‘I am a friend, Nogusta. Of that you can be sure. I helped Dagorian back in the city, when the demons were upon him. And I rescued Ulmenetha when she sat upon the palace roof and saw the monster. I am Kalizkan the Sorcerer.’
For a moment no-one spoke. ‘You are the cause of this terror,’ said Nogusta, coldly.
‘Indeed I am. But it was done unwittingly, and no-one feels more grief than I. But time is too short to explain. I cannot stay in this child’s form for long, for it would damage her mind. So listen to me now. The enemy has sent a force against you the like of which you will never have seen. They are called the Krayakin. They are supreme warriors, but they are not immortal. Blades can cut them, but not kill them. They fear only two things, wood and water.’ The child turned to Kebra. ‘Your arrows can kill them, if you pierce heart or head. The others of you must fashion weapons of wood, stakes, spears, whatever you can.’
‘How many are there?’ asked Nogusta.
‘There are ten, and they will be upon you before you reach the river.’
‘What more can you tell us?’ asked Dagorian.
‘Nothing now. The child must return. I will help you where I can. But death calls me and the power of my spirit is fading. I cannot remain among the living for much longer. But trust me, my friends. I will return.’
Sufia blinked and rubbed her eyes. ‘Why is everyone staring at me?’ she said, her eyes filling with tears.
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‘We were wondering if you were hungry, little one,’ said Kebra. ‘What shall I cook for you?’
Bakilas, Lord of the Krayakin, reined in his mount. The five men lay sprawled in death, and the parallel lines of the wagon tracks could be seen disappearing into the forest. Bakilas dismounted and examined the ground around the dead men. Removing his black, full faced helm he winced as sunlight speared against his skin. Swiftly he scanned the tracks. Replacing his helm he moved to his horse and stepped into the saddle.
‘The soldiers caught up with the wagon here, and were met by a single rider. They spoke to him, and then there was a fight. At this point other men joined in, having ridden from the forest. The battle was brief. One of the soldiers fought a hand to hand duel and was killed cleanly.’
‘How do you know they spoke first, brother?’ asked Pelicor, the youngest of the Krayakin. As well as the black armour and helm he was hooded against the sunlight.
Bakilas swung in the saddle. ‘One of the soldiers’ horses urinated on the grass. You can still see the stain. It was standing still at the time.’
‘It is still conjecture,’ muttered Pelicor.
‘Then let us see,’ said Bakilas. They rode their horses in a circle around the dead men, then Bakilas pointed to one of the corpses. ‘Rise!’ he commanded. The body of Vellian twitched and slowly rose from the grass. The ten riders focused upon it. The body spasmed, the air around it shimmering.
Images formed in the minds of the Krayakin; scenes drawn from the decaying brain of the slain soldier. They saw, through the dead man’s eyes, the wagon and its
2.35
occupants, and watched as the young officer rode to meet them. The conversation they heard was fragmented, and they honed their concentration.
‘Good morning, I am Vellian, sent . . . Karios . .. palace. The city . . . restore order.’
‘An army .. . traitors.’
‘Yes. Now .. . sabre . . . scabbard and let. . . way.’
‘I don’t think so … great danger . . . safer with me.’
There followed a sudden fracture in the image and the Krayakin saw a brief intrusion of other memories, of a young woman running on the grass.
‘The corruption has gone too far,’ said Pelicor. ‘We cannot hold the line.’
‘We can,’ said Bakilas, sternly. ‘Concentrate!’
Once more they saw the young officer facing the soldiers. The man Vellian was speaking. ‘Do not be a fool, man. You may be as skilled as Antikas himself with that sabre, but you cannot beat five of us. What is the point then of dying, when the cause is already lost?’