The Winter Warriors

Chapter Nine

No nightmare ever suffered by Axiana had been worse than this. Her dress removed, her bare feet pressing into the damp earth, her lower back a rhythmic sea of pain, she squatted like a peasant beneath an open sky. Her emotional state had been fragile ever since the horror of the events at the house of Kalizkan, and everything since had conspired to fill her with terrible fear. Her husband was dead, her life as a royal princess a diminishing memory. All her life she had been pampered, never knowing hunger or poverty; the heat of summer kept from her by servants with peacock fans, the cold of winter barred from the palace by warm fires and fine clothes of wool.

Only days ago she had been sitting in a padded satin chair amid the splendour of the royal apartments, servants everywhere. And despite her husband's disdain of her, she had been the queen of a great empire.

Now, naked and frightened, she squatted in a forest, wracked with pain, and waiting to birth a king in the wet and the mud.

Beside her the giant, Bison, was supporting her weight. His ugly face was close to hers, and when she turned her head she could feel the coarseness of his bristling moustache against the skin of her face. His left hand was rubbing gently across the base of her spine, easing the pain there. Back in Usa Ulmenetha had showed her the satin covered birthing stool, and quietly explained all the processes of birth. It had almost seemed an adventure then. Fresh pain seared through her and she cried out.

'Don't breathe too fast,' said Bison. His gruff voice cut through her rising panic. The contractions continued, the rhythm of pain rising and falling. The girl, Pharis, lifted a cup to Axiana's lips. The water was cool and sweet. Sweat dripped into Axiana's eyes. Pharis wiped it away with a cloth.

Cramp stabbed through her right thigh. She reared up against Bison and screamed. 'My leg! My leg!' Lifting her easily he turned her to her back, leaning her against a fallen tree. Kneeling beside her his huge hands began to rub at the muscles above her knee. Pharis offered her more water. She shook her head. The humiliation was colossal. No man but her husband had ever seen her naked, and on that one night she had bathed in perfumed water and waited in a room lit with the light of three coloured lanterns. The light now was harsh and bright, and the ugly peasant was rubbing her thighs with his huge calloused hands.

And yet, she thought suddenly, he cares! Which is something Skanda never did.

Axiana remembered the night the king had come to her. He cared nothing that she was a virgin, untutored and unskilled. He had made no attempt to ease her fears, nor even arouse her. There had been no pleasure in the act. It had been painful and — thank the Source — short lived. He had not said a word throughout, and when he had finished he rose from her bed and stalked from the room. She had cried for hours.

Axiana felt dizzy. She opened her eyes to see bright lights dancing before her vision. 'Breathe slowly,' advised Bison. 'You'll pass out else. And we don't want that, do we?'

Pain flared once more, reaching new heights. 'There's blood! There's blood!' wailed Pharis.

'Of course there's blood,' snapped Bison. 'Just stay calm, girl. Go and fetch some more water!'

Axiana moaned. Bison leaned in to her. 'Try to think of something else,' he said. 'One of my wives used to chant. You know any chants?'

Anger replaced the pain in Axiana, roaring up like a forest fire. 'You oaf! You stupid. .' Suddenly she let fly with a stream of coarse and obscene swear words, in both Drenai and Ventrian, words she had heard but had never before uttered; would never have believed herself capable of uttering. It was, as she had always believed, the language of the gutter. Bison was completely unfazed.

'My third wife used to talk like that,' he said. 'It's as good as a chant,' he added, brightly.

Axiana sagged against him, exhausted. All the years of nobility, the education and the instilled belief that nobles were a different species to mere mortals, peeled away from her, like the layers of an onion. She was an animal now, sweating, grunting and moaning; a creature without pride. Tears welled as the pain soared to fresh heights. 'I can't stand it!' she whispered. 'I can't!'

'Course you can. You're a brave girl. Course you can.' She swore at him again, repeating the same word over and over.

'That's good,' he said, with a grin. Her head sagged against his shoulder. His hand pushed back the sweat-drenched hair from her brow. More than anything else this one small gesture restored her courage. She was not alone. The pain eased momentarily.

'Where is Ulmenetha?' she asked Bison.

'She'll be here when she wakes. I don't know why she's still sleeping. Nogusta thinks it's magick of some kind. But I'm here. You can trust old Bison.'

Pharis leaned in and wiped her face, then offered her more water. Axiana drank gratefully.

The morning wore on, the sun passing noon and drifting slowly across the sky. For a time Bison lifted her once more to a kneeling position, but the cramps returned, and by mid-afternoon she was sitting once more with her back against the fallen tree. Her strength was almost gone, and she was floating in pain, semi-conscious. She remembered her mother, the wan young face, the eyes dark circled. She had died in childbirth. Her son born dead, her body torn, her life blood draining away. Axiana had been six years old. Her nurse had brought her in to say goodbye. But her mother had been delirious, and had not recognized her. She had called out a name, screamed it loud. No-one knew who she was calling for.

She had been buried on a bright summer afternoon, her son beside her.

'I am going to die like her,' thought Axiana.

'No, you're not,' said Bison.

'I didn't. . mean to say that. . aloud,' whispered Axiana.

'You're not going to die, girl. In a little while I'll lay your son on your breast, and the sunlight will touch you both.'

'My. . son.' The thought was a strange one. For the duration of her pregnancy Axiana had thought only of the baby inside her. Skanda's baby. Skanda's child. An object created by a virtual rape which had changed her young life.

My son is waiting to be born.

'I can see the head,' said Pharis. 'The baby is coming!'

Bison wiped away the sweat from Axiana's face. 'Do not push,' he said. 'Not yet.'

She heard the advice, but the urge to propel the obstruction from her body was overpowering. 'I can't.. stop myself!' she told him, taking a deep breath.

'No!' he thundered. 'The head is not engaged fully.' Her face reddened with the effort of pushing. 'Pant!' he ordered her. 'Pant. Like this!' Pushing out his tongue he made quick shallow breaths.

'I'm not… a… dog!' she hissed at him.

'You'll damage the child if you don't. His head is soft. Now pant, damn you!' Summoning Pharis to support the queen's shoulders Bison moved back to observe the birth. The head was almost clear, and one shoulder. Then he saw the umbilical cord, tight around the baby's neck like a blue-grey serpent, choking the life away. His fingers were too thick and clumsy to dislodge it. Fear touched him then. Twice before he had observed this phenomenon. The first time a surgeon had cut the cord. The baby had lived, but the woman had died, for the afterbirth had not come away cleanly, remaining inside to rot and poison the blood. The second time the cord had effectively strangled the infant. 'Don't push!' he told the queen. Taking a deep breath Bison supported the infant's head with his left hand then, as gently as he could eased the little finger of his right hand under the cord. Twice it slipped back into place, but the third time he hooked it, drawing it carefully over the head.

With the threat removed Bison called out. 'Now you can push! Push like the Devil!'

Axiana grunted, then cried out as the baby slid clear into Bison's hands. The babe's face and body were covered in grease and blood. Swiftly Bison tied the umbilical cord, then cut it. Then he wiped the child's nostrils and mouth, clearing its airways. The babe's tiny arm moved, then it drew in its first breath.

A thin wail sounded into the forest.

Bison heard the sound of running feet outside the roofless tent. 'Stay back!' he yelled. He swung to Pharis. 'Get some fresh water.' Moving forward on his knees he laid the babe on Axiana's breast. Her arms went around it. Pharis was staring open mouthed at the tiny, wrinkled creature in the queen's arms. 'Get water, girl,' said Bison. 'You'll have plenty of time to gawp later.'

Pharis scrambled up and ran from the tent.

Axiana smiled at Bison. Then she began to sob. The old man kissed her brow. 'You did well,' he said, gruffly.

'So did you,' said Ulmenetha, from behind him.

Bison sucked in a deep breath and released his hold on the queen. Glancing up at the priestess he forced a grin. 'Well, if you really want to thank me. .' he began.

Ulmenetha raised her hand to silence him. 'Do not spoil this moment, Bison,' she said, not unkindly. 'Go back to your friends. I will finish what you have done so well.' Bison sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He was tired now. Bone weary.

He wanted to say something to the queen, something to show how much these last few hours had meant to him; how proud he was of her, and how he would never forget what had happened here. He wanted to say he was privileged to have attended her.

But Ulmenetha had moved past him, and the queen was lying back with her eyes closed, her arms holding the infant king.

Bison walked silently from the tent.

Bakilas sat in the starlight, his pale body naked, the water burns on his ankles and feet healing slowly, the blisters fading. His three companions were sitting close by. Drasko's burns were more severe, but the bleeding had stopped. His horse had fallen as they forded the river, and only swift work by Lekor and Mandrak had saved him. They had hauled him clear, but the river water had penetrated the black armour, and was scorching the skin of his chest, belly and arms. Drasko's mood was not good as he sat with the group.

Pelicor's physical death, and return to the Great Void, had been amusing. The warrior had always been stupid and Bakilas had never felt any kinship with him. But the destruction of Nemor upon the bridge had cast a pall over the company. They had watched the huge old man charge the mounted warrior, and had felt their brother's terror as he fell through the flames and plummeted into the raging river. They had experienced the pain of his burns as the acid water ate away his skin and dissolved his flesh and bones.

Even with the probable success of Anharat's Great Spell bringing the Illohir back to the earth, it would still take hundreds of years for Pelicor and Nemor to build the psychic energy necessary to take form once more. Two of his brothers had become Windborn, and the enemy remained untouched. It was most galling.

Yet, at least, they now knew the source of the magick hurled against them. The blond-haired child. This, in itself, led to other questions. How could a child of such tender years master the power of halignat?

'What do we do now, brother?' asked Drasko.

'Do?' countered Bakilas. 'Nothing has changed. We find the child and return it to Anharat.'

Drasko idly rubbed at the healing wound on his shoulder. 'With respect, I disagree. We are all warriors here, and in battle can face any ten humans. But this is not a battle. Two of our number have returned to the Other Place, their forms lost to them. And we are no closer to completing our mission.'

'They will have to fight us,' said Bakilas. 'They cannot run for ever. And once we face them they will die.'

'I am not so sure,' said Mandrak. 'They may be old, but did you feel the power of their spirits? These men are warrior born. There is no give in them. Such men are dangerous.'

Bakilas was surprised. 'You think they can stand against the Krayakin?'

Mandrak shrugged. 'Ultimately? Of course not. But we are not invincible, brother. Others of us may lose our forms before this mission is done.'

Bakilas considered his words, then turned to the fourth of the group. 'What do you say, Lekor?'

The thin-faced warrior looked up. 'I agree with Mandrak,' he said, his voice deep as distant thunder. 'I too saw the spirits at the bridge. These men will not die easily. They will choose their own battleground, and we have no choice but to follow them. Then there is the question of the sorcery. Who is the power behind the child?'

The night breeze shifted. Mandrak's nostrils flared. With one smooth move he threw himself to his right, and rolled to his feet alongside where his armour lay. The others had moved almost as swiftly, and when the men emerged from the tree line the naked Krayakin were waiting for them, swords in hands.

There were a dozen men in the group, all roughly dressed in homespun clothing, and jerkins of animal skins. The leader, a large man with a forked black beard, wore a helm fashioned from a wolf's head. Three of the men had bows drawn, the others held knives or swords and one was hefting a curved sickle. 'Well, what have we here?' said the leader. 'Four naked knights on a moonlight tryst. Perverse, if you ask me.' His men chuckled obediently. Tut down your swords, gentlemen,' he told the Krayakin. 'You are outnumbered, and once we have divested you of your horses and gold we will let you go.'

Bakilas spoke, but not to the man. 'Kill them all — save for the leader,' he said.

Instantly the four Krayakin warriors leapt at the startled men. One bowman loosed a shaft, but Bakilas's sword flashed in the night air, snapping the arrow in two. Then he was among the robbers, his sword cleaving left and right. One man died, his neck severed, a second fell to the ground, his chest gaping open. Mandrak blocked a savage cut from the leader's sword, then stepped inside and hammered a straight left to the man's face, breaking his nose. The leader staggered. Mandrak leaned back, then leapt, his right foot thundering against the leader's chin. The man went down as if poleaxed. Drasko killed two men, then lanced his sword through the back of another as the man turned to run.

Within moments the battle was over. Four survivors had fled into the forest, and seven men lay dead upon the grass. Bakilas moved to the unconscious leader, flipping the man with his foot. The leader grunted and struggled to sit up. Still dazed he rubbed his chin. Then, incongruously he cast around for his fallen helm. Setting it upon his head he pushed himself to his feet. He saw the dead men lying where they had fallen. He tried to run, but Mandrak was quicker, grabbing him by his jerkin and hurling him to the ground. 'What are you going to do with me?' he wailed.

Bakilas stepped up to the man, hauling him to his feet.

'We need to contact our leader,' he said, softly. 'You can help us with that task.'

'Anything,' said the man. 'Just ask.'

Bakilas took hold of the man's shirt and ripped it open, exposing his naked chest. He traced a line down the skin, locating the man's sternum. Slamming his fingers into the man's chest he split the skin beneath the breast bone. His hand drove in like a blade, then opened for his long fingers to encircle the still beating heart. With one wrench he tore the organ free. Letting the body sink to the grass he held up the dripping heart. 'Anharat!' he called. 'Speak to your brothers!'

The heart rose from Bakilas's hand and burst into a bright flame which soared up above the clearing. Then it coalesced into a ball and slowly dropped to hover above the warriors.

'I am here,' said a voice that whispered like a cold wind across a graveyard.

The Krayakin sat in a circle around the flame. 'Two of our company are Windborn once more,' said Bakilas. 'We would appreciate your guidance.'

'The child is born,' said the voice of Anharat. 'The route to the sea is cut off, and they must journey south. I am marching with the army to the city of Lem. There we will sacrifice the child. His blood will flow upon my own altar.'

'What of the wizard who is helping them?' asked Drasko.

'There is no wizard. The soul of Kalizkan possessed the child, but he is now gone to the Halls of the Dead. He will not return. Continue south. I have also returned a gogarin to the forest ahead of them. They will not pass him.'

'We need no help, brother,' said Bakilas. 'And a gogarin could kill them all — the babe included.'

'They will not be foolish enough to attempt to pass the beast,' said Anharat. 'Not once they know it is there. And I shall see that they do.'

'You are taking a great risk, Anharat. What if it does kill the babe?'

'I have already begun the Spell,' said the voice of the Demon Lord. 'It hangs in the air awaiting only the death of the third king. If the babe is killed before the time of sacrifice there will still be enough power released to bring back more than two-thirds of the Illohir. Now find them, and bring the babe to my altar.'

The flame faded, becoming thick, black smoke, which drifted in the air before slowly dispersing.

'The city of Lem,' said Drasko. 'Not a place of good omens.'

'Let us ride, brothers,' said Bakilas.

Nogusta drew rein at the mouth of the great canyon, and for several moments all his fears and tensions disappeared, swamped by the awesome beauty before him. The ancient map had shown a canyon here, and a trade road winding through it, but nothing etched on paper could have prepared Nogusta for the sheer majesty before him. Towering peaks, cloaked with trees and crowned by snow, deep valleys, full of lush grass and glittering streams and rivers, filled his field of vision.

The road continued along a wide ridge, steadily climbing and twisting around a mountain. At each curve a new panorama greeted him. The canyon was colossal.

Nogusta rode on, lost in the natural splendour of this high country. He felt young again, clean air filling his lungs, long-forgotten dreams rising from the dusty halls of his memory. This was a place for a man to live!

Starfire too seemed to be enjoying the ride. The great black gelding had been increasing in strength for some days now and, though still a shadow of his former self, the horse was swiftly recovering from the lung infection that had condemned him to the slaughterhouse. Nogusta dismounted and walked to the rim, staring down at the forest and river below. What were the dreams of men when compared to this, he wondered?

The wagon was an hour behind him, and he found himself growing angry. How had he become chained to this doomed quest? The answers were obvious, but offered little comfort. For life to have meaning a man needed a code to live by. Without it he was just a small, greedy creature following his whims and desires to the detriment of those around him. Nogusta's code was iron. And it meant he could not ride away and leave his friends and the others to the fate that so obviously awaited them somewhere along the road.

He had told the boy, Conalin, his reasons for helping the queen were selfish — and so they were. He remembered the day his father had taken the family to the Great Museum in Drenan. They had viewed the exhibits, the ancient swords and statues, the gilded scrolls and the many bones, and at last his father had led them to the Sickle Lake, and there they had sat, eating a lunch of bread and cold roast meat. It was his tenth birthday. He had asked his father about the heroes, whose lives were celebrated at the museum. He had wondered what made them stand and die for their beliefs. His father's answer had been long-winded, and much of it had passed over the boy's head. But there was one, striking, visual memory. His father had taken his mother's hand mirror and placed it in Nogusta's hand. 'Look into it, and tell me what you see,' he said. Nogusta had seen his own reflection, and told him so.

'Do you like what you see?' his father had asked. It was a strange question. He was seeing himself.

'Of course I do. It's me!'

Then his father said: 'Are you proud of what you see?' Nogusta couldn't answer that. His father smiled. 'That is the true secret that carries a hero to deeds other men can only envy. You must always be able to look in a mirror and feel pride. When faced with peril you ask yourself, if I run, or hide, or beg or plead for life, will I still be able to look into a mirror and feel pride?'

Stepping into the saddle Nogusta rode on. The ridge road dipped steeply and Starfire's hoofs slipped on the stone. Riding with care the black warrior reached the canyon floor, and an old stone bridge that crossed the river. He was riding under the trees now, and stopped to examine the map once more. There was a second bridge marked, some 3 or 4 miles to the south-east. He decided to examine it before heading back to the wagon. There were still patches of snow upon the hillsides, and the air was cool as he heeled Starfire forward. The old road ran alongside a steep incline, then disappeared round the flanks of the hill.

Knowing he could see more of the land from higher ground Nogusta took hold of the pommel and ran the gelding up the slope. Starfire was breathing heavily as he crested the hill and Nogusta paused to allow the gelding to catch his breath.

Then he saw the cabin, set back in the trees, its walls built of natural stone, its roof covered with earth. Climbing ivy clung to the walls, and flowering shrubs had been set beneath the windows. The area around the cabin was well tended, and smoke drifted lazily from the stone chimney. Nogusta hesitated. He did not want to bring danger to any innocent mountain folk, but equally they would know the mountains and be able to advise him on the best route to Lem. Touching heels to Starfire he rode forward, but the horse grew nervous as they cleared the trees, and backed away.

Nogusta spoke soothingly to the animal, stroking the long black neck. Once in the clearing before the cabin he could see why Starfire was reluctant to approach the house. Partly hidden by a tall flowering shrub lay a blood-drenched body. He saw it was that of a man — or rather the remains of a man. The corpse was in two halves. Dismounting and holding on to the reins Nogusta approached it, kneeling to examine the tracks around it. The earth was hard, and little could be seen. The man was around twenty years of age. In his right hand there was a rusty sword. He had known then that he was under attack, and had faced his killer. Ragged talon marks showed across his chest and belly. He had literally been cut in half at the stomach by one violent slashing blow. Nogusta glanced to the right. Blood had spattered the ground at least 20 feet from the scene of death. No bear could have done this. Still holding on to the reins Nogusta moved to the cabin. The door had been caved in, the thick timbers smashed to shards. To the right the door frame had been torn away, and a section of wall caved in. Within the main room lay the partially consumed body of a woman.

Looping the reins over a fence rail Nogusta entered the cabin. He had seen great horror in his life, from the murder of his wife and family, to the victims of sacked cities, and the awesome, bloody aftermath of great battles. But there was here, in this grim tableau, a sadness that touched him deeply. The cabin was old, but had been lovingly restored by this young couple. They had turned a deserted ruin into a home. They had planted bright flowers, some of them inappropriate to forest soil, blooms that would never take root, but would wither and die here. This young couple were not expert, but they were romantic and hard working. Eventually they might have made a good living here. But something had come upon them. Something unexpected and deadly. The man had taken his sword and tried to defend his love. He had failed, and had died knowing his failure.

The woman had hidden behind a strong locked door, and had seen it smashed to shards. The beast had been too large to pass through the doorway, and had caved in the wall. The woman had tried to run through to the back of the house. Talons had swept across her back, ripping her apart. Death for both of them had been mercifully swift.

Nogusta returned to the sunlight and scanned the clearing. The blood was almost dry, but the attack on these people was very recent. He gazed at the tree line. There was a broken sapling there. Nogusta ran across the clearing. Here the earth was softer and he saw the footprint. Three times as long as that of a man, flaring wide at the toes. Talons had made deep gouges in the earth. The sapling, as thick as a man's arm, had been snapped cleanly, and a large bush had been uprooted by the charging beast. Back across the clearing Starfire whinnied. He pawed at the ground, his ears flat to his skull. Nogusta moved to the horse, unlooping the reins. The breeze shifted. Starfire reared suddenly. Taking hold of the pommel Nogusta vaulted to the saddle. He felt heat flare against his chest, and realized the talisman he wore was beginning to glow.

Beyond the cabin, to the north he saw tall trees swaying, and heard the splintering of wood. A hideous screeching began, and the ground trembled beneath the horse. Swinging Starfire he let the horse have its head. Starfire needed no urging, and launched himself into a run. Behind them something colossal burst from the undergrowth. Nogusta could not risk glancing back, as Starfire was galloping over rough ground towards the trees. But he could hear the beast bearing down upon them with terrible speed. Ducking under a low branch he headed for the road, urging the gelding on. Starfire was tired now, but his hoofs pounded the ground and he quickened. Nogusta rode down the incline at breakneck pace, Starfire slithering to his haunches. Only brilliant horsemanship kept Nogusta from being hurled from the saddle. Then they were on flat ground and riding towards the ridge road. Here Nogusta swung Starfire once more.

There was no sign of pursuit, and the talisman was no longer glowing.

What kind of an animal was strong enough to cut a man in half, fast enough to chase a horse as swift as Starfire, and evil enough to cause a reaction in his talisman?

Nogusta had no answer.

All he knew was that this beast stood between the wagon and the bridge.

And there was no other known route to safety.

Axiana was sleeping as the wagon slowly lumbered along the old road. Ulmenetha laid her now slender hand on the queen's brow. Axiana's life force was strong, radiating from her. The priestess leaned back against a pillow of empty sacks and stared up at the blue sky. The sensation of waking from her long life with Kalizkan had been disorientating in the extreme. The old wizard had told her that time had no meaning where they sat, but she had not understood it fully until she woke. It was as if she had slept for decades. The memories of the flight from the palace seemed to belong to another life, a distant existence. Ulmenetha had struggled to recall them. Equally she could not quite remember the fat, frightened woman she had been.

The girl, Pharis, was holding the infant, and the child Sufia was asleep beside her.

'Isn't he beautiful?' said Pharis. 'So small, so sweet.' 'He is beautiful,' agreed Ulmenetha. 'And so are you.' The girl glanced up, confused. Her face was thin, pinched and dirty, and her filthy hair hung in greasy rat's tails. Her clothes were rags and there were sores upon her bony shoulders. 'I am not mocking you, Pharis,' said Ulmenetha. 'You have great love within you, and that is a virtue of great beauty. Be sure to support the babe's head, for his neck is not strong.'

'I will,' she said, happily. 'I am holding a king!' 'You are holding an infant. Titles are bestowed by men, and no title would concern him now. What he needs is love and his mother's milk.'

Ulmenetha glanced back to where Kebra and Conalin were riding behind the wagon. The boy was riding close to Kebra, listening to the bowman. With the talent Kalizkan had inspired in her Ulmenetha could see so much more than the naked eye would allow. Conalin had been starved of affection all his life, and had never known the love of a father. Kebra was a quiet, lonely man, frightened to commit himself to a wife and family. The two were perfect for one another. She transferred her gaze to Dagorian. The young officer was well to the rear, leading the five spare horses. He was full of fear, and fighting to maintain his courage.

You should have remained a priest, thought Ulmenetha, for you are a gentle soul.

Rising she climbed across to sit beside Bison. He glanced at her and gave a crooked smile. 'How's my boy doing?' he asked.

'He is sleeping. Where did you learn to birth a child?'

'Here and there. The camp followers always used to call for me when a babe was due. Only ever had one die on me. Cord strangled it. Almost happened with our little prince. Apart from that, though, the camp whores thought I was a good-luck omen at a birth.'

The wagon emerged onto open ground and in the distance Ulmenetha could see the awesome majesty of the canyon. 'How did you get so thin?' asked Bison.

'It is a long story. How did you get so ugly?' She said it with a smile and Bison chuckled.

'I was born ugly,' he said, 'but I was also born strong. I'm still strong. Stronger than most men half my age.'

'How old are you?'

'Fifty,' he lied.

'You are sixty-six,' she said, 'and I see no reason to be ashamed of the fact. And you are quite right, you are stronger than most men half your age. You are also a better man than you like to admit. So let's have no more stupidity.'

'Well, I am stupid,' he said. 'Always have been. Nogusta and Kebra they talk about things I don't understand. Honour and such like. Philosophy. Goes over my head like a flight of geese. I'm just a soldier. I don't know anything else. I don't want to know anything else. I eat when I'm hungry, piss when my bladder's full, and rut when I can afford the price. That's all life is for me. And it's all I want.'

'That is just not true,' said Ulmenetha. 'You have friends, and you stand by them. You have ideals, and you live by those. You are not terribly honest, but you are loyal.' She fell silent and studied his profile, then focused as Kalizkan had taught her. Vivid images appeared in her mind, bright with colour. Random scenes from Bison's life sped across her vision. Honing her concentration she slowed them. Most were what she would have expected, lust or violence, drunkenness or debauchery. But, here and there, she found more edifying scenes. She spoke again. 'Six years ago you came upon four men raping a woman. You saved her, and received two stab wounds which almost killed you.'

'How do you know that? Did Kebra tell you?'

'No-one needed to tell me. I know many things now, Bison. I can see more clearly than I ever have before. In fact, more clearly than I would wish to. What is your greatest dream?'

'I don't have dreams.'

'When you were a child. What did you dream of?'

'Flying like a bird,' he said, with a wide, gap-toothed grin. 'I'd spread my wings and soar through the sky, feel the wind in my face. I'd be free.'

The child, Sufia, came climbing over the backrest. 'Did you really have wings?' she asked Bison, as she scrambled onto his lap.

'I had great big wings,' he said. 'White wings, and I flew over mountains.'

'I'd like big wings,' said Sufia. 'I'd like white wings. Will you take me flying with you?'

'I don't fly any more,' he said, ruffling her blond hair. 'When you get old and fat you lose your wings.' He glanced at Ulmenetha. 'Isn't that right?'

'Sometimes,' she agreed.

Sufia snuggled up against Bison, holding on to his heavy, black woollen jerkin. He glanced at Ulmenetha. 'Children like me. They're not so bright, are they?'

'Children can make mistakes,' she agreed. 'But, in the main, they know a protector.' Ulmenetha gazed fondly down upon the child. Her heart was weak, and, under normal circumstances, she would be unlikely to reach puberty. Reaching out she laid her hand on Sufia's head, and, for the first time, released the power that Kalizkan had taught her. 'There is a force in all of us,' Kalizkan had told her. 'The Chiatze call it tshi. It is invisible, and yet terribly potent. It maintains our lives and our health. It helps us to repair damaged tissue.'

'Why did it not work for you?' she asked.

'Man is not intended to be immortal, Ulmenetha. The cancer came on too fast, and too powerfully. However, mastery of the tshi is an invaluable tool for a healer.'

Ulmenetha focused her energies, flowing her own tshi into the child.

'Your hand is very hot,' said Sufia. 'It's nice.'

Ulmenetha relaxed as she felt the child's fluttering heart grow stronger. It was not healed as yet, but it would be.

'I preferred you with more meat on you,' said Bison. 'But you do look younger.' He was about to speak again but Ulmenetha gave him a warning glance.

'Remember,' she said, 'no more stupidities.'

'If you don't ask you don't get,' he said, with a grin.

Up ahead she saw Nogusta walking his horse towards them. Ulmenetha could sense his concern. The black warrior was a powerful man, not given to despair and negative thoughts. But now his spirits were at a low ebb. Dagorian, Kebra and Conalin rode around the wagon to meet him. Bison hauled on the reins. Swiftly Nogusta told them of the killings at the cabin, and the beast that had pursued him.

'Did you get a look at it?' asked Bison.

'No,' said Nogusta. 'Had I waited a heartbeat longer I would have been as dead as the two lovers I found.'

'You're sure it wasn't just a bear?' said Bison.

'If so it is the mother of all bears. But no, I do not think it a creature of this world. Nothing I know of — or have heard of — could cut a grown man in half with one sweep.'

'What do we do then?' asked Dagorian. 'Find another way through?'

Nogusta drew in a deep breath. 'I do not see that we can. Firstly the maps do not show a second route. Secondly — even if there are other routes — if the beast was sent against us specifically there may be others of his kind guarding them. And last, but by no means least, we do not have the strength or the weapons to fight, on open ground, the warriors trailing us. And they must be getting close now.'

'Well, this is all very jolly,' snapped Bison. 'What more bastard luck can we expect? An outbreak of plague among us?'

'What choices do we have?' asked Kebra. 'We can't go back, we can't go forward, and if we stay here the Krayakin will kill us. For once I'm in agreement with Bison — luck seems to be running against us.'

'We are still alive,' said Nogusta. 'And we do have choices. The question is, which one gives us the best hope of success.'

'We cannot go back,' said Ulmenetha. 'Therefore we must face the beast.'

'With what?' queried Bison.

'With magick and with lances,' she said.

'I like the sound of the magick part,' said Bison.

'What do you have in mind, lady?' asked Kebra.

'Explanations will need to wait. One group of the Krayakin are less than two hours behind us. Ride back to the trees and fashion three long lances. Make sure the wood is stout and strong.'

Kebra swung his horse and rode back to the woods. Dagorian followed him, but Nogusta hesitated.

'Take the wagon on into the canyon, but do not leave the main road,' Ulmenetha ordered Bison. He glanced at Nogusta for confirmation. The black man nodded. Then he too rode to the woods.

'If you can kill it with magick,' said Bison, 'why do we need lances?'

'I cannot kill it,' she told him. 'What I can do is cast a spell that masks our scent and renders us almost invisible.'

'Almost invisible?'

'If the beast is close he will see a disturbance in the air around us — like a heat haze.'

'I don't want to go near any beasts,' wailed Sufia. Bison lifted her to his shoulder.

'No beast can get you while old Bison is here,' he said. 'I'll bite his head off.'

'You haven't got any front teeth,' she pointed out.

'No, but I've got tough old gums,' he said, with a chuckle.

The lances they cut were around 8 feet long, strong but unwieldy. Nogusta and Kebra strapped knives to the tips, and Nogusta added more twine around the lower haft, creating a hand grip. Dagorian's lance was more primitive, 7 feet in length the wood sharpened to a jagged point. As the wagon rolled slowly along the ridge road Nogusta and Kebra rode ahead, the bases of their lances resting on the saddle stirrups. There was little conversation. Axiana, Pharis and Sufia sat in the wagon, Conalin with them, his horse tied to the rear.

'I could have cut a lance,' said the boy.

'You don't have the skill with horses yet,' said Bison. 'When horses get frightened they take a deal of handling. You couldn't do that and wield a lance.' Conalin was unconvinced, but he said no more.

The light was fading as they neared the lower road. Nogusta and Kebra drew rein and the black warrior turned his mount and rode back to the wagon. He was about to ask when Ulmenetha needed to cast her spell, but she signalled him to silence. He was momentarily confused. Then she asked him. 'How is your chest?'

'My chest? It is fine.'

'No sensation of heat? How strange, for there should be.'

For a moment he thought she had lost her senses. Then he felt the talisman glowing. Ulmenetha touched her lips then her ear. Nogusta understood immediately. They were being observed, and overheard.

'I am feeling much better,' he said. 'I think it must have been a spring chill.'

'Spring chill?' said Bison. 'What the…?' Ulmenetha's hand came down upon his in a sharp pinch.

'Do not speak,' she said, softly. Bison cast a glance at Nogusta and was about to disobey Ulmenetha when Kebra's horse suddenly reared, half pitching the bowman from the saddle. Dropping his lance Kebra clung to the pommel. The horse backed away.

Upon the road ahead a glowing figure had appeared, almost 7 feet high, black wings spreading from its shoulders, like a massive cloak fluttering in the breeze. The face was dark, wide at the brow, narrow at the chin, an inverted black triangle with a wide gash of a mouth, and high slanted eyes, burning like coals.

'It is only an image,' whispered Ulmenetha. But Nogusta did not hear her. He drew a throwing knife and hurled it with all his might. The blade flashed through the dusk air, cutting through the apparition and clattering to the road beyond.

'You cannot harm me, human,' said the demon. The black wings spread wide and it rose into the air, floating close to the wagon. The creature peered inside, his gaze fixed to the babe carried by Axiana. Sufia screamed and buried herself under some blankets. The horses were growing uneasy. The demonic creature hovered for a moment, then drew back. 'It is not necessary for you all to die,' he said. 'What will it achieve? Can you stop me? No. Why then do you struggle on? Behind you — oh so close behind you — are my Krayakin. Ahead is a gogarin. Do you need me to explain the nature of such creatures? Or do the legends persist?'

'It was a beast with six legs,' said Nogusta. 'It was said to weigh as much as three tall horses.'

'Five would be closer,' said the apparition. He floated close to Nogusta, the burning eyes glittering. 'Yes, you look like him,' he said, and Nogusta could feel the hatred in the voice. 'The last of his mongrel line.' He moved away again. 'But I was speaking of the gogarin. It is a creature unlike all others upon this earth. Eternally hungry it will eat anything that lives and breathes. Nothing can approach it, for it radiates terror. Strong men fall to their knees at its approach, spilling their urine to drench their leggings. You cannot defeat it with your pitiful spears. I watched you flee from it earlier today. You, at least, understand what I am saying. Your heart was beating like a war drum — and that was without seeing the beast. Soon you will see it. And then you will all die.'

'What is the alternative you offer?' asked Nogusta.

'Merely life. For you have already lost. Had you the smallest chance of success I might offer riches, or perhaps even an extra hundred years of youth. I know that would appeal to your bald friend. But I need offer nothing more. The babe is mine. Leave it and its mother by the roadside. Then you can travel on to wherever you choose. My Krayakin will not harm you, and I will draw the gogarin back from this place. You also have my word that no harm will befall the queen.'

'I do not believe you,' said the warrior.

'I do not blame you for that,' the apparition told him, 'but it is the truth. I can also say that I will not be displeased should you reject my offer. You cannot stop me taking the babe, and it will give me great pleasure to see you die, Nogusta. Your ancestor — of cursed memory — visited a great evil upon my people, ripping their souls from the joys of this planet, and consigning them to an eternity of Nothing. No breath, no touch of flesh upon flesh, no hunger, no pain, no emotion — no life!' The apparition fell silent for a moment, and seemed to be struggling to contain his anger. 'Ride on,' he said, at last. 'Ride on and die for me. But do you really wish to take your friends to their deaths? They do not carry your blood guilt. They did not betray their race. Do they not deserve a chance to live?'

'My friends can speak for themselves,' said Nogusta.

The winged demon floated close to Bison. 'Do you wish to live?' he asked him. Ignoring the demon Bison lifted his buttocks from the driver's seat and broke wind thunderously.

'By Heaven, that's better,' he said. 'Are we moving on, or what?'

'I think we should,' said Ulmenetha, 'the stench is overpowering.'

'It was those wild onions,' said Bison, apologetically.

'Not from you. . fool!' she snapped.

The demon drew back and hovered before Nogusta. Starfire whinnied and backed away. Nogusta calmed him. 'I would like to stay to watch you die,' said the apparition. 'But the body I have chosen waits for me some miles back — with the Ventrian army. Be assured, however, your passing will be painful. Not as painful, you understand, as I made it for your family. You should have seen them trying to flee the flames. Your wife was running along a corridor, her hair and her dress ablaze. Her screams were delightful. Her flesh burned like a great candle.'

There was a sudden gust of wind, and the apparition disappeared.

'That was Anharat, the Demon Lord,' said Ulmenetha. 'He it was who possessed Kalizkan, and brought such evil to the city.'

Nogusta did not respond at first. His face was streaked with sweat, and his face was set. When he did speak his voice was colder than the tomb. 'He killed my family. He watched them burn.'

'He has killed many families. Thousands upon thousands,' said Ulmenetha. 'His evil is colossal.' Nogusta took a deep, calming breath.

'What did he mean about my ancestor?'

'He was talking about Emsharas — his own brother. He it was who cast the first Great Spell.'

'His brother? Are you saying that my ancestor was a demon?'

'I have no answers for you, Nogusta. Little is known of Emsharas, save that he is considered the Father of Healers, and that his magick was holy. He was certainly of the Illohir, the Windborn.'

'Then I have demon blood in my veins?'

'Forget about demons!' she snapped. 'That is not important now. Why do you think he came to us? It was to instil fear, to cause torment and disquiet. You must overcome such thoughts. Any anger or rage you feel will only add to our danger, increasing the chances of the gogarin to sense our presence.'

'I understand,' said Nogusta. 'Let us move on.'

'When we reach the foot of the slope,' said Ulmenetha, 'you must ride close to the wagon. The spell will only extend a few feet. We must be as quiet as possible.' Nogusta nodded, then rode ahead and retrieved his lance and the thrown dagger.

'Can we kill this gogarin if necessary?' Bison asked Ulmenetha.

'I don't know.'

'Could he really give me another hundred years of youth?'

'I don't know that either. Does it matter?'

'Nice thought,' said Bison, lifting the reins and snapping them down to the backs of the waiting team. They lurched forward and the wagon moved slowly on down towards the canyon floor.

In the distance storm clouds were gathering, and a rumble of thunder echoed over the mountains.

At the foot of the slope Ulmenetha climbed down from the wagon and kicked off her shoes, feeling the soft earth beneath her feet. Relaxing she drew on the power of the land. The magick here was weak, and this surprised her. It was as if the flow was being blocked. She wondered then if Anharat's power had affected the magick. Surely not. Squatting down she dug her hand into the earth. Her fingers struck something hard and flat. She smiled with relief. They were upon the old trade road. Over the centuries earth had covered the flagstones, and it was these buried stones that blocked her. Stepping from the old road she walked to a grove of nearby trees. The magick here was strong and ancient, and she drew upon it, feeling it flow through her legs, and up through the veins and arteries, swelling and surging. It was almost too strong, like fine wine, and she reached out to hold fast to the trunk of a tree.

Thunder rumbled to the south. Moving away from the trees she strode to the front of the wagon, and positioned herself to the left of the team. Nogusta, Kebra and Dagorian rode in close upon her command. Raising her hand she cast the spell. It was not especially difficult to create, but once created it needed to be held in place. The air around the wagon shimmered. Ulmenetha glanced back. She could no longer see the others. Reaching up she ran her hand along the sleek, near invisible, neck of the horse beside her, and curled her fingers around the bridle. 'Let no-one speak from now until I give the word,' she said. 'Let us go!'

She heard the reins slap upon the backs of the team, and, holding to the bridle she walked on towards the forest. The soft footfalls of the horses seemed as loud to her as the distant thunder, and the soft creaking of the wagon wheels swelled in her mind. Be calm, she warned herself, the thunder and the wind in the trees will mask the sounds.

The sky darkened, the storm moving over the forest. Lightning flashed, lighting up the forest road. A horse snorted in fear, and she heard Kebra soothe it with soft, whispered words. Ahead was the slope down which Nogusta had fled the beast. The wagon continued on, slowly.

Rain began to slash down from the heavy clouds above. Ulmenetha welcomed it. The sound covered them like a blanket.

Holding to the spell she walked on.

From above came the sound of splintering wood, and a high screeching cry that tore against Ulmenetha's ear drums, causing her knees to tremble. She dragged back on the bridle, halting the team. The screeching continued. One of the horses whinnied in terror. The screeching died away instantly, and a terrible silence followed. Ulmenetha glanced up the slope. Trees were swaying there. Fear threatened to swamp her, but she held fast to the spell.

Lightning flashed. Two of the horses snorted and stamped their hooves.

Some 30 feet above the wagon a huge, wedge shaped head emerged from the trees. Ulmenetha could see only the silhouette against the dark sky, but even above the lashing wind she could hear it snuffling, sucking in the scents of the forest, seeking out its prey.

The rain eased, and a break in the clouds allowed moonlight to bathe the scene. Ulmenetha stood very still, staring up at the great head. From the serpentine shape she had expected it to be scaled like a reptile. But it was not. Its skin was corpse white and almost translucent, and she could see the large bones of its neck pushing against the skin. The pale head twisted on its long neck, and she found herself staring into a slanted blue eye as large as a man's head. The pupil was round and black, and horribly human. The gogarin stared unblinking down towards the road. Then the head withdrew into the trees, and she heard again the splintering of wood as its enormous bulk crashed back through the forest. Tugging on the bridle she urged the wagon on, following the road around the base of the slope.

The storm swept on towards the north, the rain dying away. Breaks in the cloud cover came more often now, and the company kept moving towards the distant bridge and safety.

For an hour they plodded on. Ulmenetha was tired now, and finding it difficult to maintain the spell. The flagstones beneath the earth of the road did not allow her to replenish her power, and twice the spell faltered. She halted the team and softly called out to Nogusta.

'Does your talisman glow?'

'No,' came the response.

'I must draw power from the land. I need to leave the road.'

Releasing the bridle she ran to the roadside. Immediately the wagon and the surrounding riders became visible. Ulmenetha sank to her knees, pushing her hands into the earth. Unlike before the power seeped slowly, and she felt the tension rise in her. Her fear slowed the flow even more. She fought for calm, but it eluded her. 'Be swift!' called Nogusta. 'The talisman grows warm!'

Ulmenetha sucked in a deep breath, and sent up a swift prayer. The energy she sought had touched her blood, but it was not enough! Rising she ran towards the wagon and took hold of the bridle once more. She could hear the beast's approach now, as it crashed through the undergrowth. Fear made her falter on the third line of the spell, and she began it again.

The magick surged from her, flowing over the wagon and riders.

In the bright moonlight the gogarin emerged from the trees to the road ahead. Now they could all see it fully. It was over zo feet long. Nogusta had earlier described it as having six legs, but Ulmenetha saw that this was not quite so. The hind and middle legs were powerful and treble jointed, but the limbs at the beast's shoulders were more like long arms, equipped with murderous talons, each as long as a cavalry sabre. Rearing up on its hind legs it sniffed the night breeze. One of the spare horses, tied to the rear of the wagon, reared in terror, snapping its reins. Turning, it galloped from the road, and into the forest.

The gogarin reacted with sickening speed, dropping to all six limbs and propelling itself forward with incredible power. Ulmenetha stood stock still as it raced towards the wagon. Then it veered after the horse. Its mighty shoulder struck a young tree, uprooting it. Then it was gone behind them.

The horse galloped on, then Ulmenetha heard its death cry.

She could not move, and stood trembling beside the team. Nogusta dismounted and carefully felt his way to her side. 'We must move,' he whispered. Ulmenetha did not reply. Yet even through her terror she maintained the spell. Nogusta led her to the front of the wagon and lifted her to the seat beside the near invisible Bison. Remounting his horse Nogusta rode to the head of the team and reached down for the bridle. At his encouragement the horses moved forward.

Ulmenetha could not stop the trembling in her hands. Her eyes were tight shut, and she almost cried out as Bison's large hand reached out and patted her leg. He leaned in to her and whispered. 'Big whoreson wasn't he.'

His voice was so calm, and the strength of the man seemed to flow with the sound. Ulmenetha felt herself growing calmer. She swung on her seat, gazing fearfully back down the trail. The wagon was moving very slowly, and, with every moment that passed the priestess expected to see the huge, white form of the gogarin lumbering out behind them.

They covered another half mile. Slowly the road began to rise, and they climbed to a second ridge road. The wagon filled almost two thirds of it. The horses were tired, and twice Bison was forced to lash them with the reins, forcing them on. The power was almost gone from Ulmenetha now. She tried to draw fresh strength from the mountains, but the old stone would not surrender its magick.

Licking her finger she raised it to the wind. It was blowing from behind them. Their scent could no longer carry back to the forest. With relief she let fall the spell.

'By Heaven, that's better,' whispered Bison.

The ridge road levelled out and Bison paused the team, allowing them to catch their breath. The moon was shining brightly now, and the forest was far below them.

A thin piping cry came from the back of the wagon, as the hungry babe awoke. Bison swore and swung round. Axiana was unbuttoning her dress. The babe's cries echoed in the mountains. The queen tore at the last two buttons, exposing her left breast. The infant calmed down and began to suckle. Bison swore again, and pointed back to the forest.

Far behind them the gogarin had emerged from the trees and was moving swiftly along the road.

Nogusta leapt from the saddle. 'Everyone out of the wagon!' he yelled. 'Kebra, help me unhitch the horses.' The bowman urged his horse forward, then dismounted. He did not even try to release the traces, but drew his dagger and cut them clear. Dagorian edged his horse around the wagon, then jumped down to assist him. Pharis helped the queen down, while Conalin swept up little Sufia and climbed over the side. Bison scrambled into the back of the wagon, picking up food sacks and blankets and hurling them to the roadside.

The giant glanced back down the steep incline. The gogarin was running towards them. It seemed small at this distance, a white hound against the moonlit grey of the rock road. The team clattered clear. Nogusta climbed to stand alongside Bison. In his hand was the heavy lance, tipped with a razor sharp throwing knife.

'You know what needs to be done,' said Nogusta. Bison looked into his friend's pale blue eyes.

'I know. Let me take the spear.'

'No! The talisman will protect me from the terror it radiates. Now get down — and set the wagon rolling on my signal.'

Bison jumped to the roadside and summoned Kebra and Dagorian. 'What is he doing?' asked the young officer, as Nogusta settled himself in the back of the wagon.

'He's going to ram it,' said Bison. Stepping back he dropped down behind the front wheels, judging the line which the wagon would follow once they started it down the slope. There was a slight curve to the right some 60 yards ahead. That would be the point where — if they misjudged the speed — the wagon would roll over the edge and plunge hundreds of feet down the mountainside. Sweat beaded Bison's brow and he wiped his sleeve across his face.

'Get ready!' shouted Nogusta. The three men put their shoulders to the vehicle.

On the rear of the wagon Nogusta hefted the lance. He too could see the curve in the road, and was trying to judge the speed of the approaching beast. There was little room for error here. If the wagon rolled too fast it would reach the curve before the gogarin, and Nogusta would die uselessly. If too late the wagon might not have picked up enough speed to hurl the creature out over the abyss. Nogusta's mouth was dry, and his heart was beating fast.

'Start her moving,' he called. The three men threw their weight against the wagon. It did not budge.

'The brake is on!' shouted Bison. Nogusta ran to the headboard and vaulted to the driver's seat, pulling the brake clear. The wagon jolted forward. Nogusta almost fell, but then righted himself and ran back to the rear, taking up his lance. Valuable seconds had been lost.

'Push harder!' he commanded. The wagon began to gather speed. The gogarin rounded the curve, and saw the rumbling wagon approaching. Rearing up on its hind legs it let out a hideous screech. Nogusta felt the wave of terror strike him like a physical blow. It ripped through his mind and belly, and he screamed and fell to his knees. In all his life he had never known fear such as this. The spear dropped from his trembling fingers and he wanted to fall with it, burying his head in his hands, and squeezing shut his eyes. He could feel the talisman warm upon his skin, but it offered no help. In that moment, when despair threatened to unman him, he saw again the face of his wife, and remembered the Demon Lord's words, of how she had run through the flames. Anger came to his rescue, flaring in his belly and burning into his brain. Grabbing the lance he surged to his feet.

The wagon was almost upon the beast. The gogarin reared up high, then dropped to all six limbs, and charged. Nogusta braced himself for the impact. At the last second the gogarin reared again, its talons lashing out. The wooden side of the wagon exploded. Then the full weight of the vehicle struck the beast. Lance extended, Nogusta was catapulted forward. The dagger strapped to the lance sliced into the beast, the weapon driving deep into its shoulder. Nogusta's weight powered it on, the wood plunging deeper still. Then it snapped. Nogusta's flying body struck the gogarin's neck, then sailed on to collide with the cliff wall. Searing pain burst through his shoulder as he fell to the road and slid towards the edge. His legs went over the side and he scrabbled for a hand hold. Glancing down he saw pine trees far below. His shoulder was numb, and there was no strength in his left hand. Fear touched him, but he quelled it, and relaxed. Then he slowly hauled himself back up to the ridge.

The gogarin had been driven to the lip of the road, and the beast was flailing at its wooden enemy, its sweeping talons ripping at the wagon, smashing it to shards. Nogusta pushed himself to his feet, staggered, then drew his sword and prepared to attack.

Bison came running into sight carrying a lance, followed by Kebra and Dagorian. The bowman sent a shaft slamming into the gogarin's neck. Then Bison scrambled over the remains of the wagon and hurled himself at the beast. As the gogarin swung to meet this new attack its right hind foot slipped on the rock. The beast staggered, and tried to right itself. Bison's spear slammed against its chest, barely breaking the skin. But the giant's weight tipped the balance, and the lance propelled the creature back. The gogarin fell, tumbling through the air. Twice it crashed against the mountainside, then it soared clear and plunged through the branches of a tall pine, snapping the tree in two.

Bison leapt clear as the ruined wagon slid over the edge. He ran to Nogusta. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

The black man groaned as he tried to move his left shoulder. 'Just bruised, I hope,' he said. 'Is it dead?' Bison peered over the edge.

'I can't see it,' he said. 'But nothing could have survived that fall.'

Antikas Karios was not a man usually given to regrets. Life was life, and a man made the best of it. Yet, strangely, on this misty morning, as he sat on the stone wall of the old bridge, he found himself haunted by the ghosts of lost dreams. He had never before given much thought to the opinions of other men, or their criticisms of him. They had called him cruel, vengeful and merciless. The insults were never said to his face, but Antikas had heard them nonetheless, and had believed himself immune to them. No strong man would be affected by the sneers of lesser beings. As his father used to say, 'A lion is always followed by jackals.'

Antikas Karios had been a man with a mission, single-mindedly following a narrow road. There had been no time for introspection. No time for the casual niceties. No time for friendship. His mind and his time had been fully occupied with thoughts of freeing Ventria from the aggressor.

Not so now, as he gazed into the mist that rolled across the hills. Here in this lonely country there was time for little else but introspection.

He had been waiting by this bridge for two days now, directed here by the spirit of the sorcerer Kalizkan. 'Why do you not lead me directly to them?' he had asked.

'This is where you will be needed most.'

'Wherever they are they will be in peril. My sword could sway the balance.'

'Trust me, Antikas. Wait at the bridge. They will be with you in two days' The spirit had left him then, and Antikas Karios had waited.

At first the beauty of the mountains had been pleasant to the eyes, and he felt calm, and ready to give his life to the cause of the queen. But as the hours passed on that first day he had found himself reappraising his life. It happened without conscious thought. He was sitting on the bridge, and he suddenly thought of Kara, and the plans they had made to build a home by the sea. Sweet, soft, gentle Kara. He had made her many promises, and had kept none of them. It was not that he had meant to lie. But the war with the Drenai had taken precedence. She should have understood that.

Dreams of love and family had been washed away in a tidal wave of patriotism, and then replaced by the dream of independence. Now both dreams were dust.

During the last five years memories of Kara had come often to him, but, as busy as he was, it had been easy to suppress them. Always there were plans and schemes that required his attention. But here, during these two, lonely, soul searching days, he had found it increasingly difficult to avoid his guilt.

He remembered the last time he had seen her.

'It was not cruelty or vengeance,' he said, aloud. 'She brought humiliation upon me. What then could she expect?' The words hung in the air, and echoed, un-convincingly, in his mind. Kara had written to him, ending their engagement. She had, she wrote, waited three years. She pointed out that Antikas had promised to return home within one year. He had not done so. Nor had he written for more than eight months. It was obvious that he no longer loved her, and she had now fallen in love with a young nobleman from a neighbouring estate. They were to be married within the month.

And married they were. Antikas had arrived late for the ceremony. He had approached them both as they walked hand in hand from the church, garlands of flowers around their necks. He had removed his heavy riding glove and had struck the groom across the face with it. The duel had taken place that evening and Antikas killed him.

That night he had been summoned to Kara's home. He found her sitting in a darkened room, the lanterns unlit, heavy velvet curtains blocking out the moonlight. A single candle burned on a small table, and by its flickering light he saw her, a heavy blanket wrapped around her slender frame. Antikas remembered how hard his heart had felt, and how he had decided to make no apology for her loss. Hers was the blame, not his. He was planning to make her aware of this. But she did not rail at him. She merely looked up in the gloom and stared at his face. There was no hatred in her, he realized, merely a great sadness. In the candlelight she looked exquisitely beautiful, and he had found himself wondering how he could ever have left her for so long. In his arrogance he believed that she had never truly loved the other man, but had accepted his offer knowing that Antikas would come for her. Now he had, and, if she begged him, he would take her back, despite the humiliation. He was prepared to be forgiving. But this scene was not what he had expected. Tears, yes. Anger? Of course. But this eerie silence was intolerable.

'What is it you want of me, lady?' he said.

Her voice when it came was a faint whisper. 'You are… an evil man.. Antikas. But you will hurt us… no longer.' Her eyes held to his for a moment more, then they closed and her head sagged back. For a moment only he thought she had swooned. Then he saw the pool of blood around the base of the chair. Stepping forward he wrenched the blanket from her. Both her wrists were cut, and her clothes were drenched in blood. Still wearing her wedding dress and her garland, she had died without another word.

Antikas tried to push away the memory, but it clung to him like a poisoned vine. 'It was not evil,' he said. 'She should have waited for me. Then it would not have happened. I am not to blame.'

Who then do we blame? The thought leapt unbidden from his subconscious.

It had not ended there. Her brother had challenged Antikas. He too had died. Antikas had tried to disarm the boy, to wound him and stop the duel. But his attack had been ferocious and sustained, and, when the moment came, Antikas had responded with instinct rather than intent, his blade sinking into his opponent's heart.

Antikas Karios rose from the wall and turned to gaze down into the rushing water below. He saw the broken branch of an old oak floating there, drifting fast. It stuck for a moment against a jutting rock, then twisted free and continued on its way. Further down the bank a brown bear ambled out of the woods and waded into the water. Antikas watched it. Twice its paw splashed down. On the third time it caught a fish, propelling it out to the bank. The fish flopped against the earth, its tail thrashing wildly. The bear left the river and devoured the fish.

Antikas swung away and walked to where his horse was cropping grass. From his saddlebag he took the last of his rations.

Thoughts of Kara intruded as he ate, but this time he suppressed them, concentrating instead on the escape from Usa. Kalizkan's spirit had taken him first to an old church by the south wall, and there he had directed him to a secret room behind the altar. By the far wall was an ancient chest. It was not locked. The hinges were almost rusted through. One snapped as Antikas opened the lid. Inside were three scabbarded short swords, each wrapped in linen. Antikas removed them.

'These are the last of the Storm Swords,' said Kalizkan, 'created when the world was younger. They were fashioned by Emsharas the Sorcerer, for use against the demonic Krayakin.'

Antikas had carried them from the city to where the army was camped beyond. There he had obtained a horse and supplies and had ridden out into the mountains.

On his first night he had unwrapped one of the swords. The pommel was inset with a blue jewel, heavy and round, held in place by golden wire. The tang was covered by a wooden grip, wrapped in a pale, greyish white skin, while the upwardly curved quillons were deeply engraved with gold lettering. The scabbard was simple, and without adornment. Slowly Antikas drew the sword forth.

'Do not touch the blade!' warned the voice of Kalizkan. In the moonlight the blade was black, and, at first, Antikas believed it to be of tarnished silver. But, as he turned it, he saw the moon reflected brilliantly on its dark surface.

'What is the metal?' he asked Kalizkan.

'Not metal, child. Enchanted ebony,' replied the sorcerer. 'I don't know how he did it. It can cut through stone, yet it is made of wood.'

'Why is it called a Storm Sword?'

'Stand up and hold the flat of your hand just above the blade.'

Antikas did so. Colours swept along the ebony, then white blue lightning lanced up into his palm. In surprise he leapt back, dropping the sword. The point vanished into the earth, and only the curved quillons prevented the blade sinking from sight. Antikas drew it clear. Not a mark of mud had stained the sword. Once again he held his hand over it. Lightning danced to his skin. There was no pain. The sensation was curious, and he noticed that the hairs on the back of his hand were tingling.

'What causes the small lightning?' he asked Kalizkan.

'I wish I knew. Emsharas was Windborn. He knew far more than any human sorcerer.'

'A demon? Yet he made swords to fight demons? Why would that be?'

'You have a penchant for asking questions I cannot answer. Whatever his reasons Emsharas allied himself with the Three Kings, and he it was who cast the Great Spell that banished all demons from the earth.'

'Including himself?'

'Indeed so.'

'That makes no sense,' said Antikas. 'He betrayed more than his own people, he betrayed his entire race. What could induce a man to commit such an act?'

'He was not a man, he was — as you rightly say — a demon,' said Kalizkan. 'And who can know the minds of such creatures? Certainly not I, for I was foolish enough to trust one, and paid for it with my life.'

'I loathe mysteries,' said Antikas.

'I have always been rather partial to them,' admitted Kalizkan. 'But to attempt an answer to your question, perhaps it was simply hatred. He and his brother, Anharat, were mortal enemies. Anharat desired the destruction of the human race. Emsharas set out to thwart him. You know the old adage, the enemy of my enemy must be my friend? Therefore Emsharas became a friend to humans.'

'It is not convincing,' said Antikas. 'There must have been some among his people that he loved — and yet he caused their destruction also.'

'He did not destroy them — merely banished them from the earth. But if we are questioning motivations, did you not cause the destruction of the one you loved?'

Antikas was shocked. 'That was entirely different,' he snapped.

'I stand corrected.'

'Let us talk of more relevant matters,' said the swordsman. 'These warriors I am to fight are Krayakin, yes?'

'They are indeed — the greatest fighters ever to walk the earth.'

'They have not met me yet,' Antikas pointed out.

'Trust me, my boy, they will not be quaking in their boots.'

'They ought to,' said Antikas. 'Now tell me about them.'

Antikas was sitting once more on the bridge wall when the riders emerged from the mist. The black warrior, Nogusta, was leading them. Antikas could see the queen, sitting side saddle, her horse led by a tall, slim, blond-haired woman in a flowing blue robe. Behind them came the man, Bison. Antikas had last seen him tied to the whipping post, on the day that Nogusta slew Cerez. A small, fair-haired child was seated before him. Behind the giant came two more youngsters, riding double, a red-haired boy of around fourteen and a wand-thin girl with long dark hair. Then he saw Dagorian. The officer was holding a small bundle in his arms. Bringing up the rear was the bowman, Kebra.

Nogusta saw him and left the group, cantering his horse down the shallow slope.

'Good morning to you,' said Antikas, rising and offering a bow. 'I am pleased to see you alive.'

Nogusta dismounted and moved closer, his expression unreadable. Antikas spoke again. 'I am not here as an enemy, black man.'

'I know.'

Antikas was surprised. 'Kalizkan told you about me?'

'No. I had a vision.' Slowly the group filed to the bridge. Nogusta waved them on, and they rode past the two swordsmen. Antikas bowed deeply to Axiana, who responded with a smile. She looked wan and terribly weary.

'Is the queen sick?' he asked Nogusta, after she had passed.

'The birth was not easy, and she lost blood. The priestess healed her, but she will need time to recover fully.'

'Is the child strong?'

'He is strong,' said Nogusta. 'It is our hope that he remains that way. You know that we are followed?'

Antikas nodded. 'By the Krayakin. Kalizkan told me. I will remain here and bar their path.'

Nogusta smiled for the first time. 'Not even you can defeat four such warriors. Even with the black swords.'

'It was a good vision you had,' said Antikas. 'Would you care to share it with me?' Nogusta shook his head.

'Ah,' said Antikas, with a wide grin, 'I am to die then. Well, why not? It is something I've not done before. Perhaps I shall enjoy the experience.'

Nogusta remained silent for a moment. Dagorian, Kebra and Bison came running back across the bridge to stand alongside him. 'What is he doing here?' said Dagorian, his face flushed and angry.

'He is here to help us,' said Nogusta.

'That's not likely,' hissed Dagorian. 'He sent assassins after me. He is in league with the enemy.'

'Such indiscipline in your ranks, Nogusta,' said Antikas. 'Perhaps that is why you never gained a commission.'

'Shall I break his neck?' asked Bison.

'How novel,' muttered Antikas, 'an ape that speaks.' Bison surged forward. Nogusta threw out his arm. The effort of blocking the giant made him wince, as his injured shoulder flared with fresh pain.

'Calm down,' he said. 'There is no treachery here. Antikas Karios is one of us. Understand that. The past is of no consequence. He is here to defend the bridge and buy us time. Let there be no more insults.' He turned to Antikas. 'The Krayakin will come tonight. They do not like the sun, and will wait for the clouds to clear and the moon to shine bright. There will be four of them. But riding with them will be a unit of Ventrian cavalry, sent by the demon who inhabits Malikada.'

'You say I cannot defeat them alone? Will you then stand with me?'

'I would like nothing more.'

'No,' said Dagorian, suddenly. 'Your shoulder is injured. I have watched you ride. You are in great pain and your movements are slow and sluggish. I will stay.'

'I too,' said Kebra.

Nogusta shook his head. 'We cannot risk everything on one encounter. There are only four of the Krayakin directly behind us. Four more are out there, moving to cut us off. We need to put distance between us. Antikas Karios has chosen to defend this bridge. Dagorian has offered to stand beside him. That is how it will be.' He swung to Kebra. 'You and Bison ride on with the others. Keep heading south. About a mile ahead the road branches. Take the route to the left. You will pass over the highest ridge. Move with care, for it will be cold and treacherous. I will join you soon.'

The two men moved away and Nogusta sat down on the bridge wall and rubbed his injured shoulder. Ulmenetha's new-found magick had knitted the broken collar bone, and he could feel himself healing fast. But not fast enough to be of use to the two men who would guard the bridge.

'Bring out the black swords,' he told Antikas. The swordsman moved to his horse and lifted clear the bundle tied to the rear of the saddle. Warning Nogusta and Dagorian to beware of the blades he unwrapped them. They were identical save for the crystal jewels in the pommels. One was blue, the second white as fresh fallen snow, the third crimson. The blue blade Antikas took for himself. Nogusta waited for Dagorian. The young officer chose the sword with the white pommel. Nogusta accepted the last.

'There is little I can say to advise you,' he told Dagorian. 'Stay close to Antikas Karios, guard his back as best you can.'

'You have seen the coming fight, haven't you?'

'Glimpses of it only. Do not ask me about the outcome. You are a good man, Dagorian. Few would have the courage to face the warriors coming against you.'

'This is all very touching, black man,' said Antikas, 'but why don't you ride on? I will take Dagorian under my wing, as it were.'

'I don't need your protection,' snapped Dagorian.

'You Drenai are so touchy. It comes from lacking any sense of true nobility, I expect.' Antikas strode back to his horse, mounted and rode past them down the bridge.

'Are you sure he can be trusted?' asked Dagorian. Nogusta nodded.

'Do not be fooled by his manner. He is a man of great honour, and he carries a burden of shame. He is also frightened. What you are seeing is merely a mask. He is of the old Ventrian nobility, and he is drawing on its values in order to face a terrible enemy.'

Dagorian sat alongside the black swordsman. 'I never wanted to be a soldier,' he said.

'You told me, you wanted to be a priest. Well, think on this, my friend, is it not a priest's duty to keep a lantern lit against the dark? Is it not his purpose to stand against evil in all its forms?'

'That is true,' agreed Dagorian.

'Then today you are a priest, for the demons are coming. They seek the blood of innocence.'

Dagorian smiled. 'I did not need encouragement, but I thank you for it anyway.'

Nogusta rose. 'When your mission here is done, head south, follow the high road. You will see the ghost city of Lem in the distance. We will meet you there.'

Dagorian said nothing, but he gave a knowing smile. Then he held out his hand. Nogusta clasped it firmly. Then he mounted Starfire and rode away.

Nogusta walked his horse to the far end of the bridge. Ulmenetha stepped in front of his horse.

'Did you tell him?' she asked.

'No,' he told her, sadly.

'Why? Does he not have a right to know?'

'Would he fight the better if he did?' he countered.

As the others rode away Dagorian took a deep breath then stared around the bridge. Built of stone it was around 80 feet across and zo wide. He had seen it on two of Nogusta's maps. Once it must have had a name, for it was a fine structure, carefully constructed. But it was lost to history now, as was the name of the river it spanned. Built when Lem was a thriving city it must have cost a fortune, he thought, picturing the hundreds of men who had laboured here. There had once been statues at both ends of the bridge, but only the plinths remained. It was as Nogusta had said, 'History forgets us all eventually.' Walking to the bridge wall he looked down at the river bank. A stone arm jutted from the mud. Dagorian strolled down to it, pushing the earth away, and exposing a marble shoulder. The head was missing. Casting around he saw a section of a stone leg, covered by weeds. Someone had toppled the statues. He wondered why.

He drank from the river then climbed back to the bridge. 'Time for a little work, Drenai,' said Antikas.

The area around the north of the bridge was heavy with rocks and boulders. Dagorian and Antikas laboured for two hours, rolling large stones onto the bridge to impede enemy horses. The two men spoke little as they worked, for Dagorian remained uneasy in the presence of the hawk-eyed Ventrian. This man had planned to kill him, and had been instrumental in the destruction of the Drenai army, and the murder of the king. Now he was to stand beside him against a terrible foe. The thought was not a pleasant one.

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

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

'We should practise,' said Antikas.

'I need no practice,' snapped Dagorian. Antikas Karios said nothing for a moment, then he stepped in close.

'Your hatred means less than nothing to me, Drenai,' he said, softly. 'But your petulance is irritating.'

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

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

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

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

The right.'

'Very well, take up your position, and let us rehearse some simple moves.' The two men walked out onto the

bridge. The enemy will be forced to advance on foot, clambering over the rocks and brush. We will wait for them, and engage them here,' he said. 'No matter what happens you must stay on my right. Do not cross over. Now you are less skilful than I, so at no time try to move to my defence. If I move to yours I will call out, so that you know where I am.'

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

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

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

'You sound very sure.'

'And you are not?'

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

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

'Easier said than done,' Dagorian told him.

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

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

'Have you ever loved?' asked Antikas.

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

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

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

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

'All I know of him is that he cast the Great Spell thousands of years ago.'

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

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

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

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

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

Dagorian suddenly laughed and shook his head. 'What is so amusing?' asked Antikas.

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

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

'Why do you stay?' asked the younger man.

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

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

'No,' admitted Antikas Karios.

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

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

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

'So humour me, Antikas Karios. Tell me why you are here on this cursed bridge?'

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

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

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

'What am I looking at?'

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

They will — when the Krayakin come.'

'I don't think so,' said Antikas.

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

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

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

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

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

Anharat could hardly wait to experiment further upon them.

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

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

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

'Nowhere,' answered the figure.

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

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

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

'Not all of them. One remains.'

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

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

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

'I have done none of these things, Anharat. Where do you think I found the power for the Great Spell?'

'I neither know, nor care,' lied Anharat.

'Oh, you care, brother, for you know that you and I were almost equally matched, and yet I discovered a source of power hitherto unknown. You could use it too.

I will willingly tell it to you — if you will help me complete my work.'

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

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

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

'I did not have the power to complete the Spell. I needed you, Anharat.'

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

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

With that the figure vanished.

Anharat closed his eyes and fastened to the search spell. He felt it grow weaker and weaker, as if coming to him across a vast distance. Then it was gone.

The Demon Lord returned to his wine and drank deeply. In all his thousands of years held captive in the void he had used every known spell to locate Emsharas, sending search spells out through the universe. Yet there was nothing. It was as if Emsharas had never been.

And now, with the hour of Anharat's triumph approaching, his brother had returned.

Anharat could have endured threats, but Emsharas had made none. And what did he mean by denying that he had been hiding? A tiny seed of doubt seeped into Anharat's mind. His brother never lied. Refilling his goblet Anharat drank again, recalling again the words of Emsharas. 'Oh, you care, brother, for you know that you and I were almost equally matched, and yet I discovered a source of power hitherto unknown. You could use it too. I will willingly tell it to you — if you will help me complete my work.' What source of power? Anharat moved to the pallet bed and lay down. Tell it to you. That's what Emsharas had said. Not give it to you. Not tell you where it is. The secret power source was not then an object, like a talisman, but something that could be passed on with words alone. It was impossible.

And yet. . they had been almost equally matched. Where then had his brother found the power to banish an entire race?

There would be time to ponder the question. For now Anharat wished to see his victory draw closer. Allowing his mind to relax, his dark spirit floated free and flew over the mountains towards the stone bridge.