Winter Warriors (38 page)

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 toward the stone bridge.

10

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

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

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

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

“Which emperor would that be?” Antikas responded.

“Give way, Antikas Karios. You cannot stand against all of us. And I have no orders for your arrest.” The captain shifted nervously on his horse and continually glanced back toward the black-armored Krayakin.

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

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

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

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

“Remember,” whispered Antikas, “stay to the right.”

“I shall.”

“Are your hands trembling?”

“No.”

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

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

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

Antikas ran at them, and they turned and fled.

They did not get far.

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

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

“You fight well, human,” came a muffled voice. “And I see you have found a storm sword. It should be an interesting encounter.”

“All at once or one at a time. I care not,” said Antikas.

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

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

“Do not concern yourself with me,” Dagorian said with a weak smile. “Do as he bade.”

Antikas had been cut just above his left eyebrow. The gash was around two inches long, and blood was dripping into his eye. With his dagger he slashed through his shirtsleeve, then ripped it clear. Tearing a strip from it, he bound his brow. “Terrible thing to do to a good shirt,” he said. “My tailor would be most annoyed.”

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

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” said Dagorian. “Take the storm sword. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

Armed with the two black blades, Antikas strode back to
the center of the bridge. “What is your name?” he asked the tall warrior.

“I am Golbar,” replied the Krayakin.

“Come then, Golbar, let us dance a jig.”

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

Antikas attacked, and as their swords met, lightning crackled from the blades. The attack was parried with ease, and Antikas only just managed to avoid a murderous riposte that further sliced the ruined satin shirt. The Krayakin came at him with bewildering speed, and Antikas found himself fighting for his life. Never had he faced a more skillful opponent or met a man with reflexes as fast as those of this Krayakin. Antikas parried and blocked with increasing desperation, and slowly he was forced farther back along the bridge. Anger touched him then, for the Krayakin was toying with him. Twice he had an opportunity to lance a thrust through the human’s guard, and twice he merely sliced small cuts in his opponent’s chest.

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

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

“I am ready now,” he said.

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

Antikas moved forward to face the remaining three.

“Who gets to strip next?” he asked.

“No one,” came the response. “Golbar always had a taste for the dramatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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