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
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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 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 armour, 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 halignaf}
‘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
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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 for ever. 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 warrior 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 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 armour 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
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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. Tut 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.’