'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 finger nails,' 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 upon the cold ground she released her spirit and flew high above the trees. The fierce winds were merely a sound here, and
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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-armoured riders. She moved north, back over the canyon and along the Great River. The army of Ventria was marching here, 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 camp-site.
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 her, 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
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sanctuary. And what is behind you? An army who will reach the city by dusk tomorrow. Where then will you run?'
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 to the cattle, and we are not evil for feeding upon you. You
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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, and 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.
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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, 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 hawk-eyed 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 which 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 red-headed 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 towards 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
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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 towards 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 S
wordsman.'
'Then face me, demon,' came a voice from behind.
Drasko spun on his heel and saw the black warrior, Nogusta standing by the camp-fire. 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
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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, he 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 mis-timed 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 armour, 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 from 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.
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'No. Follow the trail. Bison has the babe.'
Antikas began to run through the trees. He had seen
Bison stabbed. The wound was 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 couldn't 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.
The ground was sloping upwards now. He struggled to the top of a rise and stood, breathing heavily. Then he began to cough. He could feel warm liquid in his throat, choking him. He spewed it out, then gasped for air. Sufia pulled back in his arms and stared at him, her blue eyes wide and fearful. 'Your mouth is bleeding,' she cried.
He couldn't remember being hit in the mouth. He coughed again. Blood dribbled to his chin. Dizziness swamped him. 'They're coming!' shouted the child. Bison swung round.
Two Krayakin in black armour were walking purposefully towards him, black swords in their hands. Holding
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firmly to the babe and the child Bison pushed on. He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to carry the children to safety.
But where was safety?
Emerging from the tree line he saw a towering cliff face, and a narrow ledge winding along the face. Blinking sweat from his eyes he struggled on.
'Where are we going?' asked Sufia. Bison did not answer. He felt weak and disoriented, and his breath was coming now in short, painful gasps. I've been wounded before, he told himself. I always heal. I'll heal again. Glancing back he saw the Krayakin reach the top of the rise some 70 yards behind him. Where is Nogusta, he wondered. And Kebra.
They'll be coming! Then I can rest for a while. Nogusta can stitch my wound. Blood was pooling in his boot, and his leggings were drenched. So much blood. He stumbled on. The ledge was narrow here, no more than 3 feet wide. He looked down over the edge. They were impossibly high. Below him Bison could see wispy clouds clinging to the side of the abyss, and through them he could just make out a tiny river flowing through the base of the canyon. 'We are above the clouds,' he told Sufia. 'Look!' But she clung to his shoulder, her head buried against his neck. 'Above the clouds,' he said again. He swayed and almost fell. The baby began to cry. Bison focused his mind on movement and continued along the ledge.
Another coughing spasm shook him, and this time there was a rush of blood, that exploded from his mouth in a crimson spray. Sufia was crying again. Bison stopped moving. The ledge ended here, in a blank, grey wall of rock. Gently he laid the baby on the ledge, then pulled Sufia's arms from around his neck.
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'Old Bison needs a rest,' he said. 'You . . . look after the baby for me.'
He was on his knees, but couldn't remember falling. There's lots of blood,' wailed Sufia.
'Look . . . after the baby. There's a good girl.' Bison crawled to the edge and gazed down again. 'Never . . . been this high,' he told her.
'What about when you had wings?' she asked.
'Big . . . white . . . wings,' he said. He looked back along the ledge. The Krayakin must be close now, but he could not see them yet.
I don't want to die! The thought was a terrible one, and far too frightening to contemplate. I'm not going to die, he told himself. I'll be fine. A few stitches. The sun was shining, but it was cold here on this exposed face. The cold wind felt good. The wind had been cold back at Mellicane. It was winter then, a hard, harsh winter. The rivers had frozen solid and no-one had expected an army to march through the raging blizzards. But the Drenai had, crossing mountains and lakes of ice. The Ventrian army had been surprised at Mellicane. That's where I got my medal, he remembered. The medal he had sold for a night with a fat whore.
She was a good whore, though, he recalled.
He sat with his back to the cliff, a great wave of weariness covering him like a warm blanket. Sleep, that was what he needed. Healing sleep. When he woke up the wound would be mending. That priestess, she can heal me. A few days' rest and I'll be good as new. Where is Nogusta? Why has he left me alone here?
The baby wailed. Bison thought it best to pick him up, but he didn't seem to have the strength. Sufia screamed and pointed back along the ledge. The two Krayakin
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were in sight now, moving in single file along the narrow finger of rock.
Twisting round Bison scrabbled at the rock face, dragging himself to his feet. So this is how it ends, he thought. And this time there was no fear. He glanced at Sufia. The child was terrified. Bison forced a smile. 'Don't you worry . . . little one,' he said. 'No-one's going ... to hurt you. You just. . . look after . . . the little prince until. .. Nogusta comes.'
'What are you going to do?' she asked him.
The Krayakin were closer now. The ledge had widened, and they were advancing together.
Bison pushed at the rock wall, and stood blocking their way.
'Did you know,' he told them, 'that I have wings? Big white wings? I fly ... over . . . mountains.'
Suddenly he launched himself at them, spreading his arms wide. The Krayakin had nowhere to run.
In desperation they stabbed at him, plunging their blades into his chest. With a last desperate lunge he hurled his weight forward, into the cold metal that clove through his heart. Dying, he clamped his huge arms to their armour and propelled them over the edge.
Sufia looked out, and saw them spiralling away, down and down, Bison with outstretched arms, falling into the white, wispy clouds.
Antikas Karios had arrived just in time to see them fall. He ran to Sufia and knelt beside her.
'He got his wings back,' she said, her eyes bright with wonder. 'Big, white wings.'
Little Sufia put her arms around Antikas Karios's neck. Instinctively his own arm curled around her. Then he looked down at the baby. This was the source of all their
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problems, this tiny package of flesh, soft bone and tissue. It was crying still, thin piping wails that echoed from the rocks. It would be so easy to choke off that sound. The baby's neck was so slender that Antikas could crush the life from it by merely pinching the flesh between his thumb and index finger.
The world would be safe from the demons. His hand reached down. As his finger touched the baby's cheek its head turned towards it, mouth open, seeking to suckle. 'Got to look after the baby,' Sufia whispered into his ear.
'What?'
'That's what Bison said before he flew away.'
He pondered what to do. If he killed the baby, then he would have to kill Sufia too. He could toss them both from the ledge and say he had arrived too late to help them. His thoughts turned to Bison. The grotesque old man had run for almost half a mile, with a wound that should have killed him instantly. Then he had carried two Krayakin to their deaths. He had shown enormous courage, and in that moment Antikas realized that, were he now to kill the child, it would sully the memory of Bison's deed. Gathering up the baby he walked back along the ledge, and down the slope to the camp-site. Kebra and the queen were still unconscious, and Conalin and Pharis were sitting by the fire, hand in hand. The girl looked up as Antikas walked into the camp. Her thin face broke into a wide smile. Surging to her feet she ran to him, lifting Sufia clear. The little girl immediately began to tell her of Bison's wings.
Gemmell, David - Drenai 08 - Winter Warriors (v1.0) Page 31