‘What is it you want of me, lady?’ he said.
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Her voice when it came was a faint whisper. ‘You are … an evil man .. . Antikas. But you will hurt us … no longer.’ Her eyes held to his for a moment more, then they closed and her head sagged back. For a moment only he thought she had swooned. Then he saw the pool of blood around the base of the chair. Stepping forward he wrenched the blanket from her. Both her wrists were cut, and her clothes were drenched in blood. Still wearing her wedding dress and her garland, she had died without another word.
Antikas tried to push away the memory, but it clung to him like a poisoned vine. ‘It was not evil,’ he said. ‘She should have waited for me. Then it would not have happened. I am not to blame.’
Who then do we blame? The thought leapt unbidden from his subconscious.
It had not ended there. Her brother had challenged Antikas. He too had died. Antikas had tried to disarm the boy, to wound him and stop the duel. But his attack had been ferocious and sustained, and, when the moment came, Antikas had responded with instinct rather than intent, his blade sinking into his opponent’s heart.
Antikas Karios rose from the wall and turned to gaze down into the rushing water below. He saw the broken branch of an old oak floating there, drifting fast. It stuck for a moment against a jutting rock, then twisted free and continued on its way. Further down the bank a brown bear ambled out of the woods and waded into the water. Antikas watched it. Twice its paw splashed down. On the third time it caught a fish, propelling it out to the bank. The fish flopped against the earth, its tail thrashing wildly. The bear left the river and devoured the fish.
Antikas swung away and walked to where his horse
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was cropping grass. From his saddlebag he took the last of his rations.
Thoughts of Kara intruded as he ate, but this time he suppressed them, concentrating instead on the escape from Usa. Kalizkan’s spirit had taken him first to an old church by the south wall, and there he had directed him to a secret room behind the altar. By the far wall was an ancient chest. It was not locked. The hinges were almost rusted through. One snapped as Antikas opened the lid. Inside were three scabbarded short swords, each wrapped in linen. Antikas removed them.
‘These are the last of the Storm Swords,’ said Kalizkan, ‘created when the world was younger. They were fashioned by Emsharas the Sorcerer, for use against the demonic Krayakin.’
Antikas had carried them from the city to where the army was camped beyond. There he had obtained a horse and supplies and had ridden out into the mountains.
On his first night he had unwrapped one of the swords. The pommel was inset with a blue jewel, heavy and round, held in place by golden wire. The tang was covered by a wooden grip, wrapped in a pale, greyish white skin, while the upwardly curved quillons were deeply engraved with gold lettering. The scabbard was simple, and without adornment. Slowly Antikas drew the sword forth.
‘Do not touch the blade!’ warned the voice of Kalizkan. In the moonlight the blade was black, and, at first, Antikas believed it to be of tarnished silver. But, as he turned it, he saw the moon reflected brilliantly on its dark surface.
‘What is the metal?’ he asked Kalizkan.
‘Not metal, child. Enchanted ebony,’ replied the
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sorcerer. ‘I don’t know how he did it. It can cut through stone, yet it is made of wood.’
‘Why is it called a Storm Sword?’
‘Stand up and hold the flat of your hand just above the blade.’
Antikas did so. Colours swept along the ebony, then white blue lightning lanced up into his palm. In surprise he leapt back, dropping the sword. The point vanished into the earth, and only the curved quillons prevented the blade sinking from sight. Antikas drew it clear. Not a mark of mud had stained the sword. Once again he held his hand over it. Lightning danced to his skin. There was no pain. The sensation was curious, and he noticed that the hairs on the back of his hand were tingling.