The Winter Warriors

Chapter Ten

Antikas Karios removed his red cloak and neatly folded it, laying it upon the stone work of the bridge. Then he tied his long hair into a tight pony-tail and began moving through a series of routines designed to stretch his back and shoulders and hips. At the beginning the movements were slow, graceful and balletic. Then they grew more swift, becoming a dance, full of leaps and turns. Dagorian watched the man with a growing sense of sadness. Such a dance, he thought, should be to celebrate life and youth, not as a prelude to violence and death.

The sun was falling below the western mountains, and the violet sky was streaked with golden clouds. Antikas strolled across to where Dagorian waited. 'What a beautiful sunset,' he said.

The young officer did not reply. A line of ten riders had appeared from the woods, and were moving towards the bridge. As they cleared the tree line four more riders appeared, tall men, wearing black armour and full-faced helms.

The Ventrian captain rode his horse to the first of the obstacles, then called out to Antikas. 'Give way for the emperor's riders.'

'Which emperor would that be?' Antikas responded.

'Give way, Antikas Karios, you cannot stand against all of us. And I have no orders for your arrest.' The captain shifted nervously on his horse, and continually glanced back towards the black armoured Krayakin.

'I fear I cannot comply, captain,' said Antikas. 'You see I am a servant of the infant king, and I have been ordered to hold this bridge. Might I suggest that you and your men ride away, for you are wrong — ' his voice hardened. '- I can stand against you. More than that, I can promise you that any man who steps upon this bridge will die.'

The captain licked his dry lips. 'This is madness,' he said. 'What is your purpose here?'

'I have already told you my purpose. Now attack — or be gone!'

The captain dragged back on the reins and wheeled his horse. Dagorian could see that none of the Ventrian soldiers seemed willing to enter the fray. Such was the awesome — and justified — reputation of the man facing them. Still they dismounted and drew their swords, for they were brave men and disciplined.

'Remember,' whispered Antikas, 'stay to the right.'

'I shall.'

'Are your hands trembling?'

'No.'

'Good. That is of some relief to me — for I cannot really take ten men alone.' He grinned at Dagorian then drew both his swords, one of shining steel, one darker than the pit, and stepped up to take his place on the left.

The bridge was wide enough for four warriors to walk abreast and still leave room to swing a sword. The Ventrians advanced slowly, picking their way through the rocks. Antikas stood very still. As they got closer he suddenly leapt at them with an ear-splitting battle cry. His steel sword swept out slashing through a soldier's throat, then the black blade sliced through the chest of a second man, killing him instantly. The Ventrians surged forward. Three made it past the swordsman. Dagorian jumped forward. The black blade licked out and a man died. A sword pierced Dagorian's shoulder. He fell back. The swordsman stumbled over a rock and lost his balance. Dagorian killed him with a straight thrust to the heart. Then Dagorian was struck again, this time by the third soldier. He felt as if he had been kicked by a horse, and could not, at first, locate the wound. Ignoring it he leapt to the attack, blocking a wild cut and sending a riposte that swept through the man's ribs. He fell without a sound.

Dagorian looked up to see Antikas battling furiously, his blades a blur as he cut and parried. There was blood on his face and left arm, but five men were down. Only the captain and one other remained.

Antikas ran at them — and they turned and fled.

They did not get far.

The four warriors of the Krayakin blocked the bridge. Two of them stepped forward and slew the fleeing soldiers.

'Hardly sporting,' called out Antikas Karios. 'Do you often kill your own men?'

'You fight well, human,' came a muffled voice. 'And I see you have found a Storm Sword. It should be an interesting encounter.'

'All at once — or one at a time. I care not,' said Antikas.

The sound of laughter greeted his challenge. Then the tallest of the warriors stepped forward. 'I like you, human,' he said. 'But there is blood running into your eyes. Move back and tie a scarf around your brow. I will await you.'

Antikas grinned then backed away to where Dagorian was sitting with his back to the bridge wall. 'Taking a rest, Drenai?' he asked. Then his smile faded as he saw the blood soaking Dagorian's tunic.

'Do not concern yourself with me,' said Dagorian, with a weak smile. 'Do as he bid.' Antikas had been cut just above his left eyebrow. The gash was around 2 inches long and blood was dripping into his eye. With his dagger he slashed through his shirt sleeve, then ripped it clear. Tearing a strip from it he bound his brow.

'Terrible thing to do to a good shirt,' he said. 'My tailor would be most annoyed.'

Then he rose and glanced down at Dagorian. 'Don't go away,' he said. 'I shall be back soon.'

'I don't think I'm going anywhere,' said Dagorian. 'Take the Storm Sword. I have a feeling you'll need it.'

Armed with the two black blades Antikas strode back to the centre of the bridge. 'What is your name?' he asked the tall warrior.

'I am Golbar,' replied the Krayakin.

'Come then, Golbar, let us dance a jig.'

'Bear with me, human,' said Golbar, removing his gauntlets. Slowly he removed the black armour, unbuckling the breastplate and the shoulder guards, the greaves and the forearm protectors. Lastly he removed his helm. His hair was white, his eyes dark, his skin pale. Drawing his sword he turned to one of his comrades, who threw him a second. He caught it cleanly and advanced across the stones. Antikas watched his movements. They were quick and graceful.

Antikas attacked, and as their swords met lightning crackled from the blades. The attack was parried with ease and Antikas only just managed to avoid a murderous riposte that further sliced the ruined satin shirt. The Krayakin came at him with bewildering speed and Antikas found himself fighting for his life. Never had he faced a more skilful opponent, nor met a man with reflexes as fast as this Krayakin. Antikas parried and blocked with increasing desperation, and slowly he was forced further back along the bridge. Anger touched him then, for the Krayakin was toying with him. Twice he had an opportunity to lance a thrust through the human's guard, and twice he merely sliced small cuts in his opponent's chest.

'You are very good,' said Golbar, conversationally, while still attacking. 'Not the best I ever killed, but close. Do let me know when you are ready to die.'

Antikas did not answer. Despite his increasing weariness and desperate battle for survival he had been reading his opponent's moves, seeking out a weakness. The man was ambidextrous — as indeed was Antikas — but he favoured the right, and sought to kill with thrusts rather than cleaving cuts. Antikas leapt back.

'I am ready now,' he said. The Krayakin attacked. Instead of backing away Antikas moved suddenly forward. As he had expected Golbar sent a lightning thrust with his right hand blade. Antikas swayed to the right, his enemy's sword glancing along his ribs. Ignoring the pain he slammed the black blade through the Krayakin's chest, spearing the heart. Golbar's dark eyes widened in pain and shock, his swords falling from his hands. Without a word he fell back to the stone of the bridge.

Antikas moved forward to face the remaining three.

'Who gets to strip next?' he asked.

'No-one,' came the response. 'Golbar always had a taste for the dramatic.'

Hefting their swords they came at him together. Antikas watched them, determined to take at least one more with him.

The moon was shining now over the mountains, and a cool breeze was whispering over the bridge. It would be so easy to sprint back to his horse and ride from here, ready to fight another day. He cast a quick glance at Dagorian. The young officer was sitting very still, his hands locked over the terrible wound in his belly. He had a sudden desire to tell him why he had chosen to fight on this bridge, to speak of redemption, and the loss of Kara. But there was no time.

The Krayakin were picking their way through the debris. Antikas tensed, ready to attack them.

A colossal, white form burst from the undergrowth, smashing aside trees as it came. It thundered towards the bridge, letting forth a terrifying screech. Antikas stared disbelievingly at the monstrous form, with its huge, wedge-shaped head and gaping jaws. It was moving at great speed. Blood was streaming from a wound high in the beast's shoulder, and Antikas could see a broken lance jutting there.

The three Krayakin swung round as the beast bore down upon them. There was nowhere to run, save to hurl themselves into the river. They stood their ground, dwarfed by the monstrosity looming over them. One Krayakin tried to attack, but a sweep from a taloned arm tore his head from his shoulders. The wedge-head lunged down, fastening to the shoulder of a second warrior, lifting him high. The Krayakin plunged his sword deep into the beast's neck. The beast's head flicked and the warrior sailed out over the river, splashing down into the torrent and disappearing below the waves. The third Krayakin had run in and lanced his sword deep into the fish-white belly of the beast, ripping a great wound, from which gushed a prodigious amount of blood. Talons ripped into the knight, smashing through his armour. He was hurled back against the stone supports of the bridge, his sword wrenched from his hand. The beast's head lunged at him. He tried to avoid it, but the terrible teeth caught him in the midsection, ripping him apart.

The monster reared up and the stone work trembled as it let out a howl of pain. The wound in its belly ripped further open, spilling its entrails to the bridge. Twisting its head it saw Antikas standing alone at the centre of the bridge. It made two faltering steps towards him, then stumbled sideways. The side bridge supports crumbled under its weight and it toppled into the rushing river.

Antikas moved to the edge, staring down. The body was moving slowly out of sight, towards the distant falls.

Remembering Kalizkan's warning about the near miraculous healing powers of the Krayakin Antikas ran to the first body and heaved both sections into the river. He paused at the second, and stared down at the decapitated head. The helm visor was still closed. Antikas flipped it open and found himself staring into glowing eyes, that were alive and full of hatred. The mouth moved, but without vocal chords no sound issued forth. Antikas picked up the head and tossed it into the water, then rolled the body after it. Lastly he moved to the armour-less body of Golbar. This too he fed to the river.

Returning to Dagorian he slumped down beside the dying officer. 'How do you feel?' he asked.

'There is no pain, but I can no longer move my legs. I am dying, Antikas.'

'Yes, you are. But we won, Drenai.'

'Perhaps. Then again, perhaps we merely delayed the inevitable. There are four more Krayakin, and the Ventrian army has closed off the road to the sea.'

'Let tomorrow take care of itself, Dagorian. You fought well, and bravely. It was an honour to stand beside you. I do not know much about your religion. Is there a Hall of Heroes contained in it?'

'No.'

'Then you should convert to mine, my friend. In it you will find a palace full of young virgins ready to obey your every whim. There will be wine and song and endless sunshine.'

'It… sounds.. very fine,' whispered Dagorian.

'I will say a prayer for your spirit, Drenai, and that prayer will shine above you like a lantern. Follow it to the palace that awaits me. I will see you there.' Antikas reached across and closed the dead eyes. Then he scabbarded the Storm Swords and walked slowly back to the horses. The cut on his ribs was stinging now as the blood clotted over it. He stepped into the saddle and gazed back along the bridge.

Then he fulfilled his promise and sent a prayer-light to shine for Dagorian.

Swinging the horses he rode after the others.

The cave was deep, and curved like a horn. The biting wind could not reach them here and the group huddled around two fires. Nogusta stood apart from the others, heavy of heart. He had not lied to Dagorian. He had not seen him die. Yet he had known that the young man would not survive the encounter on the bridge, for in the vivid flashes of the future which had come to him there had been no sign of the officer.

Kebra moved from the fire and stood beside him. 'How long before we come down from this mountain?' he asked.

'Some time late tomorrow.'

'I have fed the last of the grain to the horses, but they need rest, Nogusta, and good grass and water.'

Nogusta unrolled the parchment map, and held it up so that they could both see it in the firelight. 'Tomorrow we will reach the highest point. It will be bitterly cold and the road will be ice covered and treacherous. After that we begin the long descent to the five valleys and Lem.'

'The fires will not last the night,' said Kebra, 'and it will be below freezing in here without them.' They had gathered wood in the last valley, and Bison had also tied several bundles of dried timber from the smashed wagon. It was these which were burning now.

'Then we will be cold,' said Nogusta. Though not as cold as Dagorian.'

'You think we should have stayed?'

Nogusta shook his head. 'The other Krayakin are close by.'

'What have you seen?'

Too much,' said Nogusta, sadly. The Gift is more of a curse than ever. I see, but I cannot change what I see. Dagorian asked me if he was to die. I did not tell him. I think he knew nonetheless. He was a good man, Kebra, a man who should have lived to build, to sire children and teach them the virtues of honesty, courage and honour. He should not be lying dead on a forgotten bridge.'

'We will not forget him,' said the silver-haired bowman.

'No, we will not. And what does that count for? We are old men, you and I. Our time is passing. And when I look back over my life I wonder whether it has been for good or ill. I have fought for most of my life. I defended the Drenai cause, even though most of my comrades either feared me or loathed me for the colour of my skin. Then I took part in the invasion of Ventria, and saw the destruction of an ancient empire. All for the vanity of one arrogant man. What will I say to the Keeper of the Book when I stand before him? What excuses shall I offer for my life?'

Kebra looked closely at his friend, and he thought carefully before speaking. 'This is probably not the time to consider it,' he said, at last. 'Despair touches you, and there is no comfort to be found in melancholy. You have in your life rescued many, and risked yourself for others. You do so now. Such deeds will also be recorded. I am not a philosopher, Nogusta, but there are things I know. If your Gift sees us fail, and the child is destined to fall into the hands of evil, no matter what we do, will you ride then away and leave him to his fate? No you will not. Even if death and defeat are inevitable. No more will I. No-one can ask more of us than that.'

Nogusta smiled. He would have reached out and embraced the man, save that Kebra was not tactile, and disliked being touched. 'My father once told me that if a man could count true friends on the fingers of one hand then he was blessed beyond riches. I have been blessed, Kebra.'

'I too. Now get a little rest. I will keep watch for a while.'

'Listen for a single horse, for Antikas Karios will be trying to find us.'

'I have to say that I do not like the man,' admitted Kebra. 'His arrogance sticks in my throat.'

Nogusta smiled again. 'Reminds you of us some twenty years ago, doesn't he?'

Kebra nodded and walked to the mouth of the cave. Sitting back from the wind he looked out over the peaks and shivered. They were thousands of feet above the valley floor, and the clouds looked close enough to touch. Drawing his cloak about him he leaned back against the wall. Dagorian's death had saddened him also. He had liked the young man. His fear had been great, his courage greater still. He would have raised fine sons, thought Kebra.

The rocks were cold and he lifted his hood into place. Fine sons. The thought saddened him. What kind of a father would I have been, he wondered? He would never know. And, unlike Bison or Nogusta, there was no chance that he had sired children with any of the whores he had encountered through thirty years of campaigning, for he had never coupled with any of them. He had, of course, visited the brothels with both his comrades, but upon reaching the quiet of the bedroom he had merely paid the girls to sit and talk with him. To make love one had to touch, and Kebra could not even bear the thought of it. Flesh upon flesh? He shuddered.

From out of the past the memory came. It caught him unawares, for he had long ago buried it beyond the reaches of his imagination. The dark walls of the barn, the huge hairy hands of his father, the pain and the terror, and the threats of death if ever he spoke of it. He blinked and focused his gaze on the mountain peaks.

Conalin crept up to sit alongside him, a blanket wrapped tight around his thin shoulders. 'I brought your bow and arrows,' said the boy.

'Thank you — but I don't think we'll need them tonight.' He glanced down at the boy, seeing the fear in his eyes.

'Antikas Karios and Dagorian held the bridge. Antikas will be coming soon.'

'How do you know?'

'Nogusta had a vision. His visions are always true.'

'You said Antikas will be coming. What about Dagorian?'

There was no other way to say it. 'He died for us,' said Kebra. 'He fought like a man, and he died like a man.'

'I don't want to die,' said Conalin, miserably.

'But you will, one day,' observed Kebra. He chuckled suddenly. 'I had an old uncle, and he used to say, "Only one thing in life is certain, son, you won't get out of it alive." He lived every day to the full. He was a man who loved life. He was a soldier for a while, then a merchant, and lastly a farmer. He never did anything brilliantly, but he always gave it his best. I liked him — and he once did me a great service.'

'What did he do?'

'He killed my father.'

Conalin was shocked. 'And that was a service?'

'Indeed it was. Sadly he killed him too late, but that was not his fault.' He fell silent for a moment. Conalin wanted to ask him other questions, but he saw the sadness in the old man's eyes. Then Kebra spoke again. 'What would you like to be, Conalin?'

'Married to Pharis,' answered the boy, instantly.

'Yes, I know that. But what career do you desire?'

Conalin thought about it. 'Something to do with horses. That's what I'd really like.'

'A good occupation. Nogusta has similar plans. Once his family were renowned for their horses. But his wife and all of his kin were murdered, the great house burned to the ground, the stables destroyed. The herd escaped into the mountains. Nogusta has a dream of returning to the family estate and rebuilding it. He says that deep in the mountains there are many valleys, and that the herd will have grown now. He plans to find them.'

Conalin's eyes were shining now. 'I'd like to do that. Would he let me, do you think?'

'You would have to ask him.'

'Could you not ask him for me?'

'I could,' agreed Kebra, 'but that is not the way it should be. A strong man makes his own way in the world. He does not ask others to do that which he fears himself.'

Conalin moved out of the wind. He was a little too close to Kebra now, and the bowman felt uncomfortable. 'I will ask him,' said the boy. 'Will you be there with us?'

'I might be — if the Source wills it.'

The boy's excited expression suddenly faded. 'What is wrong?' asked Kebra.

'What is the point of talking about horses? We are going to die here.'

'We've made it this far,' Kebra pointed out. 'And I have yet to see the enemy who could defeat Nogusta. And as for Bison. . well, he is the strongest man I ever knew, and he has more heart than any ten demons. No, Conalin, do not dismiss them so lightly. They may be old, but they are canny.'

'What about you?'

'Me? I am quite simply the finest archer ever to walk the earth. I could hit a fly's testicles from thirty paces.'

'Do flies have testicles?' asked Conalin.

'Not when I'm close by,' answered Kebra, with a smile.

Antikas Karios reached the cave just before midnight. His beard was caked with ice, as was his horse's mane, and both he and his mount were mortally weary. For the last 2 miles he had been swaying in the saddle, and fighting to stay awake.

Kebra stepped out into the biting wind, taking hold of the horse's bridle and leading him into the cave. It took Antikas two attempts before he could summon the energy to dismount. Nogusta approached him.

'Sit by the fire and warm yourself,' he said.

'Horse first,' muttered Antikas. From the back of his saddle he untied a thick bundle of wood and handed it to Nogusta. 'I thought the fuel might be running low,' he said. Dragging off his gauntlets Antikas rubbed life back into his cold fingers, then began to unsaddle the chestnut gelding. His movements were stiff and slow.

'Let me help you,' said Kebra, lifting the saddle clear and laying it over a rock. Antikas did not thank him, but moved to the saddlebags. His cold, swollen fingers fumbled at the buckles, but, at last he opened them, taking out a body brush and a cloth. Returning to the horse he rubbed the animal dry then, with deep circular strokes, brushed him. Conalin watched with interest. He had seen Kebra and Nogusta do the same some hours before, when they had first arrived at the cave. 'Why is it so important for the horse to have a brushed coat?' he whispered to the bowman.

'Grooming is not just about the coat,' answered Kebra. 'That horse is cold and tired. The brush helps to improve the circulation of blood, and tones the muscles.'

Antikas stepped back from the horse, cleaned the brush and returned it to his saddlebag. Then he removed his crimson cloak and laid it over the gelding's back. It was then that the others saw the dried blood on his torn, satin shirt. Ulmenetha rose from the first of the fires and bade Antikas to remove his shirt. He did so with great difficulty. Satin fibres had stuck to his wounds, and as he pulled the shirt clear the small cuts in his chest and the long, jagged slice along his ribs began to bleed once more. Sitting him down by the fire Ulmenetha examined the wounds. The smaller cuts she could heal immediately without stitches, but the wound caused by Golbar's last thrust first needed more traditional treatment. Nogusta handed Antikas a cup of broth, which he accepted gratefully. As Ulmenetha prepared her needle and thread Antikas stared around the firelit cave. The ape, Bison, was asleep by the far wall. Alongside him, huddled close for warmth was a young girl and a child. Beyond them the queen was sitting in the shadows, holding her babe close to her breast. Antikas saw that the child was feeding, and looked away guiltily.

'Stand up,' ordered Ulmenetha. Antikas did so. The priestess came to her knees, and began to stitch the wound, beginning first at the centre, drawing the flaps of skin together. Antikas looked across at Nogusta, and their eyes met.

'He died well,' said Antikas.

'I know.'

'Good, for I am too tired to discuss it further.' He winced as Ulmenetha drew tight the centre stitch. 'You are not knitting a rug, woman,' he snapped.

'I'll wager you did not whine so when the Krayakin faced you,' she responded. Antikas grinned, but said nothing. Three more stitches were inserted, then Ulmenetha laid a slender hand over the wound, and began to chant in a low voice. Antikas glanced down at the priestess, then gave a questioning look to Nogusta. The black man had turned away and was untying the bundle of wood.

Antikas felt a tingling sensation begin in the wound, heat flaring from it. It was mildly uncomfortable, but not at all painful. After some minutes Ulmenetha removed her hand, then, with a small knife, cut the stitches and pulled them clear. Antikas touched the cut. It was almost healed. More than this he felt curiously rejuvenated, as if he had slept for several hours.

'You are very talented, lady,' he said.

'You should see me knitting a rug,' she answered, rising to stand before him. She repeated the Healing Prayer on the smaller chest wounds, then reached up to pull clear the blood-stained satin strip around his brow. 'Bend your head,' she ordered him. Antikas obeyed.

As she healed the cut she spoke again. 'You are a lucky man, Antikas. Had the blow been two inches lower you would have lost an eye.'

'Strangely, the more I practise the luckier I get,' he said.

Ulmenetha stepped back from him, and appraised her work. Satisfied she moved back to the fire and sat down. 'Had you remained at the bridge you might have saved Dagorian,' he said. Ulmenetha shook her head.

'His internal injuries were far beyond my powers.' So saying she turned away from him. Kebra handed him a clean, folded tunic of off-white wool. Antikas thanked him. Lifting it to his nose he smiled. 'Scented rosewood,' he said. 'How civilized. You are a man after my own heart.'

'Probably not,' said Kebra.

Antikas slipped on the shirt. The arms were too long, and he folded back the cuffs. 'Well, Nogusta,' he said, 'what now? What do your visions tell you?'

'We go to the ghost city,' answered Nogusta. 'That is all I can say. I do not yet know the outcome of this quest. But all questions will be answered in Lem.'

The child sleeping beside Bison suddenly cried out and sat up. The girl beside her awoke, and took her in her arms. 'What is wrong, Sufia?' she asked, stroking the child's blond hair.

'I had a dream. Demons in my dream. They were eating me up.' The child began to cry. Then she saw Antikas, and her eyes widened.

'Hello,' said Antikas, giving her his best smile. Sufia let out a wail and buried her head in Pharis's chest. 'I've always had a way with children,' said Antikas, drily.

The noise awoke Bison, who gave a great yawn, then belched loudly. He too saw Antikas, and looked around for Dagorian. Rising he scratched at his groin then moved to the fire, where he belched again. 'Killed 'em all, did you?' he asked Antikas.

'One of them. A huge beast came from the forest and slaughtered the others.'

Fear showed in Bison's face. 'Is it still alive?'

'No. It fell into the river and drowned.'

'Well, that's a relief,' said Bison. 'Almost makes up for the fact that you survived. Where is the lad, Dagorian?'

'He died.'

Bison absorbed the information without comment, then swung to Kebra. 'Is there any broth left?'

'No, Antikas ate the last of it.'

'What about the biscuits?'

'A few left,' said Kebra. 'But we are saving them for the morning. The children can have them for breakfast.'

Antikas removed his sword belt, and laid it beside him. There are four more Krayakin,' he said. 'Believe me, Nogusta, that is four too many. I fought one. He had a sense of honour, and removed his armour to fight me. He was faster than any man I have ever known. I am not sure I could defeat another, and I certainly could not defeat more than one.'

'What then do you suggest?' asked Nogusta.

'I have no suggestions. What I am saying is that I treated them too lightly. I thought of them merely as men, and there is no man more skilled than I. But they are not men. Their reflexes are astonishing, and their strength prodigious.'

'And yet we must face them,' said Nogusta. 'We have no choice.'

'Whatever you say,' said Antikas. He stretched out beside the fire, then glanced up at Bison. 'We could always send him against them,' he said. 'His body odour would fell an ox.'

Bison glared at him. 'I'm beginning to really dislike you, little man,' he said.

Breakfast was a sorry affair, with the last of the oatcake biscuits being shared by Sufia, Pharis and Conalin. Pharis offered hers to the queen, but Axiana smiled and shook her head. Bison grumbled about starvation as he saddled the horses.

As she finished her food little Sufia climbed onto Ulmenetha's lap. 'Did you sleep well, in the end, little one?' asked the priestess.

'Yes. I didn't dream no more. It's very cold,' she added, snuggling close. The last of the wood had long burnt away, and the temperature in the cave was dropping fast.

'We are going down into the valleys today,' Ulmenetha told her. 'It will be much warmer there.'

'I'm still hungry.'

'We are all hungry.' Sufia gave a nervous glance across at Antikas. 'He looks like a demon,' she said. Antikas heard her and gave her a grin. She scowled at him from the perceived safety of Ulmenetha's lap.

'I am not a demon,' said Antikas. 'I am earth born, as you are.'

'What does that mean?' Sufia asked the priestess.

'It means that we come from the earth, whereas demons are born of the wind. We are solid. We can touch things. Demons are like the wind. They can blow against us, but they cannot live and breathe as we do.'

Pharis came and sat alongside them. 'If that is true, how can the Krayakin fight us? Are they not solid?'

'There is an old story,' said Antikas, 'that my father used to tell. It is part of Ventrian history and myth. Once there were two Windborn gods, great and powerful. They floated above the earth, and watched the deer and the lion, the eagle and the lamb. They were envious of them, and their ability to walk the land. These gods had many Windborn subjects, and they too looked upon the earth with jealousy. One day the two gods — who did not like one another. .'

'Why didn't they like one another?' asked Sufia.

'That's not important. Anyway. .'

'I think it is important,' said Pharis. 'Why would gods not like one another?'

Antikas suppressed his irritation. 'Very well, let us say that one of the gods was evil, the other good. One was a lord of chaos and destruction, while the other loved the light, and delighted to see things grow. They were like night and day.'

'All right,' said Pharis. 'I can understand that. Go on.'

'Thank you. One day these gods decided to use their great power to cast a spell that would allow their people, the Illohir, to take on fleshly forms. These spirit beings floated down to the earth, and wherever they landed they drew matter to themselves, creating bodies that could walk upon the earth.'

'How did they do that?' asked Sufia.

'I don't know how they did it,' snapped Antikas.

'I do,' said Ulmenetha. 'All matter is made up of tiny molecules — so tiny that the human eye cannot see them. They literally drew these molecules to them, like so many bricks and built their bodies.'

'There,' said Antikas to Sufia. 'Does that satisfy you?'

The child looked mystified. Axiana, who had been listening to the tale, walked across to them, the babe asleep in her arms. Antikas rose and bowed to her. She responded with a smile. 'I too heard this story,' she said, softly. There is great beauty in it. Some of the Windborn landed in forests, and drew their strength from the trees. They became Dryads, protectors of woodland, their souls entwined with the trees they loved. Others came down in the mountains, building their forms from the rocks and stones. These were the High Trolls. Some groups emerged near living creatures, like wolves. Because they drew particles from everything around them they became Shape-Shifters, manlike during the day, but becoming wolves at night. All over the world the Illohir took on different forms, and rejoiced in their new-found freedom.'

'Did any become birds?' asked Sufia.

'I expect that they did,' said Axiana.

'That means Bison is a demon,' said Sufia, 'because he once had big white wings and flew over mountains.'

'Must have been really big wings,' said Antikas.

Conalin joined them. 'If they were all so happy why did they start a war with people?'

Ulmenetha answered him. 'They weren't all happy. Some of the Windborn had landed in places that were. . unclean. Battlefields, graveyards, scenes of violence or terror. What they drew into themselves was dark and fearsome. These became the Hollow Tooths, who suck blood from sleepers. Or the Krayakin, who live for war and slaughter.'

'And these were the ones who started the war?' persisted Conalin.

Antikas took up the story again. 'Yes. The real problem was in the nature of the spell which brought the Windborn to the earth. They were. . are. . creatures of spirit, and though they could build their bodies with magick, they could not hold them together for long. They could not feed as we do, and, as the years passed, some of the Illohir began to wither away, and return to the air. Those that remained needed to find a new source of nourishment. We were that nourishment. The Illohir began to feed on human emotions. The Dryads, the fauns, and other creatures of the forest found they could draw energy from human happiness and joy. That is why there are so many stories of wild celebration involving fauns and humans. Fauns were said to have invented wine, to further enhance human joy. But the darker demons fed on terror and dismay — as you saw back in Usa. It was said that the fear and pain inspired in a human tortured to death could feed a demon for years. And because they had magick — which gave them domination over us — they treated us like cattle, as a food source. Mankind suffered through many centuries under their rule, until at last three human kings rebelled against them. The war was long and terrible, the battles many.'

'How did we win?' asked Conalin.

'No-one really knows,' Antikas told him, 'for it was so long ago, and there are so many legends. However, Kalizkan told me that Emsharas the Sorcerer — himself a demon — betrayed his own people and cast a great spell that banished all his brethren from the earth. He made them Windborn again, and locked them away in a great void.'

'And now they are coming back,' said Conalin.

Nogusta stepped forward. 'It is time to ride,' he said.

For the first hour they rode in single file along the narrowing ridge road, Nogusta leading, followed by Kebra and Conalin. Ulmenetha was walking, and holding to the bridle of the queen's mount. Behind her came Bison, also walking, and leading the horse ridden by Pharis and Sufia. Antikas Karios rode at the rear, leading the two spare horses. The wind was cold, hissing over jagged rocks, whipping snow into their faces.

By noon they had reached the highest point and Nogusta drew rein, scanning the road ahead. It dipped gently, curving round a mountain towards an area of high timber several hundred feet below them. From here Nogusta could see a waterfall and a river emptying into a wide lake. Ducking his head against the wind he urged Starfire on. The road widened, and Antikas Karios rode past the others, drawing rein alongside the black warrior.

'We need to rest the horses,' shouted Antikas. Nogusta nodded and pointed to the distant falls.

'I'll scout the area,' said Antikas, and rode on ahead.

There were patches of ice on the road, and the queen's horse slipped. Axiana lurched in the saddle, and found herself staring down into a deep abyss. Grabbing the saddle pommel with her free hand she righted herself in the saddle. The sudden jerk woke the babe. But, safe and warm in his blanket, he went straight back to sleep.

Kebra spotted movement in the trees below. Several small deer moved out of the trees. Taking his bow he also rode alongside Nogusta. 'I'll see you at the falls,' he said, and followed Antikas Karios down the mountain.

They journeyed on for another hour before reaching the falls. It was still cold here, for they were several thousand feet above the valley floor, but the thick stand of trees dispersed the wind, and there was enough dead wood to light a good fire. Kebra returned with a deer, which he had already skinned and quartered, and soon the smell of roasting meat filled the air.

Nogusta ate swiftly, then walked away from the group to stand at the edge of the falls. Antikas Karios joined him there. 'I see you ride the king's horse,' he said. 'I thought it was dying.'

'It had a lung infection caused by poor stabling.'

'It was a fine beast once,' said Antikas. 'But it is old now.'

'Old it may be, Antikas, but it will outrun any horse among the Ventrian cavalry, and it would ride through the fires of Hell for a rider it trusted.'

'Trusted? It is just a horse, black man. No more, no less. A beast of burden.'

Nogusta did not reply. 'I think it is time to tell me what you have seen,' said the Ventrian.

Nogusta swung back towards him. 'You want to know if you live or die?'

'No. Time will tell about that. But you are carrying a great weight. I can tell. It might be better if you shared it.'

Nogusta thought about it for a moment. 'My Gift,' he said, at last, 'is not precise. If it were I would have saved my family from massacre. What I see are sudden, vivid scenes. You remember the king's birthday celebrations? I was talking to Dagorian. I saw him fighting you in the final of the sabres. I could not see if he was winning or losing. The vision lasted a heartbeat only. But then I saw him beside you again, on a bridge. He was sitting against the wall, badly wounded. I had no way of knowing where that bridge was, or when in the future the event would take place. All I knew was that Dagorian would probably die alongside you. Indeed, you may have been the one to cause the wound.'

'I understand,' said Antikas. 'So now tell me what else you have seen.'

For a moment Nogusta did not speak, and stood staring out over the lake. 'I have seen the death of a friend,' he said, at last, dropping his voice. 'And the question that haunts me is this, can I change his destiny? Could I have prevented Dagorian from standing on that bridge with you? And if I had would you have won alone?'

'Probably not. Dagorian took out three soldiers. Ten would have been too many — even for me.'

'That is what I thought,' said Nogusta. 'Which could mean that, although I could change the future and save my friend, by doing so I might bring about the return of the demons.'

'Alternatively, by changing the future you might bring about the opposite,' Antikas pointed out. 'Have you ever tried to alter events, based on your visions?'

Nogusta nodded. 'I saw a wagon crushing a child to death outside an inn. I knew the inn, and I could tell the event was to happen just before dusk. I went to the area, seeking out the child. I waited at the inn. She came on the second day, and I spoke with her. I told her to beware of running out in front of wagons. I went every day for a week, and we talked often. Then, one afternoon, she was running towards me when I saw a wagon turn the corner. I shouted to her, and she stopped running. The wagon missed her.'

'Then you can alter the future for the good,' said Antikas.

Nogusta shook his head. 'No. I thought I had accomplished the task. The following day she was struck by another wagon and killed. But that was not the worst of it. She was running to meet me, because she enjoyed our conversations. Had I not sought her out she might never have been outside the inn at all.'

'It is all very complicated,' said Antikas. 'I am glad that I do not have visions. I do have one observation, however. The Demon Lord needs to sacrifice the babe in order to bring about the end of the Spell. If the child were to die before the sacrifice the Spell would be thwarted.'

'That has occurred to me,' admitted Nogusta.

'And what conclusion did you reach?'

'Whatever destiny holds in store for me it will not be as a killer of children. What the Demon Lord plans is evil. I do not believe that the way to fight great evil is to commit a lesser one. My role now is to protect the child. That I will do.'

'You are very rigid in your thinking,' Antikas pointed out. 'Kill one babe to save the world? It seems a small price to pay.'

'It is not a question of scale,' said Nogusta. 'If it were then ten thousand babes would be a small price for such a great reward. It is a question of right and wrong. That child may prove to be one of the greatest men ever born, a peacemaker and a builder, a prophet or a philosopher. Who can say what wonders he may bring about?'

Antikas chuckled. 'More likely he will be another Skanda, full of vanity and arrogance.'

'Is that your advice then, Antikas Karios, to kill the child?'

'Answer me this first,' responded the Ventrian. 'If your vision told you that the babe was certain to fall into the clutches of the Demon Lord, would you reconsider?'

'No. I will defend it to the last drop of my blood. Now answer my question.'

'I am no longer a general, Nogusta. I am merely a man. You are in command here. As long as you live I will follow your orders, and I too will defend the child to the last.'

'And if I do not live, and you survive me?'

'I will do whatever I think is right by my own principles. Does that satisfy you?'

'Of course.'

Antikas smiled and began to turn away. Then he stopped. 'You are a romantic, Nogusta, and an idealist. I have often wondered how men like you find happiness in such a corrupt and selfish world.'

'Perhaps one day you will find out,' Nogusta told him.

Antikas returned to the camp. Conalin was rubbing down the horses, while Bison sat by the fire eating roast meat, the juices running down his chin and staining his already filthy tunic. Antikas moved to where Axiana was sitting with Ulmenetha and the young girl, Pharis. The priestess was holding the sleeping babe, and the queen was daintily picking at her food.

'A far cry from palace banquets,' observed Antikas, making a deep bow.

'And yet very welcome, sir,' she told him. Axiana's dark eyes met his gaze. 'We thank you for coming to our assistance.'

'My pleasure, highness.'

As Antikas moved away Ulmenetha leaned in to the queen. 'Do you trust him, child?' she asked.

'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 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 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 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.

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 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 Swordsman.'

'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 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.

'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 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.

'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 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 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.

Ulmenetha was sitting beside Nogusta. Antikas walked over to them. Nogusta was looking twenty years older, a grey sheen covering the ebony of his features. His pale blue eyes were tired beyond description. The black sword still jutted from his shoulder.

'Can you remove the sword?' Ulmenetha asked Antikas. Laying the baby on the grass he took hold of the hilt. Nogusta gritted his teeth.

'Brace yourself,' said Antikas, setting his boot against Nogusta's chest. With one savage wrench he dragged the blade clear. Nogusta cried out, then sagged against Ulmenetha. Holding her hands over the entry and exit wounds she began to chant.

Antikas moved away from them to where Kebra lay. Kneeling beside him he felt for the man's pulse. It was firm and strong. Conalin appeared alongside him. 'He is just sleeping,' said the boy. 'Ulmenetha has already prayed over him.'

'Good,' said Antikas.

'Did you see Bison's wings?' asked Conalin.

'No.' He gazed up at the boy, angry now. 'There were no wings,' he snapped. 'Such stories are for children who cannot deal with the harsh realities of life. A brave man gave his life to save others. He fell thousands of feet and his dead body was smashed upon the rocks below.'

'Why did he do it?'

'Why indeed? Go away and leave me, boy.'

Conalin walked back to the fire, and the waiting Pharis. Antikas pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the water's edge, where he drank deeply.

The death of Bison had moved him in a way he had difficulty understanding. The man was an animal, ill bred and uncultured, uncouth and coarse. Yet when the Krayakin had attacked he had been the first to tackle them, and had, without doubt, saved the children. He had gone willingly to his death. All his life Antikas had been taught that nobility lay in the blood line. Nobles and peasants, thinking beings and near animals. Only the nobility were said to understand the finer points of honour and chivalry.

The manner of Bison's sacrifice was unsettling. Axiana was a Ventrian princess, her child the son of the man who had spurned Bison's services. Bison owed them nothing, but gave them everything.

It was more than unsettling. It was galling.

In Ventrian history heroes had always been noblemen, full of courage and virtue. They were never belching, groin-scratching simpletons. A thought struck him, and he smiled. Maybe they were. Conalin had asked him if Bison had grown wings. If they survived this quest the story would grow. Antikas would tell it. Sufia would tell it. And the story to be believed would be the child's. And why? Because it was more satisfying to believe that heroes never die, that somehow they live on, to return in another age. In a hundred years the real Bison would be remembered not at all. He would become golden haired and handsome, perhaps the bastard son of a Ventrian noble. Antikas glanced at the sleeping queen. Most likely he would also, in future legends, become Axiana's lover and the father of the babe he saved.

Antikas returned to the camp. Nogusta was sleeping now. Axiana was awake and feeding the child. Ulmenetha signalled for Antikas to join her. 'The wound is a bad one,' she said. 'I have done what I can, but he is very weak, and may still die.'

'I would lay large odds against that, lady. The man is a fighter.'

'And an old man devastated not just by a wound, but by grief. Bison was his friend, and he knew his friend was to die.'

Antikas nodded. 'I know this. What would you have me do?'

'You must lead us to Lem.'

'What is so vital about the ghost city? What is it we seek among the ruins?'

'Get us there and you will see,' said Ulmenetha. 'We can wait another hour, then I will wake the sleepers.'

As she turned her head he saw the angry, swollen bruise upon her temple, and remembered the knife hilt laying her low. 'That was a nasty blow,' he said. 'How are you feeling?'

She smiled wearily. 'I feel a little nauseous, but I will live, Antikas Karios. I have the maps here. Perhaps you would like to study them.' He took them from her and unrolled the first. Ulmenetha leaned in. 'The Ventrian army are moving from here,' she said, stabbing her finger at the map, 'and they have swept out in a sickle formation, expecting us to make for the sea. Within the next two days they will have secured all the roads leading to Lem.'

'There is no proper scale to this map,' he said. 'I cannot tell how far we are from the ruins.'

'Less than forty miles,' she told him. 'South and west.'

'I will think on a route,' he said. He glanced at Axiana, who was sitting just out of earshot. Tt would have been better for the world had Bison jumped with the babe,' he said, softly.

'Not so,' she told him. 'The Demon Lord has already begun the Great Spell. The child's death will complete it, with or without a sacrifice.'

Antikas felt suddenly chill. He looked away, and remembered his fingers reaching for the babe's throat.

'Well,' he said, at last, 'that, at least, adds a golden sheen to the old man's death.'

'Such a deed needs no sheen,' she told him.

'Perhaps not,' he agreed. He left her then and moved to the fire. Little Sufia was sitting quietly with Conalin and Pharis. She scampered over to Antikas. 'Will he fly back to us?' she asked him. 'I keep looking in the sky.'

Antikas took a deep breath, and he looked at Conalin.

'He will fly back one day,' he told the child, 'when he is most needed.'