Bakilas said nothing. He sensed a joy in Anharat that had been missing since the betrayal. He was pleased that Emsharas had returned! How curious! Bakilas had felt Anharat’s pain, and his sense of loss. His hatred of Emsharas had become all consuming. Throughout the centuries he had never given up the hunt for his brother, sending search spell after search spell. His hatred was almost as strong as his love had been. A thought came to Bakilas then. Perhaps hatred and love were, in some ways, the same. Both echoed an intense need in Anharat. His existence without Emsharas had been hollow and empty. Even now the Demon Lord dreamed only of holding his brother’s spirit in his hand. Hatred and love. Indistinguishable.
‘You must go into Lem,’ said Anharat. ‘Hide there until the time to strike! When the babe dies, and my power swells, I will find Emsharas and there will be a reckoning.’
Nayim Pallines had always disliked Antikas Karios, though he had wisely kept this information to himself for several years. He had known Kara since childhood, and was one of the guests at her wedding. He had seen
375
her radiant joy, and had envied the look of love she gave her husband as the vows were made, and the ceremonial cord had been looped about their wrists.
Two days later both were dead, the husband slain by the killer Antikas Karios, Kara dead by her own hand. Love, Nayim knew, was far too precious to be so casually destroyed. When the tragedies occurred his dislike of Antikas Karios turned to hatred.
And yet, as a colonel in the Royal Lancers he had been obliged to serve this man, to take his orders, and to bow before him. It had been hard.
But today – with the help of the Source, and the courage of the fifty men riding behind him – he would put an end to both the hatred and the object of it. His scouts had spotted them 3 miles from the ruins of Lem, and Nayim was less than half a mile behind them.
Soon they would see the pursuing riders. Nayim could picture it. The fleeing group would lash at their mounts in a last, desperate attempt to evade capture. But their tired horses would soon be overhauled by the powerful mounts of the lancers. Nayim half hoped that Antikas Karios would beg for his life. Yet even as the thought occurred he knew it would not be so. Antikas, for all his vileness, was a man of courage. He would attack them all.
Nayim was no more than a capable swordsman. He would have to be sure to hang back when the attack began. While not afraid to die he did not wish to miss the capture of Antikas Karios.
His sergeant, Olion, rode alongside him, his white cape fluttering in the breeze. There was a mud stain upon the cape. Olion was a superb horseman, and a fine soldier, but incapable of smartness, no matter what disciplinary measures were taken against him. The high,
376
curved helm of bronze and the ceremonial cape had been designed to add grandeur to the armour of the Lancers. But for Olion, short, stocky, and round shouldered, his face endlessly marked by angry red spots, the end result was comic.
Nayim glanced at the man as he rode alongside. Yet another boil was showing on the nape of Olion’s neck. ‘The lads are worried, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘I don’t like the mood.’
‘Are you telling me that fifty men are frightened of tackling one swordsman?’
‘It’s not about them, sir. In fact they’ll be relieved to see a little action. No, it’s not that, sir.’
‘Spit it out, man. You’ll not lose your head for it.’
‘I could, sir, if you take my meaning?’
Nayim understood perfectly. His face hardened. ‘I do indeed. Therefore it will be better to say nothing. Ride up to the top of the slope there and see if you can see them yet.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Olion galloped off towards the south-east. Nayim glanced back. His men were riding in columns of twos behind him, the butts of their lances resting on their stirrups. Signalling them to continue at their present pace he flicked his heels and rode after Olion.