David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘Perhaps one day you will find out,’ Nogusta told him.

Antikas returned to the camp. Conalin was rubbing down the horses, while Bison sat by the fire eating roast meat, the juices running down his chin and staining his already filthy tunic. Antikas moved to where Axiana was sitting with Ulmenetha and the young girl, Pharis. The priestess was holding the sleeping babe, and the queen was daintily picking at her food.

‘A far cry from palace banquets,’ observed Antikas, making a deep bow.

‘And yet very welcome, sir,’ she told him. Axiana’s dark eyes met his gaze. ‘We thank you for coming to our assistance.’

‘My pleasure, highness.’

As Antikas moved away Ulmenetha leaned in to the queen. ‘Do you trust him, child?’ she asked.

‘He is a Ventrian noble,’ she replied, as if that answered the question. Reaching out she took back her son, and held him close to her, carefully supporting his head. His tiny hand flapped out from the blanket. ‘Look at his finger nails,’ she said, ‘how small and perfect they are. So tiny. So beautiful.’ She gazed down into his face. ‘How could anyone wish to hurt him?’

Ulmenetha gave no answer. Stretching out upon the cold ground she released her spirit and flew high above the trees. The fierce winds were merely a sound here, and

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they shrieked around her, as if angry that they could not buffet her spirit. Like a shaft of light she sped south, searching the land for sign of the Krayakin.

Her spirit soared over woodland and valleys, over tiny settlements and farms. Nowhere could she find evidence of the black-armoured riders. She moved north, back over the canyon and along the Great River. The army of Ventria was marching here, in columns of threes, cavalry riding on the flanks. Ulmenetha drew away from them, afraid that the Demon Lord would sense her spirit.

Back over the canyon she flew, until, far below, she saw the camp-site.

Pain struck her like an arrow, claws digging into her spirit flesh. Instantly she produced the fire of halignat, which blazed around her. The claws withdrew, but she could sense a presence close by. Hovering in the air she gazed around her, but could see nothing.

‘Show yourself,’ she commanded.

Just outside the white fire, so close that it shocked her, a figure materialized. It was that of a man, with ghost-white hair, and a pale face. His eyes were blue and large, his mouth thin lipped and cruel. ‘What do you want of me?’ she asked him.

‘Nothing,’ he told her. ‘I want only the child.’

‘You cannot have him.’

He smiled then. ‘Six of my brothers have returned to the great void. You and your companions have done well, and have acted with great courage. I admire that. I always have. But you cannot survive, woman.’

‘We have survived so far,’ she pointed out.

‘By flight. By running into the wilderness. Think about where you are heading. To a ghost city, whose walls have long since crumbled. A stone shell offering no

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sanctuary. And what is behind you? An army who will reach the city by dusk tomorrow. Where then will you run?’

Ulmenetha could think of no answer. ‘You seek to protect a flower in a blizzard,’ he said. ‘And you are ready to die to do so. But the flower will perish. That is its destiny.’

‘That is not its destiny,’ she told him. ‘You and your kind have great powers. But they have not prevailed so far. As you say six of your brothers have gone. The rest of you will follow. Nogusta is a great warrior. He will kill you.’

‘Ah, yes, the descendant of Emsharas. The last descendant. An old man, tired and spent. He will defeat the Krayakin and the army of Anharat? I think not.’

Ulmenetha remembered the Demon Lord’s words as he floated above the wagon. He had looked at Nogusta and said, ‘Yes, you look like him, the last of his mongrel line.’ Ulmenetha smiled and looked into the eyes of the Krayakin. ‘Do you not find it strange that the descendant of Emsharas should be here now, defying you as his ancestor defied you? Does it not cause you concern? Does it not have a feeling of destiny at work?’