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
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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 transformed into Kebra.
‘How did you do that?’ he mumbled. Then he slept again, and awoke beside a camp-fire. 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.’
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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 iz miles from the ruins. A five-man scouting party had attacked them, but Antikas Karios had killed two, a third being 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
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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.