The manner of Bison's sacrifice was unsettling. Axiana was a Ventrian princess, her child the son of the man who had spurned Bison's services. Bison owed them nothing, but gave them everything.
It was more than unsettling. It was galling.
In Ventrian history heroes had always been noblemen, full of courage and virtue. They were never belching, groin-scratching simpletons. A thought struck him, and he smiled. Maybe they were. Conalin had asked him if Bison had grown wings. If they survived this quest the story would grow. Antikas would tell it. Sufia would tell it. And the story to be believed would be the child's. And why? Because it was more satisfying to believe that heroes never die, that somehow they live on, to return in another age. In a hundred years the real Bison would be remembered not at all. He would become golden haired and handsome, perhaps the bastard son of a Ventrian noble. Antikas glanced at the sleeping queen. Most likely he would also, in future legends, become Axiana's lover and the father of the babe he saved.
Antikas returned to the camp. Nogusta was sleeping now. Axiana was awake and feeding the child. Ulmenetha signalled for Antikas to join her. 'The wound is a bad one,' she said. 'I have done what I can, but he is very weak, and may still die.'
'I would lay large odds against that, lady. The man is a fighter.'
'And an old man devastated not just by a wound, but by grief. Bison was his friend, and he knew his friend was to die.'
Antikas nodded. 'I know this. What would you have me do?'
'You must lead us to Lem.'
'What is so vital about the ghost city? What is it we seek among the ruins?'
'Get us there and you will see,' said Ulmenetha. 'We can wait another hour, then I will wake the sleepers.'
As she turned her head he saw the angry, swollen bruise upon her temple, and remembered the knife hilt laying her low. 'That was a nasty blow,' he said. 'How are you feeling?'
She smiled wearily. 'I feel a little nauseous, but I will live, Antikas Karios. I have the maps here. Perhaps you would like to study them.' He took them from her and unrolled the first. Ulmenetha leaned in. 'The Ventrian army are moving from here,' she said, stabbing her finger at the map, 'and they have swept out in a sickle formation, expecting us to make for the sea. Within the next two days they will have secured all the roads leading to Lem.'
'There is no proper scale to this map,' he said. 'I cannot tell how far we are from the ruins.'
'Less than forty miles,' she told him. 'South and west.'
'I will think on a route,' he said. He glanced at Axiana, who was sitting just out of earshot. Tt would have been better for the world had Bison jumped with the babe,' he said, softly.
'Not so,' she told him. 'The Demon Lord has already begun the Great Spell. The child's death will complete it, with or without a sacrifice.'
Antikas felt suddenly chill. He looked away, and remembered his fingers reaching for the babe's throat.
'Well,' he said, at last, 'that, at least, adds a golden sheen to the old man's death.'
'Such a deed needs no sheen,' she told him.
'Perhaps not,' he agreed. He left her then and moved to the fire. Little Sufia was sitting quietly with Conalin and Pharis. She scampered over to Antikas. 'Will he fly back to us?' she asked him. 'I keep looking in the sky.'
Antikas took a deep breath, and he looked at Conalin.
'He will fly back one day,' he told the child, 'when he is most needed.'
Chapter Eleven
Nogusta was only vaguely aware that he was riding a horse. Someone was sitting behind him, holding him in the saddle. He opened his eyes and saw that the company was moving slowly across a verdant valley. Up ahead Antikas Karios was riding Starfire. Nogusta felt a stab of irritation, but then remembered he had commanded the Ventrian to take his horse. Starfire was a spirited animal, and Nogusta was in no condition to ride him.
He glanced down at the hands supporting him. They were slender and feminine. Patting the hands he whispered, 'Thank you.'
'Do you need to stop and rest?' Ulmenetha asked him.
'No.' His vision swam and he leaned back into the woman.
Bison was gone, and the pain of loss struck him savagely. He swayed in the saddle and felt Ulmenetha's arms holding him firmly. Then he drifted into dreams of the past. The day passed in a haze. When they stopped to rest the horses Kebra helped him down. Nogusta did not know where he was, only that the sun was warm on his face, the grass cool against his back. It was blissful here, and he wanted to sleep for ever. From somewhere close came the cry of an infant. Then he heard a child singing a song. He seemed to remember the child had been killed by a wagon, but obviously this was not so. He was relieved — as if a burden had been lifted from him.
At some point he was fed a thick soup. He remembered the taste, but could not recall who had fed him, nor why he had not fed himself.
Then he saw his father. They were all sitting in the main room of the house, his brothers and sisters, his mother, and his old aunt. T shall show you some magick,' his father said, rising from the old horse hide chair he cherished. He had lifted the talisman from around his neck. The chain was long, the gold glinting in the lantern light. Father walked to the eldest of Nogusta's brothers and tried to loop the chain over his head. But the chain shrank, and would not pass over the boy's skull. Each of the brothers in turn marvelled at the magick. Then he came to Nogusta. The chain slid easily over his head, the talisman settling to his chest.
'What is the trick?' asked his eldest brother.
'There is no trick,' said father. 'The talisman has chosen. That is all.'
'That is not fair,' said the eldest. 'I am the heir. It should be mine.'
'I was not the heir,' father pointed out. 'Yet it chose me.'
'How does it choose?' asked the youngest brother.
'I do not know. But the man who made it was our ancestor. He was greater than any king.'
That night, alone in their room, his eldest brother had struck him in the face. 'It should have been mine,' he said. 'It was a trick because father loves you more.'
Nogusta could still feel the pain of the blow. Only now, for some strange reason that he could not fathom, the pain was emanating from his shoulder.
He was riding again, and he opened his eyes to see the stars shining in the night sky. A new moon hung like a sickle over the mountains, just like on his talisman. He almost expected to see a golden hand reach out to encircle it. High above him an owl glided by on white wings.
White wings. .
'Poor Bison,' he said, aloud.
'He is at peace,' said a voice. The voice confused Nogusta. Somehow Ulmenetha had transformed into Kebra.
'How did you do that?' he mumbled. Then he slept again, and awoke beside a camp-fire. Kebra had become Ulmenetha again, and her hand was upon his wound. She was chanting softly.
A figure floated before his vision, blurred and indistinct, and Nogusta fell away into a deep dream.
He was sitting in the Long Meadow back at home, and he could hear his mother singing in the kitchen. A tall man was sitting beside him, a black man, but one he did not know.
'This was a peaceful time for you,' said the man.
'It was the best of times,' Nogusta told him.
'If you survive you must come back and rebuild. The descendants of your herds are back in the mountains. There are great stallions there, and the herds are strong.'
'The memories are too painful.'