David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘I did not have the power to complete the Spell. I needed you, Anharat.’

Anharat’s finger jabbed out, and the completed search spell flowed around Emsharas, bathing him in a blue light. ‘Now I will find you,’ hissed Anharat. ‘I will find you and I will destroy you. I swear it! But first I will kill the third king, and complete the prophecy.’

Emsharas smiled. ‘My prophecy,’ he said. ‘I left it for you, brother. And it is a true one. Upon the death of the third king the Illohir will rise again. We will speak soon.’

With that the figure vanished.

Anharat closed his eyes and fastened to the search spell. He felt it grow weaker and weaker, as if coming to him across a vast distance. Then it was gone.

The Demon Lord returned to his wine and drank deeply. In all his thousands of years held captive in the void he had used every known spell to locate Emsharas, sending search spells out through the universe. Yet there was nothing. It was as if Emsharas had never been.

And now, with the hour of Anharat’s triumph approaching, his brother had returned.

Anharat could have endured threats, but Emsharas had made none. And what did he mean by denying that he had been hiding? A tiny seed of doubt seeped into

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Anharat’s mind. His brother never lied. Refilling his goblet Anharat drank again, recalling again the words of Emsharas. ‘Oh, you care, brother, for you know that you and I were almost equally matched, and yet I discovered a source of power hitherto unknown. You could use it too. I will willingly tell it to you – if you will help me complete my work.’ What source of power? Anharat moved to the pallet bed and lay down. Tell it to you. That’s what Emsharas had said. Not give it to you. Not tell you where it is. The secret power source was not then an object, like a talisman, but something that could be passed on with words alone. It was impossible.

And yet . . . they had been almost equally matched. Where then had his brother found the power to banish an entire race?

There would be time to ponder the question. For now Anharat wished to see his victory draw closer. Allowing his mind to relax, his dark spirit floated free and flew over the mountains towards the stone bridge.

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Chapter Ten

Antikas Karios removed his red cloak and neatly folded it, laying it upon the stone work of the bridge. Then he tied his long hair into a tight pony-tail and began moving through a series of routines designed to stretch his back and shoulders and hips. At the beginning the movements were slow, graceful and balletic. Then they grew more swift, becoming a dance, full of leaps and turns. Dagorian watched the man with a growing sense of sad­ness. Such a dance, he thought, should be to celebrate life and youth, not as a prelude to violence and death.

The sun was falling below the western mountains, and the violet sky was streaked with golden clouds. Antikas strolled across to where Dagorian waited. ‘What a beautiful sunset,’ he said.

The young officer did not reply. A line of ten riders had appeared from the woods, and were moving towards the bridge. As they cleared the tree line four more riders appeared, tall men, wearing black armour and full-faced helms.

The Ventrian captain rode his horse to the first of the obstacles, then called out to Antikas. ‘Give way for the emperor’s riders.’

‘Which emperor would that be?’ Antikas responded.

‘Give way, Antikas Karios, you cannot stand against all of us. And I have no orders for your arrest.’ The captain shifted nervously on his horse, and continually

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glanced back towards the black armoured Krayakin.

‘I fear I cannot comply, captain,’ said Antikas. ‘You see I am a servant of the infant king, and I have been ordered to hold this bridge. Might I suggest that you and your men ride away, for you are wrong -‘ his voice hardened. ‘- I can stand against you. More than that, I can promise you that any man who steps upon this bridge will die.’