Authors: David Gemmell
“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 eight feet long, strong but unwieldy. Nogusta and Kebra strapped knives to the tips, and Nogusta added more twine around the lower hafts, creating handgrips. Dagorian’s lance was more primitive, seven 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 signaled 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 and 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 on 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 seven 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,” Bison said 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 instill
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 extend only 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 toward 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 were 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 on 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, nearly 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 toward 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 eardrums, 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 thirty 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 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 toward 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 toward the north, the rain dying away. Breaks in the cloud cover came more often now, and the company kept moving toward the distant bridge and safety.