by Allan Cole
Dario coughed-hard and harsh to choke up the phlegm of fear. "I was never the sort what opposed an orderly retreat, me lord," he said in a gruff voice. "Assumin' the circumstances called for it."
Dario jerked as the howling resumed-even closer than before. The old warrior forced himself to relax and then he smiled, carved wooden teeth making an old man's splintered grin.
"What I'm sayin', me lord," Dario continued, ignoring the howls as best he could, "is that right now appears to be one of them circumstances I was talkin' about. For retreatin', I mean."
Serious as the situation was Safar couldn't help but laugh. "I don't think you'll find anyone here who objects to such a strategy," he said.
The laughter calmed the other men. They all grinned and nodded. Safar gestured toward the trail they'd taken into the meadow.
"You can have the honor of leading the retreat, sergeant," he said. "But go as quickly as you can. Don't look back. Only forward. And don't pay any attention to anything that might confront you. Just charge on through. Do you understand?"
Dario licked his lips, then nodded. He formed up the group, young Renor in the center, and at Safar's signal he charged, moving at an amazing pace for one so old. The others had to strain to keep up.
Safar followed until he reached the meadow's edge. There he calmly halted and shed his pack. He unbuckled it, drawing out a half dozen small stoppered bottles. He waited, the howls growing louder and closer.
Then he saw them-gigantic wolf-like shapes bounding out of the rocks. There were four of them, twice the size of a man. They were a misty gray, like fog, but so lightly formed Safar could see through them.
Safar picked up one of the bottles, hefting it in his hand. It was filled with a silver liquid tinged with purple-wolf bane mixed with mercury. It was heavy for its small size. He tossed it from hand to hand like one of Methydia's circus juggling balls.
And he intoned:
"Wolf, wolf,
Trickster,
Shape changer-
Bane
Of our existence … "
He hurled the bottle.
It sailed through the air, falling a good twenty feet before the charging spectral pack. Safar turned away, shielding his eyes, just as the bottle struck. Great sheets of purple flame exploded. He heard satisfying howls of pain and rage. He scooped up the other bottles and ran after Dario and the others.
For fifteen paces or so the only sound was the ringing in his ears from the explosion and the terrified yowls from the ghostly wolf pack. Then he heard the eerie, commanding cry of the Great Wolf ordering the pack to follow. It echoed through the small meadow, was pinched in by the frozen rock, and then blasted forward to sear his back.
The ghost wolves, however, recovered almost immediately and he hadn't taken more than five paces before he heard the sound of their running feet just behind him.
They were so close he didn't have time to stop and aim. He hurled a bottle over his shoulder as hard as he could, digging his toes into the ground with such force that he practically levitated as he flew down the trail, sliding where it curved toward a cliff edge and sending a shower of ice and frozen pebbles over the side. He fought for balance, hearing the debris tumble down a frightening distance and the sound of his howling pursuers drawing near. Then the bottle struck and the explosion was so forceful he almost went over the edge himself. He recovered at the last moment, boot heels skittering at the cliff's edge as he hurled himself to the side and back onto the path.
Again he heard the yowls of pain. Again he heard the Great Wolf howl for his spectral pack to follow.
But from the sound of the baying pack there was a more comfortable distance than before.
Safar caught up to the others as they entered a canyon, shrouded on all sides by a thick, clinging fog.
He heard a growl then a grinding and he shouted, "Faster!" And everyone threw caution away and ran as fast as they could. But it wasn't quite fast enough to avoid the huge boulders that rumbled into their midst.
Safar heard someone scream and turned just in time to see one of his fellow Kyranians fall beneath a huge rock. It crushed his legs, then bounced away down the mountainside.
Dario shouted a halt and as the men hastily lifted up their moaning, badly wounded friend, Safar swept about and hurled two more jars into the surrounding fog. He aimed blindly, but he heard shrieks of pain and knew he'd struck his mark.
Then they were running again-on and on, until all their strength was gone and they could run no more.
Safar and Dario directed the group to a clump of snow-covered boulders, where they sat their injured friend down and turned to meet the pursuing horror.
To their immense relief there was only fog and silence. After a moment or two Safar probed the mist with his senses. He found nothing.
The Great Wolf and his ghost pack were gone.
They crouched in their camp all that night and set off at first light. It was a cheery day, with only the Demon Moon hanging on the northern horizon to remind them that this was not the most delightful place in the world to be. Birds were singing, fawn were dancing in the forest and small animals darted underfoot.
No one was fooled.
They could hear heavy bodies moving through the underbrush behind them and knew they were being trailed. Even so, they reached Kyrania by late afternoon with no further incidents.
Everyone was too tired to do more than report the barest details of what happened. Still, those details were harrowing enough to rouse the village into mounting a guard at all the main entrances to the valley.
Safar collected Palimak from his parents' house. The boy ran into his arms, sobbing as if he had undergone an unpleasant ordeal. When Safar asked what was wrong he didn't speak, but only clutched him tighter. Palimak was silent on the short walk home. He ate little of his dinner and went to bed without complaint.
Late that night Safar was awakened from a dreamless sleep. His limbs were heavy, yet his mind sang with urgency. He forced his eyes open and saw Gundara crouched on his chest.
The little Favorite was frantic, clawing at his nightshirt. "Hurry, Master!" he cried. "The boy! The boy!"
Safar groaned out of bed, fighting rolling waves of lethargy. He grabbed his little silver dagger and staggered to Palimak's room.
He paused at the door, fighting the strange weariness. Gundara was perched on his shoulder, fangs chattering in fear.
Safar looked inside.
A tall man stood over the sleeping child. Flanking him were gigantic wolves, reared up on their hind legs.
When the man saw him he smiled and said, "Hello, Safar."
The wolves growled menacingly.
"Silence!" the man commanded. "Can't you see I'm speaking to my friend?"
It was Iraj Protarus. Back from the dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE RETURN OF IRAJ PROTARUS
She rode in from the north, keeping the Demon Moon at her back and staying well within its long shadows. Her horse's hooves were muffled, as were her weapons and armor. The night wind was up, moaning through trees and gullies so the only discernible sound was the occasional creak of her harness, or the faint rattle of pebbles when her horse misstepped.
Leiria drew up when she neared the bend where the first sentries should have been posted. She knew where they'd be because it was Leiria herself who had reformed Kyrania's methods of guarding the approaches. She'd not only drawn up the map but had trained the sentries. She'd also imposed an orderly system for challenges and knew what passwords the lead sentry would use when he demanded if she were friend or foe. The plan was that as the approaching party or parties considered the response, two other guardians of the trail would move in on opposite flanks. If she appeared threatening, they'd cut her down with their crossbows while she was still focusing on the lead sentry.
That was the plan-as foolproof as anyone could make it. She'd drilled her charges thoroughly, warning all the while that the fools she was attempting to guard them aga
inst were on their side.
"If the enemy presents himself," she'd told Rossthom, the man she'd schooled to take her place when she left, "it's safer to assume he isn't a dimwit. If he's to be worth anything at all as a potential enemy, he'll have scouted your defenses before the approach. He'll know very well who is the greatest dullard on your side. The one most likely to fall asleep. The one who favors a nip or three on the jug to keep off the chill. When you issue your challenge he'll pause to consider for an arse scratch or two, while his best men cut your laggard friend's throat. By the time you repeat the challenge his entire force will be on you."
Rossthom had heeded her well-and to a lesser degree, so had her other charges-so she was quite disappointed when no one challenged her when she came to the barricade. Her disappointment deepened when she found Rossthom's bloody remains sprawled next to the barricade. There were no marks on the muddy ground so she knew he'd died without a struggle. There were only his footprints and the depressions his body made as he flopped about while his attacker slit him from stem to stern.
Leiria dismounted and considered the situation. She thought it quite odd there was no sign of the enemy's approach. As carefully as she searched, there were no other marks on the ground. It was as if Rossthom had been attacked from above. She searched further and found the corpses of the other two sentries.
Once again, there was no spoor left by the enemy.
She led her horse into a grove of trees overlooking Kyrania. In the light of the Demon Moon the fields and homes were quite clear. A few chimneys glowed, a few candles were guttering down in distant windows and far off she could hear a young rooster mistake the Demon Moon for dawn and crow an eerie welcome.
All in all, everything seemed quite peaceful. If it weren't for the dead sentries she might have thought her mad rush to Kyrania was not only a waste of time but a humiliating one at that.
Since she'd left Safar's side she had been making a decent if precarious living by selling her sword. Only a few weeks ago she'd been wriggling into the comfortable post as captain of a minor king's guard. The pay was good, the king's ambitions small and she had a comfortable room with a soft bed, easy access to the privy and a fireplace to warm her on a winter's night.
Then one night she'd had a dream. The dream had started well enough-she was in Safar's arms, snuggling up after making love and drifting off to sleep. This was a planned dreamed, a dream she'd conjured on many a night to carry her away from a difficult day.
On that particular night, however, the dream continued on. She found herself being pulled into another embrace. She went willingly, sleepily enjoying the caresses of her re-awakened companion. Then the arms holding her were suddenly somehow unfamiliar-but familiar-at the same time. It was not an embrace she welcomed. Leiria felt as if she had been drugged and had awakened in the arms of a monster.
In her dream, she opened her eyes and saw it was not Safar, but Iraj preparing to mount her. She shouted, catching him by surprise, then gripped his hair and flung him to the side. She came to her feet, grabbing a candleholder for a weapon. Iraj rolled away just in time as she hurled it at him and the heavy base thudded uselessly into the feather mattress.
Her sword was lying next to the bed where she always kept it and she snatched it up just as Iraj rose from the floor.
Except now it wasn't Iraj she was facing. Instead she was confronted by an enormous wolf! She slashed at it, but the bed between them was too wide and the wolf too agile.
Then it turned to her, red eyes boring in. The wolf opened its jaws to speak. She was too numb to be surprised when she heard Iraj's voice issuing from the wolf's mouth.
"Slut," it hissed. And, "Whore!" Then, "I gave you to Safar Timura. Now I want you back!"
Naked as she was, those words armored Leiria in the strongest mail. "I was given once," she said. "I won't be given again. Back, or otherwise."
And she hurled herself across the bed, slashing with all her might.
Then she was sitting up in bed, striking with her fists at nothing but innocent darkness.
Instead of confusion, however, Leiria had one thought fixed in her mind-Safar was in danger. She didn't question this thought, much less dwell on the nightmare. Her soldier's instinct said this was so and therefor she acted.
Two hours later she was riding for Kyrania. She didn't even bother to tell her employer, the king.
Now, looking down at the peaceful scene, she wondered for an instant if she'd gone mad. Love mad, that is. Had the dream been nothing but an excuse to be in Safar's presence once again? Admit it, Leiria, she said to herself, you still love him. But then she thought, No, I'm over that. If there's any love, it's because I love him as a sister loves a brother.
Then she had the skin-crawling awareness that there must be a spell on the trail to make her feel so confused about her mission. Behind her were dead sentries. Ahead of her was a seemingly peaceful village. Only a fool wouldn't realize that it didn't add up.
She moved closer to the hill's edge. Just below she could see Safar's home peeking out of the cherry grove that was Kyrania's unofficial boundary. There was a strange silvery glow streaming out of one of his windows. She frowned, remembering the layout. The light was coming from Palimak's room. At any other time she would have thought the child was up to some magical mischief.
But not this time. Not this night.
She loosened her weapons, took up her horse's reins and led it quietly down the trail.
Iraj turned back from his charges, sneering at Safar. "And what a f riend you proved to be, Timura," he said. "To think I once swore a blood oath with you."
Then his eyes met Safar's and there was a long, frozen moment as the two enemies regarded each other from across the room. The only sound was the harsh breathing of the wolves and Gundara's frightened whimpers from his perch on Safar's shoulder.
Even through thick lenses of hatred, Safar could see that Iraj was as handsome as ever-muscular frame draped in black, white teeth glittering through his golden beard. A simple crown of black onyx encircled his flowing locks. But his eyes were fiery red-red as the Demon Moon. Red as the wine he'd shared with Safar when they'd pledged eternal friendship and brotherhood. Red as the blood that had stained Nerisa's snowy breast when Iraj slew her. And now Iraj had returned to threaten the life of the one he loved most. A sleeping child-half demon, half human-named Palimak.
Blood infused with shape-changer's hate, all senses heightened to the painful extreme-it was all Iraj could do to check his murderous rage. Safar's obvious good health and strength infuriated him. Safar should be diseased and mutilated, with barely strength to draw breath for what he'd done to Iraj. At the same time, Safar's strange blue eyes penetrated his heart and saw his shame and guilt, which made Iraj fear him-and hate him even more.
Safar exhaled and the moment came unstuck, slamming his emotional gate shut before those old wrongs could overwhelm him. Revenge was an unpredictable sword that cut in all directions. It was enough for Safar to recognize that Iraj was his enemy-an enemy so powerful he'd risen from the grave to confront him.
Quick-so quick Old Man Time Himself couldn't take its measure-Safar formed the killing spell and his little silver dagger rose to blast Iraj back into whatever hells he came from. The two wolves sensed the danger. As he formed the spell they growled and as the dagger rose they gathered to leap-long fangs dripping, claws anxious to rip out his heart.
They'd be fast, Safar thought, but not fast enough.
Iraj's mind, however, was racing ahead of the killing moment. He knew Safar, knew him well, and could see his enemy consider the murderous possibilities. Safar blinked, deciding, and Iraj immediately knew what he'd do next.
Iraj instantly visualized the action from Safar's point of view. Safar would attack Iraj first. Then the wolf on the right. Finally he'd whirl to confront the third creature. But it'd be too late and Safar would be ripped from throat to groin. However, in the killing the wolf would also die. Except Palimak would be safe and
that's all that would matter to Safar.
Yes, Iraj thought. That's his greatest vulnerability. The child.
Safar had the spell set and had all but cast it when Iraj raised a cautioning hand.
"Beware, Safar!" he said.
Instantly, he turned on his companions, shouting, "Hold!"
And they held, snarling and gnashing their fangs. Eyes sparking in terrible frustration.
Safar stayed his hand as well. The dagger point dropped, but he only had to raise it less than an inch to hurl his spell.
"Consider before you act, Safar," Iraj said. He gestured at Palimak, who stirred in his spellbound sleep, moaning as if suffering a bad dream, saying, "Anything you do against me is certain to harm the boy."
Gundara stirred uneasily on Safar's shoulder. "He speaks the truth, master," he whispered. "One wrong move and Palimak is doomed."
As low as he'd spoken, Iraj's hearing was so acute he overheard. He smiled, saying, "If you won't heed me, heed your Favorite. And I promise you the child will not only die, but will suffer greatly in the dying."
Safar let the dagger point dip lower. It wasn't a surrender, but it was an admission of momentary defeat.
Small as the gesture was, Iraj was thrilled by it. His overcharged shaper-changer's emotions frothed over and he couldn't help the wild laugh that exploded from his throat.
Safar winced. "You look better than you sound, Iraj," he said. He was surprised when he realized he hadn't meant to be sarcastic, or wounding. It was simply a natural comment between old friends. Or old enemies, as the case seemed to be.
"Never mind what I sound like," Iraj snarled. He knew very well the laugh seemed like that of a jackal and felt humiliated by showing that weakness. It spoiled his momentary thrill of victory.
Grinding to gain the upper hand again, he said, "You should be worrying about what I want instead of thinking up empty insults."
"Very well, then," Safar said, evening the game by making his voice and manner mild, "What do you want with us?"