David Gemmell. Winter Warriors

‘I do not believe so.’

‘Then why have the Entukku failed to seize him?’

‘There are spells around the tavern, ancient spells. It is not important. He will afford you some pleasure, for he is the foremost swordsman in the land. His name is Antikas Karios, and he has never lost a duel.’

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‘I shall kill him slowly,’ said the warrior. ‘The taste of his terror will be exquisite.’

‘There is one other of the group to be considered. His name is Nogusta. He is the last of the line of Emsharas the Sorcerer.’

The warrior’s eyes narrowed, and the others tensed at the sound of the name. ‘I would give up eternity,’ said the warrior, ‘for the chance to find the soul of Emsharas the Traitor. I would make it suffer for a thousand years, and that would not be punishment enough. How is it that one of his line still lives?’

‘He carries the Last Talisman. Some years ago one of my disciples inspired a mob to destroy him and his family. It was a fine night, with great terror. Pleasing to the eye. But he was not there. Many times I have tried to engineer his death. The Talisman saves him. That is why he must be considered with care.’

‘He is one of the old ones guarding the woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘I do not like the sound of it, Anharat. It is not a co­incidence.’

‘I do not doubt that, at all,’ said Anharat. ‘But does it not show how far the enemy has fallen in power that his only defence is a group of old men? All but one of his priests here are slain, his temples deserted, his forces routed. He has become to this world a pitiful irrelevance. Which is why it will pass to us before the Blood Moon.’

‘Is this tavern far?’ asked the warrior.

‘No.’

The warrior rose and put on his helm. ‘Then I shall go and feast myself upon the heart of this priest,’ he said.

‘The spells are strong,’ warned Anharat.

The warrior laughed. ‘Spells that would drain the

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Entukku are as wasp stings to the Krayakin. How many other humans are there?’

‘Only two.’

The warrior gestured and two of his fellows stood. ‘The milk of the Entukku was good, but flesh tastes sweeter,’ he said.

The wagon lurched as one of the rear wheels hit a sunken rock. The weary horses sagged against their traces. Conalin tried to back up the team, but the horses stood their ground. Bison swore loudly and dismounted. Moving to the rear of the wagon he grabbed two spokes of the wheel. ‘Give them a touch of the whip,’ he ordered. Conalin cracked it above the horses’ backs. They surged forward. At the same time Bison threw his weight against the wheel and the wagon bumped over the rock. The giant fell sprawling to the trail, the wheel narrowly missing his arm.

The women in the wagon – save Axiana – laughed as he rose, mud on his face. ‘It’s not funny!’ he roared.

‘It is from where I’m sitting,’ said Ulmenetha. Bison swore again and trudged back to where Kebra was hold­ing the reins of his mount.

‘This trail is too narrow,’ he said, heaving himself into the saddle. ‘I don’t think we’ve made more than twelve miles today. And already the horses are exhausted.’

‘Nogusta says we’ll change the team again when we reach the flatlands.’

Bison was not mollified. He glanced back to the spare mounts they had taken from the dead lancers. ‘They are cavalry mounts. They’re not bred to pull wagons and they tire easily. Look at them! They were ridden hard even before we took them, and they are exhausted also.’

It was true, and Kebra knew it. The horses were all

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weary. Somewhere soon they would have to rest them. ‘Let’s move on,’ he said.

The wagon finally crested a high hill and emerged from the forest. Far off to the south they could see the glittering ribbon of the River Mendea, and beyond it soaring mountain peaks, snow crested and crowned by clouds. ‘We’ll not make the river by dark,’ said Kebra.