brother,' said the first warrior. 'After so long the taste is too exquisite.' Moving to a couch he sank down, stretching out his long, black-clad limbs.
The Demon Lord's arms dropped to his side. 'The long wait is almost over,' he said. 'Our time has come again.' The others seated themselves and remained silent.
'What is it you require of us, Anharat?'
'In the mountains to the south there is a woman. She carries the child of Skanda. It will be born soon. You must bring it to me. The Spell of Three must be completed before the Blood Moon.'
'She is guarded well?'
219
'There are eight humans with her, but only four warriors, and three of these are old men.'
'With respect, brother, such a mission is demeaning. We are all Battle Lords here. The blood of thousands has stained our blades. We have feasted on the souls of princes.'
'It was not my intention,' said t
he Demon Lord, 'to offer insult to the Krayakin. But if we do not take the babe then all will be lost for another four thousand years. Would you rather I entrusted this task to the Entukku?'
'You are wise, Anharat, and I spoke hastily. It will be as you order,' said the warrior. Raising his hand he made a fist. 'It is good to feel the solidity of flesh once more, to breathe in air, and to feed. It is good.' His blood-filled eyes gazed on the body of Malikada. 'How long before you can let fall this decaying form? It is ugly to the eye.'
'Once the sacrifice is complete,' Anharat told him. 'For now I need this obscenity around me.'
A shimmering began in the air around Anharat, and the hissing of many voices. Then it faded.
'These humans are so perverse,' said Anharat. 'I ordered one of my officers to rest in his room. Now he is fleeing the city in a bid to save the queen and her child. It seems he went to a tavern and a priest' spoke to him.'
'He understands magick, this officer?' asked the warrior.
'I do not believe so.'
'Then why have the Entukku failed to seize him?'
'There are spells around the tavern, ancient spells. It is not important. He will afford you some pleasure, for he is the foremost swordsman in the land. His name is Antikas Karios, and he has never lost a duel.'
2.2.0
'I shall kill him slowly,' said the warrior. 'The taste of his terror will be exquisite.'
'There is one other of the group to be considered. His name is Nogusta. He is the last of the line of Emsharas the Sorcerer.'
The warrior's eyes narrowed, and the others tensed at the sound of the name. 'I would give up eternity,' said the warrior, 'for the chance to find the soul of Emsharas the Traitor. I would make it suffer for a thousand years, and that would not be punishment enough. How is it that one of his line still lives?'
'He carries the Last Talisman. Some years ago one of my disciples inspired a mob to destroy him and his family. It was a fine night, with great terror. Pleasing to the eye. But he was not there. Many times I have tried to engineer his death. The Talisman saves him. That is why he must be considered with care.'
'He is one of the old ones guarding the woman?'
'Yes.'
'I do not like the sound of it, Anharat. It is not a coincidence.'
'I do not doubt that, at all,' said Anharat. 'But does it not show how far the enemy has fallen in power that his only defence is a group of old men? All but one of his priests here are slain, his temples deserted, his forces routed. He has become to this world a pitiful irrelevance. Which is why it will pass to us before the Blood Moon.'
'Is this tavern far?' asked the warrior.
'No.'
The warrior rose and put on his helm. 'Then I shall go and feast myself upon the heart of this priest,' he said.
'The spells are strong,' warned Anharat.
The warrior laughed. 'Spells that would drain the
221
Entukku are as wasp stings to the Krayakin. How many other humans are there?'
'Only two.'
The warrior gestured and two of his fellows stood. 'The milk of the Entukku was good, but flesh tastes sweeter,' he said.
The wagon lurched as one of the rear wheels hit a sunken rock. The weary horses sagged against their traces. Conalin tried to back up the team, but the horses stood their ground. Bison swore loudly and dismounted. Moving to the rear of the wagon he grabbed two spokes of the wheel. 'Give them a touch of the whip,' he ordered. Conalin cracked it above the horses' backs. They surged forward. At the same time Bison threw his weight against the wheel and the wagon bumped over the rock. The giant fell sprawling to the trail, the wheel narrowly missing his arm.
The women in the wagon - save Axiana - laughed as he rose, mud on his face. 'It's not funny!' he roared.
'It is from where I'm sitting,' said Ulmenetha. Bison swore again and trudged back to where Kebra was holding the reins of his mount.
'This trail is too narrow,' he said, heaving himself into the saddle. 'I don't think we've made more than twelve miles today. And already the horses are exhausted.'
'Nogusta says we'll change the team again when we reach the flatlands.'
Bison was not mollified. He glanced back to the spare mounts they had taken from the dead lancers. 'They are cavalry mounts. They're not bred to pull wagons and they tire easily. Look at them! They were ridden hard even before we took them, and they are exhausted also.'
It was true, and Kebra knew it. The horses were all
2.2.2
weary. Somewhere soon they would have to rest them. 'Let's move on,' he said.
The wagon finally crested a high hill and emerged from the forest. Far off to the south they could see the glittering ribbon of the River Mendea, and beyond it soaring mountain peaks, snow crested and crowned by clouds. 'We'll not make the river by dark,' said Kebra.
'I could carry the cursed wagon faster than these horses can pull it,' said Bison.
'You are in a foul mood today,' observed Kebra.
'It's this damned horse. Every time I go up, he goes down. He goes up, I come down. He's treating my arse like a drum.' Another squeal of laughter came from the wagon, this time from little Sufia, who repeated the phrase in a sing-song voice.
'His arse is a drum! His arse is a drum!'
Ulmenetha scolded her, gently, but was unable to keep the smile from her face.
Til ride your horse if you drive the wagon,' said Conalin.
'Done!' said Bison, happily. 'Heaven knows I'm no rider.'
Dagorian came riding up the trail. 'About a mile further the road widens,' he said. 'There is even a paved area. It is overgrown now, but it will help us earn back a few miles.'
Bison climbed to his place at the driving seat and sat upon a folded blanket. 'Ah, but that is good,' he murmured, settling himself down and taking up the reins. Kebra saw the boy was having difficulty reaching the stirrup of Bison's mount and edged closer, holding out his hand. Conalin spurned it and clumsily hauled himself up. Kebra dismounted and adjusted the stirrups.
'Have you ever ridden, lad?' he asked.
, 2.2.3
'No, but I am a fast learner.'
'Grip with your thighs, not your calves. And trust the horse. He knows what he's doing. Come, I'll give you a lesson.' Swinging into the saddle he moved out over the rise and slowly rode down to the flat land below. Glancing back he saw Conalin holding the reins at chest level as the horse picked its way down the slope. At the base of the hill Kebra drew alongside Conalin, showing him the basics of guiding the mount.
'We'll try a trot,' he said. 'You must get in rhythm with the horse. Otherwise you'll end up like Bison, and it will play a tattoo on your buttocks. Let's go!'
Kebra's mount moved smoothly into a trot. Behind him Conalin was being bounced around in the saddle. His horse slowed. 'Don't haul on the reins, lad. That's his signal to stop.'
'I'm no good at this,' said the red-head, his face flushing. 'I'll go back to the wagon.'
'Nothing good ever comes easy, Conalin. And I think you are doing fine. A born horseman.'
'Truly?'
'You just need to get used to the horse. Let's try again.'
As the wagon trundled down the slope the two riders set off once more. For a while Conalin felt his spine was being bruised, but then, suddenly and without warning, he found the rhythm and the ride became a delight. The sun broke through the clouds, and the tightness in his stomach faded away. He had lived his life in the squalor of the city, and had never before seen the glory of the mountains. Now he rode a fine horse, and the breeze was fresh against his skin. He found in that moment a joy he had never known. He gave Kebra a wide grin. The bowman smiled and rode in silence beside him. At the tree line they swung their mounts.
2.14
'Now for a little canter,' said Kebra. 'Not too much, for the horses are tired.'
If trotting had been a joy, the ride back to the wagons was a delight Conalin would treasure all his life. The
rags he wore were forgotten, as were the sores on his back. Today was a gift no-one could take away from him.
'You ride so well — like a knight!' Pharis told him as he drew alongside the wagon.
'It's wonderful,' he told her. 'It's like . . . it's like . . .' He laughed happily. 'I don't know what it's like. But it's wonderful!'
'You won't be saying that by this evening,' warned Bison.
Dagorian rode with them for the next hour, then headed off towards the south to find a place to camp.
As the sun began to slide towards the western mountains Nogusta came galloping up from the rear. 'There is no sign of pursuit yet,' he told Kebra. 'But they are coming.'
'We won't reach the river by tonight. The horses are tired,' said the bowman.
'As am I,' admitted Nogusta.
They rode on, and as dusk deepened they came across Dagorian, camped beside a small lake. He had lit a fire and the weary travellers climbed down from the wagon to sit beside it. Kebra and Conalin unsaddled the horses, wiping their backs with dried grass. Kebra showed the boy how to hobble the mounts, then they left them to graze and unhitched the wagon team. Conalin was moving stiffly and Kebra grinned at him. 'The muscles on the inside of your thighs have been stretched,' he said. 'You'll get used to it. Did you enjoy the ride?'
'It was all right,' said Conalin, nonchalantly.
2.2,5
'How old are you, lad?'
The boy shrugged. 'I don't know. What does it matter?'
'At your age I don't think it does. I am fifty-six. That matters.'
'Why?'
'Because my dreams are all behind me. Do you swim?'
'No. And I don't want to learn.'
'It is almost as fine a feeling as riding a horse. But it is up to you.' Kebra strolled away to the lake side and stripped off his clothing. The water was cold as he waded out. Then he dived forward and began to swim with long easy strokes. Conalin wandered to the water side and watched him in the fading light. After a while Kebra swam back and climbed out of the water. He shivered and dried himself with his tunic, which he then stretched out on a rock. Pulling on his leggings he sat down beside the boy.
Gemmell, David - Drenai 08 - Winter Warriors (v1.0) Page 19