They approached the trees with caution, swords drawn, then entered the wood.
There was no attack. For another hour they followed the wagon tracks. They were fresher now, the edges of the wheel imprints clean and sharp.
Bakilas drew back on the reins. The wagon tracks turned off from the road and vanished into the trees. There was thick undergrowth beyond the tree line, and the wagon had crushed bushes and saplings beneath it. Why would they take such a difficult trail? Bakilas removed his helm and sniffed the air.
Mandrak moved alongside his leader. ‘Can you smell it?’ he asked. Bakilas nodded. Humans could never surprise the Krayakin, for human glands secreted many scents, oozing from their pores in the disgusting sweat
that bathed them. Of all of his brothers Mandrak’s sense of smell was the most keen. Bakilas drew rein and scanned the tree line and the bushes beyond, careful not to let his gaze dwell on two of the hiding places he had identified.
‘Three men are hidden there,’ said Mandrak.
‘I have identified two,’ whispered Bakilas.
‘One is behind the large oak overhanging the rise, another is crouched behind a bush just below it. The other one is further back. Yes . . . with the horses.’
‘Why are we stopping?’ asked Pelicor.
‘Remove your helmet, and you will know,’ Bakilas told him, his voice low.
Pelicor did so. Like his brothers his hair was white, but his face was broad and flat, the eyes small and set close together. His nostrils flared, and he smiled. ‘Let me take them, brother. I am hungry.’
‘It might be wiser to circle them,’ offered Mandrak. ‘Cut off their means of escape.’
There are three of them!’ snapped Pelicor. ‘Not thirty. How can they escape us? Come let us put an end to this dismal mission.’
‘You wish to take them alone, Pelicor?’ asked Bakilas.
‘I do.’
‘Then by all means charge. We will await your victory.’
Pelicor replaced his helm, drew his longsword and slashed his spurs into the horse’s flanks. The beast reared then galloped into the trees. Just beyond the trail the black warrior stepped from behind a tree. Pelicor saw him and dragged on the reins. The warrior was holding a slim knife by the blade.
‘You think to hurt me with that?’ yelled Pelicor, spurring the horse once more.
Z42.
The warrior’s arm came back, the knife flashed forward, missing the charging rider. The blade slammed into a small wedge of wood, beside the trail, slicing through a length of stretched twine. A young tree, bent like a bow, snapped upright. Three pointed stakes lashed to it slammed into Pelicor’s chest, smashing through his black armour, breaking his ribs and spearing his lungs. The horse ran on. The body of the Krayakin warrior hung in the air twitching.
Bakilas heard a whisper of movement. Flinging up his arm he took the arrow through his gauntleted hand. The arrow head sliced through the limb and buried itself in the pale flesh of his face, cutting his tongue. The wood of the shaft burned like acid. At first he tried to pull the arrow loose from his cheek, but the barbs caught against the inner flesh. With a grunt he pushed the shaft through his other cheek, snapped off the head, then drew the arrow clear of his face and hand. The wounds began to heal instantly. But where the wood had touched him the soreness continued for some time.
‘They have run,’ said Mandrak. ‘Do we give chase?’
‘Not through the woods. There will be other traps. We will catch them upon the road . . . very soon.’
Bakilas rode to where Pelicor hung from the stake. His eyes were open, his body in spasm.
‘Help me,’ he whimpered.
‘Your body is dying, Pelicor,’ said Bakilas, coldly. ‘And soon you will be Windborn again. We can taste your fear. It is most exquisite. Drasko, Mandrak and myself fed only recently. Therefore our brothers shall draw sustenance from what remains of your form.’
‘No … I… can … heal.’
Bakilas shivered with pleasure at the increase in fear emanating from the impaled warrior. Like the others