He followed them for a hundred miles to a stockaded town, but there the vision faded.
He opened his eyes and stretched his back, suppressing a groan as the ligaments above his hip creaked and cracked. The wind was cold on his skin and he was mortally tired.
Yet still there was another flight to be made. The call was still strong and he allowed himself to link to it, his spirit lifting from his body to be drawn swiftly across the Steppes. The mountains were beautiful from this height, cloaked in snow and crowned with clouds. His spirit fell towards the tallest peak, passing through it deep into the dark. At last he entered a cavern where torches flickered on the walls and an old man sat before a small fire. Okas looked at him closely. He wore a necklace of lion’s teeth around his scrawny throat, and his thin white beard had no more substance than woodsmoke. When the man’s dark eyes opened and fixed on Okas there was pain in them, and a sorrow so deep that Okas was almost moved to tears.
‘Welcome, brother,’ said Asta Khan. The Nadir shaman winced and cried out.
‘How can I help you?’ asked Okas. ‘What are they doing to you?’
‘They are killing my children. There is nothing you can do. Soon they will send their forces against me and that is when I shall require your aid. The demons will fly, and my strength will not be enough to send them fleeing back to the pit. But with you I have a chance.’
‘Then I shall be here, brother . . . and I will bring help.’
Asta Khan nodded. ‘The ghosts-yet-to-be.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will they come if you ask it?’
‘I think that they will.’
‘They will face nightmares beyond description. The demons will sense their fears – and make them real.’
‘They will come.’
‘Why do you do this for me?’ asked Asta. ‘You know what I desire. You know everything.’
‘Not everything,’ said Okas. ‘No man knows it all.’
Asta screamed and rolled to the floor. Okas sat quietly and waited until the old shaman pushed himself upright, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘Now they are killing the little ones; I cannot block out their anguish.’
‘Nor would you wish to,’ said Okas. ‘Come forth and take my hand.’
The spirit of Asta Khan rose from the frail body. In this form he seemed younger, stronger. Okas took the outstretched hand and allowed his own strength to flow into the shaman.
‘Why?’ asked Asta once more. ‘Why do you do this for me?’
‘Perhaps it is not for you.’
‘Who then? Tenaka? He was not your lord.’
‘It is enough that I do it. I must return to my flesh. When you have need, I will be here.’
*
Kiall’s anger was short-lived. As the questors waited on the edge of the woods for Okas, the young man sat beside Chareos and vented his rage.
Chareos cut across his words. ‘Follow me,’ he said sharply. The Blademaster stood and walked away into the trees, out of earshot of the others. Once there he turned on Kiall, his dark eyes angry, his face set.
‘Do not waste your self-righteous wrath on me, boy. I’ll not have it. When the raiders came, you – and all these villagers – did nothing. Of course they think they don’t want the captives back. And why? Because it would be like looking in a mirror and seeing their own cowardice. They would have to live every day with that mirror. Every time they passed a former prisoner, they would see their own shortcomings. Now stop whining about it.’
‘Why are you so angry?’ Kiall asked. ‘You could have just explained it to me.’
‘Explained . . . ?’ Chareos threw back his head and stared at the sky. He said nothing for several seconds and Kiall realised he was fighting for control of his temper. Finally he sat down and indicated that Kiall should join him. The young man did so. ‘I don’t have time to explain everything, Kiall,’ said the older man patiently, ‘and I do not have the inclination. I have always believed that a man should think for himself. If he relies on others for his thoughts and his motives, then his brain becomes an empty, useless thing. Why am I angry? Let us examine that for a moment. How do you think the Nadren know which villages to hit, where attractive young women live?’