Antikas moved away from them to where Kebra lay. Kneeling beside him he felt for the man’s pulse. It was firm and strong. Conalin appeared alongside him. ‘He is just sleeping,’ said the boy. ‘Ulmenetha has already prayed over him.’
‘Good,’ said Antikas.
‘Did you see Bison’s wings?’ asked Conalin.
‘No.’ He gazed up at the boy, angry now. ‘There were no wings,’ he snapped. ‘Such stories are for children who cannot deal with the harsh realities of life. A brave man gave his life to save others. He fell thousands of feet and his dead body was smashed upon the rocks below.’
‘Why did he do it?’
‘Why indeed? Go away and leave me, boy.’
Conalin walked back to the fire, and the waiting Pharis. Antikas pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the water’s edge, where he drank deeply.
The death of Bison had moved him in a way he had difficulty understanding. The man was an animal, ill bred and uncultured, uncouth and coarse. Yet when the Krayakin had attacked he had been the first to tackle them, and had, without doubt, saved the children. He had gone willingly to his death. All his life Antikas had been taught that nobility lay in the blood line. Nobles and peasants, thinking beings and near animals. Only the
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nobility were said to understand the finer points of honour and chivalry.
The manner of Bison’s sacrifice was unsettling. Axiana was a Ventrian princess, her child the son of the man who had spurned Bison’s services. Bison owed them nothing, but gave them everything.
It was more than unsettling. It was galling.
In Ventrian history heroes had always been noblemen, full of courage and virtue. They were never belching, groin-scratching simpletons. A thought struck him, and he smiled. Maybe they were. Conalin had asked him if Bison had grown wings. If they survived this quest the story would grow. Antikas would tell it. Sufia would tell it. And the story to be believed would be the child’s. And why? Because it was more satisfying to believe that heroes never die, that somehow they live on, to return in another age. In a hundred years the real Bison would be remembered not at all. He would become golden haired and handsome, perhaps the bastard son of a Ventrian noble. Antikas glanced at the sleeping queen. Most likely he would also, in future legends, become Axiana’s lover and the father of the babe he saved.
Antikas returned to the camp. Nogusta was sleeping now. Axiana was awake and feeding the child. Ulmenetha signalled for Antikas to join her. ‘The wound is a bad one,’ she said. ‘I have done what I can, but he is very weak, and may still die.’
‘I would lay large odds against that, lady. The man is a fighter.’
‘And an old man devastated not just by a wound, but by grief. Bison was his friend, and he knew his friend was to die.’
Antikas nodded. ‘I know this. What would you have me do?’
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‘You must lead us to Lem.’
‘What is so vital about the ghost city? What is it we seek among the ruins?’
‘Get us there and you will see,’ said Ulmenetha. ‘We can wait another hour, then I will wake the sleepers.’
As she turned her head he saw the angry, swollen bruise upon her temple, and remembered the knife hilt laying her low. ‘That was a nasty blow,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
She smiled wearily. ‘I feel a little nauseous, but I will live, Antikas Karios. I have the maps here. Perhaps you would like to study them.’ He took them from her and unrolled the first. Ulmenetha leaned in. ‘The Ventrian army are moving from here,’ she said, stabbing her finger at the map, ‘and they have swept out in a sickle formation, expecting us to make for the sea. Within the next two days they will have secured all the roads leading to Lem.’
‘There is no proper scale to this map,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell how far we are from the ruins.’
‘Less than forty miles,’ she told him. ‘South and west.’