David Gemmell - The Winter Warriors

'How many are there?' asked Nogusta.

'There are ten, and they will be upon you before you reach the river.'

'What more can you tell us?' asked Dagorian.

'Nothing now. The child must return. I will help you where I can. But death calls me and the power of my spirit is fading. I cannot remain among the living for much longer. But trust me, my friends. I will return.'

Sufia blinked and rubbed her eyes. 'Why is everyone staring at me?' she said, her eyes filling with tears.

'We were wondering if you were hungry, little one,' said Kebra. 'What shall I cook for you?'

Bakilas, Lord of the Krayakin, reined in his mount. The five men lay sprawled in death, and the parallel lines of the wagon tracks could be seen disappearing into the forest. Bakilas dismounted and examined the ground around the dead men. Removing his black, full faced helm he winced as sunlight speared against his skin. Swiftly he scanned the tracks. Replacing his helm he moved to his horse and stepped into the saddle.

'The soldiers caught up with the wagon here, and were met by a single rider. They spoke to him, and then there was a fight. At this point other men joined in, having ridden from the forest. The battle was brief. One of the soldiers fought a hand to hand duel and was killed cleanly.'

'How do you know they spoke first, brother?' asked Pelicor, the youngest of the Krayakin. As well as the black armour and helm he was hooded against the sunlight.

Bakilas swung in the saddle. 'One of the soldiers' horses urinated on the grass. You can still see the stain. It was standing still at the time.'

'It is still conjecture,' muttered Pelicor.

'Then let us see,' said Bakilas. They rode their horses in a circle around the dead men, then Bakilas pointed to one of the corpses. 'Rise!' he commanded. The body of Vellian twitched and slowly rose from the grass. The ten riders focused upon it. The body spasmed, the air around it shimmering.

Images formed in the minds of the Krayakin; scenes drawn from the decaying brain of the slain soldier. They saw, through the dead man's eyes, the wagon and its occupants, and watched as the young officer rode to meet them. The conversation they heard was fragmented, and they honed their concentration.

'Good morning, I am Vellian, sent. . Karios.. palace. The city. . restore order.'

'An army.. traitors.'

'Yes. Now.. sabre. . scabbard and let. . way.'

'I don't think so… great danger. . safer with me.'

There followed a sudden fracture in the image and the Krayakin saw a brief intrusion of other memories, of a young woman running on the grass.

'The corruption has gone too far,' said Pelicor. 'We cannot hold the line.'

'We can,' said Bakilas, sternly. 'Concentrate!'

Once more they saw the young officer facing the soldiers. The man Vellian was speaking. 'Do not be a fool, man. You may be as skilled as Antikas himself with that sabre, but you cannot beat five of us. What is the point then of dying, when the cause is already lost?'

'What is the point of living without a cause worth dying for?' countered the officer.

The Krayakin sat silently as the scene played itself out, the young officer attacking, then being joined by a black rider and a silver-haired bowman. As Bakilas had already said the battle was brief, and the Krayakin analysed the skills of the victors.

The body slumped back to the grass. 'The young man is fast, and sure,' said Bakilas. 'But the black man is a master. Speed, subtlety and strength, combined with cunning and ferocity. A worthy opponent.'

'Worthy?' snapped Pelicor. 'He is human. There are no worthy opponents among them. Only sustenance. And he will supply little.'

'So angry, brother? Are you not enjoying this return to the flesh?'

'Not yet,' said Pelicor. 'Where are my armies? Where is the glory to be found here, on this miserable mountain?'

'There is none,' admitted Bakilas. 'The days of Ice and Fire are long gone. But they will return. The volcanoes will spew their ash into the sky, and the ice will return. It will be as it was. But first we must bring the mother and babe to Anharat. Be patient, brother.'

Bakilas touched spurs to his horse and rode for the forest.

The sunlight was less harsh in the shelter of the trees and Bakilas once more removed his helm, his white hair flowing free in the slight breeze, his grey eyes scanning the trail. Pelicor was not alone in lusting after the days of Ice and Fire. He too longed for them. Marching with the armies of the Illohir, scattering the humans, feasting on their terror and sucking their souls from their skulls. Heady days!

Until Emsharas had betrayed them.

It remained a source of pain that would never ease. Yet even with Emsharas's treachery the Battle of the Four Valleys could have been won, should have been won. The Krayakin had led the counter charge, and had smashed the enemy right. Bakilas himself had almost reached the Battle Standard of the human king, Darlic. Above the battle Anharat and Emsharas had fought on the Field of Spirit, and, just as Bakilas breached the spear wall around Darlic, Anharat had fallen. The dark cloud of ash shielding the Illohir from the harsh, deadly light of the sun, had been ripped apart. Illohir bodies withered in their tens of thousands, until only the Krayakin remained. Ten thousand of the greatest warriors ever to stride the earth. The humans had turned on them with renewed ferocity, their Storm Swords — enchanted by the traitor, Emsharas — had ripped into Krayakin flesh. By the end of the day only 200 Krayakin remained in the flesh to flee the field. The rest were Windborn once more.

The days of Illohir dominance on earth were over.

In the weeks that followed the Krayakin were harried and tracked down, until only ten survivors remained.

Then Emsharas had evoked the Great Spell, and all the remaining creatures of the Illohir, demons and sprites, wood nymphs, trolls and warriors, were cast into the grey hell of Nowhere. Existing without substance, immortal without form, the Illohir floated in a soulless sea. Only memory survived, memories of conquest and glory, of the sweet wine of terror, and the sustenance it supplied.

Nothing in all of existence could surpass the joys the Krayakin had known. Bakilas himself had once adopted human form, and had partaken of all the pleasures known to Man. Food and drink, drugs and debauchery. All were pitiful when compared to the tasting of souls. A faint memory stirred, and he remembered Darela. What he had felt for her was frightening. They had touched hands, then lips. Unused to human frailty Bakilas had been drawn into a relationship with the woman that left his senses reeling. With the last of his strength he had returned to the caverns of the Illohir and resumed his Krayakin form. Then he journeyed back to the village and drank Darela's soul. He had thought that would end her spell over him.

But he had been wrong. The memory of their days together came back again and again to haunt him.

The Krayakin rode in silence for several hours. The smell of death was strong upon the wind as they rode down a short slope and emerged by the shores of a glittering lake. Keeping to the shadows of the trees Bakilas took in the campsite. There were five dead wolves upon the ground, and a sixth body by the water-line. Bakilas dismounted and lifted his hood into place. Then he walked out into the sunshine. Pain prickled his skin, but he ignored it. At the centre of the camp the grass was singed in a circle of around five feet in diameter. Removing his black gauntlet he reached out and touched the earth. His hand jerked back. Pulling on his gauntlet he returned to the shadows.

'Magick,' he said. 'Someone used magick here.'

Tethering their mounts the Krayakin sat in a circle. 'Anharat did not speak of magick,' said Mandrak, at just under 6 feet tall, the smallest of the warriors. 'He spoke only of three old men.'