Winter Warriors (32 page)

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, semiconscious. 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 lifeblood draining away. Axiana had been six years old. Her nurse had brought her in to say good-bye. But her mother had been
delirious and had not recognized her. She had called out a name, screamed it loudly. No one had known 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 that 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-gray 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 had 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 armor 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 forever. 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 warriors 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 as 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 armor 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. “Put 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’ 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 on 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 breastbone. 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’ hand and burst into a bright flame that 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 there 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 and 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 splendor 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 that 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 had 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 had said. Nogusta had seen his own reflection and had told him so.