David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

The baby wailed. Bison thought it best to pick him up, but he didn’t seem to have the strength. Sufia screamed and pointed back along the ledge. The two Krayakin

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were in sight now, moving in single file along the narrow finger of rock.

Twisting round Bison scrabbled at the rock face, drag­ging himself to his feet. So this is how it ends, he thought. And this time there was no fear. He glanced at Sufia. The child was terrified. Bison forced a smile. ‘Don’t you worry . . . little one,’ he said. ‘No-one’s going … to hurt you. You just. . . look after . . . the little prince until. .. Nogusta comes.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked him.

The Krayakin were closer now. The ledge had widened, and they were advancing together.

Bison pushed at the rock wall, and stood blocking their way.

‘Did you know,’ he told them, ‘that I have wings? Big white wings? I fly … over . . . mountains.’

Suddenly he launched himself at them, spreading his arms wide. The Krayakin had nowhere to run. In des­peration they stabbed at him, plunging their blades into his chest. With a last desperate lunge he hurled his weight forward, into the cold metal that clove through his heart. Dying, he clamped his huge arms to their armour and propelled them over the edge.

Sufia looked out, and saw them spiralling away, down and down, Bison with outstretched arms, falling into the white, wispy clouds.

Antikas Karios had arrived just in time to see them fall. He ran to Sufia and knelt beside her.

‘He got his wings back,’ she said, her eyes bright with wonder. ‘Big, white wings.’

Little Sufia put her arms around Antikas Karios’s neck. Instinctively his own arm curled around her. Then he looked down at the baby. This was the source of all their

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problems, this tiny package of flesh, soft bone and tissue. It was crying still, thin piping wails that echoed from the rocks. It would be so easy to choke off that sound. The baby’s neck was so slender that Antikas could crush the life from it by merely pinching the flesh between his thumb and index finger.

The world would be safe from the demons. His hand reached down. As his finger touched the baby’s cheek its head turned towards it, mouth open, seeking to suckle. ‘Got to look after the baby,’ Sufia whispered into his ear.

‘What?’

‘That’s what Bison said before he flew away.’

He pondered what to do. If he killed the baby, then he would have to kill Sufia too. He could toss them both from the ledge and say he had arrived too late to help them. His thoughts turned to Bison. The grotesque old man had run for almost half a mile, with a wound that should have killed him instantly. Then he had carried two Krayakin to their deaths. He had shown enormous courage, and in that moment Antikas realized that, were he now to kill the child, it would sully the memory of Bison’s deed. Gathering up the baby he walked back along the ledge, and down the slope to the camp-site. Kebra and the queen were still unconscious, and Conalin and Pharis were sitting by the fire, hand in hand. The girl looked up as Antikas walked into the camp. Her thin face broke into a wide smile. Surging to her feet she ran to him, lift­ing Sufia clear. The little girl immediately began to tell her of Bison’s wings.

Ulmenetha was sitting beside Nogusta. Antikas walked over to them. Nogusta was looking twenty years older, a grey sheen covering the ebony of his features. His pale blue eyes were tired beyond description. The black sword still jutted from his shoulder.

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‘Can you remove the sword?’ Ulmenetha asked Antikas. Laying the baby on the grass he took hold of the hilt. Nogusta gritted his teeth.

‘Brace yourself,’ said Antikas, setting his boot against Nogusta’s chest. With one savage wrench he dragged the blade clear. Nogusta cried out, then sagged against Ulmenetha. Holding her hands over the entry and exit wounds she began to chant.