Winter Warriors (14 page)

Safe now, he stared down at his arms and hands, amazed that there was no blood. The talons had ripped into him so many times. He slumped back, exhausted.

“What happened here?” whispered Zani. “What were you struggling against?”

Dagorian did not answer. The
lorassium
did not merely increase visual powers, it also enhanced perception and cognitive skills. As the effects faded, he fought to hold to the impressions he had gained even during his panicked flight.

The demons were not sentient—at least not in a way any human could understand. They were … the word “feeders” came to his mind. Yes, that was it. Like a hungry pack they sought to devour … what? What was the source of his pain?
It was not physical, yet it would have killed him. The
lorassium
was almost gone now, and he struggled to hold on to the knowledge he had gained. Though not sentient, the creatures had a purpose that was
beyond
their own desires. Their violence was
directed
.

The sun was setting behind the mountains. Soon the dark would come. Fear rose again in Dagorian. “We must get away from here,” he said.

5

M
OONLIGHT GLISTENED ON
the outer skin of the White Wolf’s tent, turning its flanks to silver. Inside the old man opened the map casket and began searching through it. A brazier full of hot coals filled the tent with warmth, and two glowing lanterns cast flickering shadows on the inner walls.

Finding the map he was looking for, the old man straightened. His lower back ached, and he stretched his arms high, trying to loosen his muscles. The cold struck him then, bitter as a winter blizzard. With a groan he turned toward the brazier of coals. No heat came from them now. He sat on the pallet bed, suddenly weary, dropped the map upon the thin mattress, and reached out his hands toward the fire. The hands were old and liver-spotted, the knuckles large with rheumatism.

Depression grew in him. Once I was young, he thought. He remembered his first battle in the old king’s re-formed army. He had fought all day with never a hint of fatigue. And that night he had bedded two of the camp women, one after the other. He glanced down at his thin, wrinkled legs, the loose skin slack over withered muscles. You should have died years ago, he said to himself.

The cold grew more intense, but he had ceased to feel it.

The depression deepened into a bleak despair formed of regret for what had passed and a chilling fear of all that was to come: incontinence and senility. What would he do back in Drenan? Hire servants to change his soiled bed linen and wipe away the drool that dripped from his mouth? Perhaps he
would not see the disgust on their faces. Then again, perhaps in moments of clarity he would.

The old man drew his dagger and laid the blade upon his wrist. Clenching his fist, he saw the arteries stand out. Swiftly he sliced the dagger blade across them. Even the blood that flowed was weak and thin, pumping out to stain the leather cavalry kilt, flowing on over his thighs and down into his boots.

He sat very still, remembering the glory days, until at last he toppled from the bed.

The fire flared, and heat began once more to permeate the tent.

After some minutes the tent flap was opened, and two men stepped inside.

The first man ran to the body and knelt beside it. “Sweet heaven,” he whispered. “Why? He was in good spirits when you sent him for the map, my lord. And he won heavily on the king’s birthday. He was talking about his home near Dros Corteswain and his plans for the farm. This makes no sense.”

The White Wolf stood silently, his pale gaze scanning the interior of the tent. Upon the folding table was a goblet and a jug that had contained water. Now it was filled with melting ice. Condensation had also created a sheen of ice on the tent walls.

Banelion masked his anger. The possibility of a sorcerous attack had not occurred to him, and he cursed himself for his stupidity.

“I don’t understand,” said the gray-bearded officer, kneeling by the corpse. “Why would he kill himself?”

“Why does anyone kill themselves?” countered Banelion. “Have the body removed.”

Dagorian and Zani stabled their mounts. The ride had been a silent one, and now, as they walked through the dusk-shadowed streets, the little Ventrian moved in close to the taller officer. “I think you should tell me what happened back there,” he said.

The Drenai warrior nodded, then led Zani to a small tavern
just off the market square. It was almost empty, and they took a window table. Dagorian ordered wine, added a little water, then sipped the drink. “There were demons,” he said at last, keeping his voice low. “Scores of them. Perhaps hundreds. They filled the house—all except for the room with the ward spell. They tore at me with talons and teeth. I thought my flesh was being ripped from my bones.”

“But there were no wounds. Perhaps it was just the drug.”

Dagorian shook his head. “There were wounds, Zani. I can still feel them. They were tearing at my spirit—my soul, if you like. They were even outside, in the trees. Worse, I sensed they were everywhere. They are probably here even now, in the shadows of the ceiling, by the walls.”

Zani glanced around nervously, but he could see nothing. “What were they like?” Dagorian described them: their bone-white faces and bulging eyes, their sharp teeth and talons. Zani shivered. It sounded like the ravings of a madman, which Zani would have infinitely preferred to be true. But they were investigating more than a score of bizarre murders, and everything Dagorian described had the ring of truth to it. Even so, it was wildly beyond Zani’s understanding. The Drenai officer fell silent. Zani spoke again, keeping his voice low. “What does all this mean, Drenai?”

“I do not know. It is far beyond what I was taught. But there was something else. I was rescued by a shining figure with a sword of fire. He it was who made me recite the holy verses.”

“A shining figure,” repeated Zani. “An angel, you mean?”

Dagorian saw skepticism swell once more in the Ventrian’s expression. “I am sorry, Zani. Were I you, I would also be deeply suspicious. Is the man mad? Did the
lorassium
merely swell his delusions?” Zani relaxed and smiled. “Well, the man is not mad. But he is frightened. And he does have a theory of sorts.”

“That, at least, sounds promising,” said Zani.

“All the people killed—or fled—were seers. They could
see
the demons.”

“Which means?”

“Think of an army on the march in enemy territory. The scouts are the eyes. Therefore, the first objective is to kill the scouts. The army is now blind.”

“But these demons cannot kill. They did not attack me. And once the drug wore off, you were also safe.”

“They cannot kill
directly
. But they can influence emotions. That much I was taught back at the temple. If their malevolence is directed by a power magus, they can inspire great malice and hatred. That is the key to the killings. The boy who killed his mother, the dogs who attacked their master. All of them.”

“I know little of demons, and I wish I knew less,” said Zani. “But what I do know is that this is far beyond my talents. We must consult Kalizkan.”

“Before this morning I would have agreed with you,” said Dagorian. “I will think on it.”

“What is there to think about? He is the greatest sorcerer in the empire.”

“I know. That is what worries me.”

“You make no sense.”

“I have read stories about sorcerers summoning demons in ones or twos. Here we have hundreds. Only the greatest of the magi could even consider such a spell. A sorcerer of such power would not be unknown. He would be famous, rich, and powerful. Is there another such sorcerer in Usa?”

Zani’s face darkened. “I have met Kalizkan many times,” he said coldly. “He is a fine man and much admired. He rescues children from the streets. He is kind and greatly loved. To speak of him summoning demons is a slander. And I’ll hear no more of it. I think the drug addled your senses, Drenai. I suggest you return to the barracks and rest. Perhaps tomorrow you will be clearheaded again.”

The Ventrian pushed back his chair and strode for the door. Dagorian made no attempt to call him back. If the situation were reversed, he, too, would be skeptical. Zani reached the door, pulled it open, and stepped outside. Dagorian heard him scream. The Ventrian officer stumbled back into the tavern, blood pumping from a terrible wound in his throat. Three dark-clad
warriors moved inside. They were hooded and masked. The first thrust a sword deep into Zani’s belly. The other two ran at Dagorian. The Drenai warrior upended the table in their path, slowing them, then drew his own blade. A sword lunged for his throat. Dagorian swayed aside and launched an overhand cut that chopped deep into his opponent’s neck, slicing through the bone beneath. He was dead before he hit the floor. As his saber came clear, Dagorian leapt backward. The second assassin’s sword sliced air. Bringing up his saber in a reverse cut, Dagorian slashed the blade into the assassin’s arm. It cut deep. The man screamed and dropped his sword. The killer who had stabbed Zani threw a knife, which missed Dagorian and clattered against the far wall.

The man with the wounded arm scrambled back and ran for the door. His companion hesitated, then joined him, and the two escaped into the night. Dagorian ran to Zani, but the little Ventrian, lying in a spreading pool of blood, was dead.

Anger rose in the Drenai officer, and he ran from the tavern, trying to catch the killers.

The streets were dark now, and there was no sign of them. Sheathing his saber, he returned to where the bodies lay. The tavern keeper approached him. “I have sent for the watch,” he said. Dagorian nodded and moved to the rear of the room, where the dead assassin lay. Flipping the body with his foot, he knelt down and wrenched away the mask and hood. The man was unknown to him. He heard a soft curse from the tavern keeper and swung around.

“You know this man?”

The tavern keeper nodded dumbly. “He has been in here several times, usually in uniform.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know his name. But he’s an aide to Antikas Karios.”

For the third time that afternoon Nogusta signaled a halt to rest the horses. The two mares ridden by Kebra and Bison did not need rest, but Nogusta’s huge black gelding was breathing heavily and sweat bathed its flanks. Nogusta stroked its
sleek neck. “Do not be downhearted, great one,” he whispered soothingly. “You have been ill, and you need time to regain your strength.” The black man led him through the stand of pine and up the last rise. On the crest he paused and gazed down at the verdant valley below.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Bison, moving alongside Nogusta. “Sold for his hide! There must have been a mistake.”

“No mistake. He has a lung infection, and the king decided he was no longer of use.”

“But this is Starfire. He’s been the king’s warhorse for years. The king loves this horse.”

“Beware the love of kings,” Nogusta said coldly. “Starfire is like us, Bison. He’s at least eighteen years old and not as strong and fleet as once he was. Skanda had no more use for him, so he was sold for hide and meat and glue.”

“If he’s useless, why did you buy him?”

“He deserved better.”

“Maybe he did, but what will you do when he drops dead?” argued Bison. “I mean … look at the state he’s in! Horses don’t survive lung rot.”

“The diagnosis is wrong. There is no wasting of the muscles. It is just an infection, and he will improve in the mountain air. But if he does die, it will be under the sky, free and proud, among friends who care for him.”

“He’s just a horse,” persisted Bison. “Do you really think he cares?”

“I care.”

Taking up the reins, Nogusta started the long walk down into the valley. Bison and Kebra rode ahead, and by the time the black warrior had led the warhorse to level ground, his two companions had made camp beside a stream. Bison had collected dry wood for a fire, and Kebra unpacked pots and plates for the evening meal.

Nogusta unsaddled the black gelding, let him roll, then groomed him. The horse was huge, almost eighteen hands, with a strong, arched neck and a beautiful back. A white blaze in the shape of a star adorned his brow. “Rest now, my friend,”
said Nogusta. “The grass here is good.” The weary gelding plodded onto the meadow and began to crop grass.