‘Can I feel him?’ asked little Sufia, scrambling back on her hands and knees. Axiana gazed down into her bright blue eyes.
‘Of course,’ she said. Taking the child’s small, grimy hand, she placed it over her stomach. For a moment there was no movement, then the baby kicked again. Sufia squealed with delight.
‘Pharis, Pharis, come feel!’ she cried.
Pharis looked up and met the queen’s gaze. Axiana smiled and held out her hand. Pharis moved to her, and the baby obediently kicked once more.
‘How did it get in there?’ asked Sufia. ‘And how will it get out?’
‘Magic,’ said Ulmenetha, swiftly. ‘How old are you, Sufia?’ she added, changing the subject. The child shrugged.
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‘I don’t know. My brother Griss said he was six. And I’m younger than Griss.’
‘Where is your brother?’ asked Axiana, stroking Sufia’s greasy blond hair.
‘The wizard man took him away.’ She was suddenly frightened. ‘You won’t let him take me away, will you?’
‘Nobody will take you away, little one,’ said Conalin, fiercely. Til kill any who try.’
This pleased Sufia. She looked up at Conalin. ‘Can I drive the wagon?’ she asked.
Pharis helped her clamber over the backrest, and Conalin sat her on his lap, allowing her to hold the reins.
Axiana bit into the apple. It was sweet, wondrously sweet.
They had just reached the trees when they heard the sound of thundering hoof beats. Axiana glanced back. Five horsemen were cresting the rise behind them.
Dagorian galloped back to the wagon, his sabre gleaming in his hand.
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Chapter Seven
Vellian had been a fighting man for fifteen of his twenty-nine years, and had served Malikada and Antikas Karios for twelve of them. He had joined the Ventrian army for the Great Expedition; the invasion of Drenan, and the righting of ancient wrongs. Every Ventrian child knew of Drenai infamy, their broken treaties, their territorial impudence, and their killing, centuries before, of the Great Emperor Gorben.
The invasion was to have put right all past wrongs.
That, at least, was how it was sold to the fourteen-year-old Vellian when the recruiting officers arrived at his village. There was no greater honour, they said, than serving the emperor in a just cause. They made extravagant promises about wealth and glory. The wealth did not interest Vellian, but thoughts of glory swept through him like a powerful drug. He signed that day, without seeking permission from his parents, and rode away to smite the savages and seek his fame.
Now he rode a weary horse on the Old Lem road, and all his dreams were dust.
He had watched the Drenai army in their hopeless battle against the Cadians and had felt the enormous weight of shame. None of the junior officers had known of Malikada’s plan, and they had waited, swords drawn, for the signal to attack. The Drenai centre had fought bravely, driving a wedge into the Cadian ranks. The
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battle was won. Or it would have been, had the Ventrian cavalry moved in on the signal and attacked. Every man saw the signal, and some even began to move forward. Then Malikada had shouted: ‘Hold firm!’
Vellian had at first believed it to be part of some subtle, superior plan worked out between Skanda and Malikada. But as the hour wore on, and the Drenai died in their thousands, the truth revealed itself. Malikada, a man he had served loyally for almost half his life, had betrayed the king.
There was worse to come. Skanda was taken alive, and delivered to a cave high in the mountains, where the wizard Kalizkan waited. He was taken inside and sacrificed in some foul rite.
For the first time Vellian considered desertion. He had been raised to value honour and loyalty and the pursuit of the truth. He believed in these things. They were at the heart of any civilized nation. Without them there was anarchy, chaos, and a rapid descent into the dark.
There was no honour in betrayal.
Then Antikas Karios had come to him, ordering him to gather his Twenty and follow him to Usa to protect the queen. This duty, at least, was honourable.