‘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.’
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‘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
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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