Winter Warriors (43 page)

N
OGUSTA WAS ONLY
vaguely aware that he was riding a horse. Someone was sitting behind him, holding him in the saddle. He opened his eyes and saw that the company was moving slowly across a verdant valley. Up ahead Antikas Karios was riding Starfire. Nogusta felt a stab of irritation but then remembered he had commanded the Ventrian to take his horse. Starfire was a spirited animal, and Nogusta was in no condition to ride him.

He glanced down at the hands supporting him. They were slender and feminine. Patting the hands, he whispered, “Thank you.”

“Do you need to stop and rest?” Ulmenetha asked him.

“No.” His vision swam, and he leaned back into the woman.

Bison was gone, and the pain of loss struck him savagely. He swayed in the saddle and felt Ulmenetha’s arms holding him firmly. Then he drifted into dreams of the past. The day passed in a haze. When they stopped to rest the horses, Kebra helped him down. Nogusta did not know where he was, only that the sun was warm on his face, the grass cool against his back. It was blissful there, and he wanted to sleep forever. From somewhere close came the cry of an infant. Then he heard a child singing a song. He seemed to remember that the child had been killed by a wagon, but obviously this was not so. He was relieved, as if a burden had been lifted from him.

At some point he was fed a thick soup. He remembered the taste but could not recall who had fed him or why he had not fed himself.

Then he saw his father. They were all sitting in the main
room of the house, his brothers and sisters, his mother, and his old aunt. “I shall show you some magick,” his father said, rising from the old horsehide chair he cherished. He lifted the talisman from around his neck. The chain was long, the gold glinting in the lantern light. Father walked to the eldest of Nogusta’s brothers and tried to loop the chain over his head. But the chain shrank and would not pass over the boy’s skull. Each of the brothers in turn marveled at the magick. Then he came to Nogusta. The chain slid easily over his head, the talisman settling to his chest.

“What is the trick?” asked his eldest brother.

“There is no trick,” said Father. “The talisman has chosen. That is all.”

“That is not fair,” said the eldest. “I am the heir. It should be mine.”

“I was not the heir,” Father pointed out. “Yet it chose me.”

“How does it choose?” asked the youngest brother.

“I do not know. But the man who made it was our ancestor. He was greater than any king.”

That night, alone in their room, his eldest brother struck him in the face. “It should have been mine,” he said. “It was a trick because Father loves you more.”

Nogusta could still feel the pain of the blow. Only now, for some strange reason that he could not fathom, the pain was emanating from his shoulder.

He was riding again, and he opened his eyes to see the stars shining in the night sky. A new moon hung like a sickle over the mountains, just like on his talisman. He almost expected to see a golden hand reach out to encircle it. High above him an owl glided by on white wings.

White wings …

“Poor Bison,” he said aloud.

“He is at peace,” said a voice. The voice confused Nogusta. Somehow Ulmenetha had been transformed into Kebra.

“How did you do that?” he mumbled. Then he slept again and awoke beside a campfire. Kebra had become Ulmenetha again, and her hand was upon his wound. She was chanting softly.

A figure floated before his vision, blurred and indistinct, and Nogusta fell away into a deep dream.

He was sitting in the long meadow back at home, and he could hear his mother singing in the kitchen. A tall man was sitting beside him, a black man but one he did not know.

“This was a peaceful time for you,” said the man.

“It was the best of times,” Nogusta told him.

“If you survive, you must come back and rebuild. The descendants of your herds are back in the mountains. There are great stallions there, and the herds are strong.”

“The memories are too painful.”

“Yes, they are painful, but there is peace here if you seek it.”

He looked at the man. “Who are you?”

“I am Emsharas. And you are the last of my human line.”

“You cast the great spell.”

“I began it. It is not complete yet.”

“Will the child die?”

“All of man’s children die, Nogusta. It is their weakness—and their strength. There is great power in death. Rest now, for you have one last test before you.”

Nogusta opened his eyes. The glorious light of a new dawn was edging over the mountains. He groaned as he sat up. Kebra grinned at him.

“Welcome back, my brother,” he said. There were tears in Kebra’s eyes as he leaned forward and for the first time embraced Nogusta.

Anharat’s anger had cooled now as he sat in his tent, listening to the reports from his scouts. The renegades had crossed the last bridge before Lem and were now less than twelve miles from the ruins. A five-man scouting party had attacked them, but Antikas Karios had killed two, a third having been shot from the saddle by a bowman. “Bring in the survivors,” ordered Anharat.

Two burly scouts entered the tent, then threw themselves to the floor, touching their brows to the rug at Anharat’s feet.

“Up!” he commanded. The men rose, their expressions
fearful. “Tell me what you saw.” Both men began speaking at once, then glanced at one another. “You,” said Anharat, pointing to the man on the left. “Speak.”

“They were coming down a long slope, my lord. Antikas Karios was leading them. He was followed by a white-haired man, then by the queen and her servant. There was a small child and two youngsters. And a black man with a bandage around his chest. There was blood on it. Captain Badayen thought we could surprise them with a sudden charge. So that’s what we did. He was the first to die. Antikas Karios wheeled his horse and charged us! The captain went down, then Malik. Then the bowman shot an arrow through the throat of Valis. So me and Cupta turned our horses and galloped off. We thought it best to report what we’d seen.”

Anharat looked deep into the man’s dark eyes. They both expected death. The demon lord wished he could oblige them. But morale among the humans was low. Most of them had friends and family back in the tortured city of Usa, and they did not understand why they were pursuing a small group across a wilderness. Added to this, Anharat had noticed a great wariness among his officers when they spoke to him. At first it had confused him, for even while inhabiting the decaying body of Kalizkan, the warmth spell had maintained the popularity the sorcerer had enjoyed. The same spell had little effect on Malikada’s men. This, he reasoned at last, was because Malikada had never been popular. He was feared. This was not a wholly undesirable state of affairs, but with morale suffering Anharat would gain no added support from these humans by butchering two hapless scouts.

“You acted correctly,” he told the men. “Captain Badayen should not have charged. He should have ridden ahead as ordered and held the last bridge. You are blameless. Had the captain survived, I would have hanged him. Go and get some food.”

The men stood blinking in disbelief. Then they bowed and swiftly backed from the tent. Anharat gazed at his officers, sensing their relief. What curious creatures these humans are, he thought.

“Leave me now,” he told them.

No one moved. Not a man stirred. All stood statue still, not a flickering muscle, not the blink of an eyelid. As if from a great distance Anharat heard the gentle tinkling music of wind chimes. He spun around to see Emsharas standing by the tent entrance. His brother was wearing a sky-blue robe, and a gold circlet adorned his brow. It was no vision! Emsharas was there in the flesh.

A cold fury grew within Anharat, and he began to summon his power. “Not wise, Brother,” said Emsharas. “You need all your strength for the completion of the spell.”

It was true. “What do you want here?” demanded Anharat.

“Peace between us—and the salvation of our people,” said Emsharas.

“There will never be peace between you and me. You betrayed us all. I will hate you until the stars burn out and die and the universe returns to the dark.”

“I have never hated you, Anharat. Not now, not ever. But I ask you—as I asked you once before—to consider your actions. The Illohir could never have won. We are few, they are many. Their curious minds grow with each passing generation. The secrets of magick will not be held from them forever. Where, then, shall we be? What must we become, save dusty legends from their past? We opened the gateways, you and I. We brought the Illohir to this hostile world. We did not kill when we were Windborn; we did not lust after terror and death.”

Anharat gave a derisive laugh. “And we knew no pleasures save those of the intellect. We knew no joys, Emsharas.”

“I disagree. We saw the birthing of stars; we raced upon the cosmic storm winds. There was joy there. Can you not see that we are alien to this planet? It conspires against us. The waters burn our skin; the sunlight saps our strength. We cannot feed here unless it be from the emotions of humans. We are parasites on this world. Nothing more.”

Emsharas stepped farther into the tent and looked closely at the frozen officers. “Their dreams are different from ours.
We will never live among them. And one day they will destroy us all.”

“They are weak and pitiful,” said Anharat, his hand slowly moving toward the dagger at his belt. It would need no magick to plunge a dagger into his brother’s heart. Then he, too, would be cast into nowhere.

“I offer a new world for our people,” said Emsharas.

“Tell me the source of your power,” whispered Anharat, his fingers curling around the dagger hilt.

Emsharas swung to face him. “Why have you not already guessed it?” he countered. “All the clues are there in the failure of your search spells and the nature of the great spell itself.”

“You found a place to hide. That is all I know.”

“No, Anharat. I am not hiding.”

“You liar! I see you standing before me, drawing breath.”

“Indeed you can. Tonight I opened a gateway, Anharat, to bring me through to you. But where is ‘tonight’? It is four thousand years in the past, and I am with the army of the three kings, and tomorrow you and I will fight above the battlefield. You will lose. Then I will prepare myself for the great spell. You can help me complete it. Our people can have a world of their own!”

“This is the world I want!” snarled Anharat, drawing the dagger. Leaping forward, he slashed the blade at his brother. Emsharas swayed aside. His form shimmered.

And he was gone.

Bakilas sat quietly in the dark. The Illohir had no need of sleep. There was no necessity to regenerate tissue. All was held in place by magick fueled by feeding. The Lord of the Krayakin needed no rest. He was waiting in this place only because his horse was weary.

Truth to tell, he had not been surprised when his brothers had been defeated. This quest was flawed from the beginning. The priestess was right. It was no coincidence that a descendant of Emsharas should be guarding the baby. There was
some grand strategy here whose significance was lost on Bakilas.

What do I do now? he wondered. Where do I go?

He stood and walked to the brow of the hill and gazed down on the ruins of Lem. He could remember when this city had been like a jewel, shimmering in the night with a hundred thousand lights.

He gazed up at the stars, naming them in his mind, recalling the times when, formless, he had visited them. In that moment he wished he had never been offered the gift of flesh.

Anharat and Emsharas had brought it to the Illohir. The twins, the gods of glory. Their power combined had created the link between wind and earth. They had been the first. Emsharas had taken human form, while Anharat had chosen wings. The Krayakin had followed.

Who could have guessed then that the gift was also a curse?

True, the sunlight had caused great pain and the water of the rivers had been deadly, but there were so many other pleasures to be enjoyed and an eternity in which to enjoy them.

Until Emsharas betrayed them all.

Even now, after four thousand years of contemplation, Bakilas could not begin to understand his reasons or what had become of him. Where could an Illohir hide? Even now Bakilas could sense all his brothers in the void of nowhere. Emsharas had shone like the largest star. It was impossible not to know his whereabouts. Bakilas could feel the powerful, pulsing presence of Anharat at his camp a few miles away. Equally, if Anharat had been Windborn, he could have felt his spirit across the universe. Where, then, did Emsharas dwell?

One day the answer will become clear, he thought. One day, when the universe ends and the Illohir die with it.

Bakilas shivered. Death. To cease to be. It was a terrifying thought. Humans could not begin to comprehend the true fear of mortality. They lived always with the prospect of death. They understood its inevitability. A few short seasons and they were gone. Worse yet, they tasted death throughout their few heartbeats of existence. Every passing year brought them fresh lines and wrinkles and the slow erosion of their strength.
Their skin sagged and their bones dried out, until toothless and senile they flopped into their graves. What could they know of immortal fear?

Not one of the Illohir had ever known death.

Bakilas recalled the great birthing in the coming of light, when the first chords of the song of the universe had rung out across the dark. It was a time of discovery and harmony, a time of comradeship. It was life. Sentient and curious. Everything was born at that time, the stars and then the planets, the oceans of lava, and finally the great seas.

There had been joys then of a different kind: the increase of knowledge and awareness. But there had been no pain, no disappointments, no tragedies. Absolute serenity had been enjoyed—endured?—by all the Illohir. Only with the coming of the flesh did the contrasts begin. How could one know true joy until one had tasted true despair? Contrast was everything. Which was why the Illohir lusted after the life of
form
.