David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

Antikas leaned back in his chair and drew in a long breath. ‘You speak of spells and grimoires, but only one man had such power. Kalizkan. And he is dead. Killed in a rockfall.’

‘I do not speak of men,’ said the priest. ‘No man could summon such magic. I knew Kalizkan. He was a caring man, thoughtful and sensitive. Two years ago he came to the temple to be healed of a terrible cancer. We could not help him. He had but days to live. He spent two of those days studying ancient texts in our library. After the visit of the priestess I studied those same texts myself. One of the spells contained there was of a merging. If a sorcerer had enough power – so it maintained – he could draw a demon into himself for the purposes of prolonging his life. Shared immortality.’ The priest fell silent, then sipped water from a pewter tankard. Antikas waited patiently. The priest spoke again. ‘We were all surprised when Kalizkan continued to survive. But he did not come to the temple again, nor visit any holy place. It is my belief – though I can offer you no further proofs -that Kalizkan, in a bid to heal himself, allowed his body to be possessed. But either the promise of the spell was a lie, or Kalizkan was not powerful enough to with­stand the demon. Whatever, I think Kalizkan died long

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ago. And, if I am right, no rockfall would have killed him.’

‘And yet it did,’ insisted Antikas.

The priest shook his head. ‘The Demon Lord would merely have found another host. You say he died in a rockfall. Was there one survivor who walked away unscathed?’

Antikas pushed back his chair and rose. ‘I have heard enough of this nonsense. Your brains are addled, priest.’

‘It is my sincere hope that you are right,’ the priest told him.

From outside came the sound of wailing. Scores of voices joined in. Antikas shivered, for the sound was unearthly.

‘It begins again,’ said the priest, closing his eyes in prayer.

Despite his apparent dismissal of the priest Antikas was deeply troubled. He had served Malikada for more than fifteen years, and had shared his hatred of the Drenai invaders. And while he had never fully condoned the treachery that led to the destruction of the Drenai army, he had seen it as the lesser of two great evils. However, the events of the past few days had concerned him, and now, with the added weight of the priest’s words, doubt began to gnaw at him.

Malikada had escaped the rockfall which killed Kalizkan, and from that moment had seemed changed. He was colder, more controlled. That, in itself, meant nothing. Yet he had also lost interest in strengthening his grip on the empire. Killing Skanda was but a step towards freeing Ventria from the grip of the Drenai. There were garrisons all over the land, many of them containing Drenai units. And the sea lanes were patrolled

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by Drenai ships. Both he and Malikada had planned this coup for months, and both had been acutely aware of the dangers of Drenai reprisals. Yet now Malikada showed complete disinterest in the grand design. All he seemed to want was Axiana.

Antikas crossed to the fire. The wife-killer was sitting silently, staring at the flames through eyes red-rimmed from weeping. Outside they could hear hundreds of people moving through the streets. Canta crept across the room. ‘Stay silent,’ he whispered. ‘Make no movement.’

Antikas moved to the shuttered window, and listened. People were gathering together, and he could hear a babble of voices. There were no words to be understood, though they seemed to be speaking to one another in strange tongues. Antikas shivered.

Suddenly a spear smashed through the shutters, pass­ing inches from Antikas’s face. He leapt back. An axe blade smashed the wood to shards and he found himself staring at a sea of faces, all twisted into fearsome grimaces, their eyes wide and staring. At that moment Antikas knew the truth of the priest’s words. These people were possessed.

Behind him Canta screamed and fled for the stairs. Antikas drew his sabre and stood his ground. The axe­man grabbed the window-sill and began to haul himself across the threshold. His face changed, his expression softening. He blinked. ‘In the name of Heaven, help me!’ he shouted, dropping his axe to the floor. A knife was plunged through his back and the body was dragged from the window. The mob did not advance, but stood, staring with hatred at the lone swordsman standing inside. Then they drew back and moved away down the street.