by Allan Cole
Another jackal bark. This time purposeful. "Why, I only want your misery, my friend," Iraj replied.
"Whatever injures you is my pleasure." He nodded, indicating the wolves. "Or should I say, our pleasure!
When you tried to destroy me, they were also injured most severely."
He gestured at the wolf on his left. "You remember King Luka, I presume?" Then to his right. "And Lord Fari?"
Safar remembered them very well. Luka had been the crown prince of Zanzair before he'd conspired with Iraj to overthrow his father, King Manacia. Fari had been Manacia's chief wizard and Grand Wazier. In their original forms both were not men, but demons.
"Where's Kalasariz?" Safar asked, dry. He was speaking of the old human spy master who had been his nemesis for many years. "It's my fondest hope he's absent from this impromptu party because I killed him."
Iraj let his eyes widen in mock surprise. "Of course you killed him, my friend," he said. He motioned, his gesture taking in himself and the others. "You killed us all! However, as you can see we've risen from the dead. Including Kalasariz. He's busy elsewhere and sends his regrets and apologies that he had to miss this reunion."
"Call him forth, then," Safar said. "I promise you this time there will be no messy resurrection."
As he spoke he let the dagger tip rise. He felt the weapon turn warm in his hand. He didn't have to look to know the point was white hot as if it had just been lifted from a forge.
Iraj saw what he was up to and laughed.
Leiria was rocked to the core when she peered through the window and saw Iraj.
Braced as she was by the dream that had driven her to Kyrania, she wasn't prepared to see her old lover in the flesh.
In the first shock wave of recognition her practical side was hurled into a gully of confusion. Battered logic rose to demand that her senses were badly mistaken. You're dreaming again, this practical side argued. In fact the whole thing is a dream. You never quit your post, much less rushed off on an insane journey to rescue Safar.
Nothing else made sense. Iraj was dead, wasn't he? Hadn't she seen his palace explode into flames with her own eyes? As well as the city surrounding it? Safar's spell was so powerful that nothing or no one could have escaped it.
She rubbed her eyes but the vision remained. Iraj was still hovering over little Palimak, two giant wolves standing on their hind legs on either side. Safar was still motionless in the doorway, Gundara chattering with fear on his shoulder. She saw the little magic dagger glowing in Safar's hand. She noted the ridge of concentration on his brow and knew he was gathering his strength to strike.
Mind racing with a thousand possibilities for action, all suicidal, she bent closer to listen.
"Let me tell you what I learned about dying," Iraj said to Safar, very calm as if the burning dagger presented no threat. "To begin with, it isn't necessarily fatal." He laughed again, bitterly. "Now isn't that a good jest?" he said. "One that few could make. Unfortunately for you, I am one of those few. And I owe it all to them."
Another gesture at the wolves. "Thanks to them we were already exploring … how shall I say it … new forms of life? Or afterlife, if you will. And when you struck we were able to escape into one of those forms-Shape-changers!"
Iraj was crackling with inner fire. As he spoke he seemed to grow larger, shoulders broadening, chest deepening, head rising almost to the ceiling. It wasn't posturing, but a spell he was making with the help of Fari and Luka. He was using that spell to strike fear into Safar's heart, attempting to hammer his enemy into submission.
He smiled, his long teeth making him look like a wolf. "We can move in and out of this flesh at will. It's a bit painful, but after time you learn that pain gives strength as well as pleasure. There's more hope in pain than you might guess, Safar. You can see things, horizons and possibilities you never dreamed of before.
As a boy my greatest dream was to be King of Kings. Well, I achieved that dream. But great as it was, once won, it was nothing. I felt hollow, Safar. Empty of all achievement, even though I'd matched my boyhood hero, the Conqueror Alisarrian."
Protarus saw the dagger in Safar's hand waver. The spell was working! He pressed harder, pushing against Safar's defenses with all his might. The dagger point dropped lower still and it was all Iraj could do to keep from smacking his lips in anticipation.
Instead he gestured at the wolves who were Luka and Fari. "My friends saw this. They understood even more than I-even more than you-what I truly sought." He leaned closer, his breath hot on Safar's face.
"Now, I can be King of Kings of both worlds-magical as well as mortal. I suppose I should thank you for opening the way for me. My ambitions, my dreams, have always been greater than the flesh that could hold them."
The spell was so strong that Safar-who was already stretched to the breaking by his twin effort to protect Palimak plus hold Iraj and the wolves at bay-was nearly overcome. Gundara sank sharp claws into his shoulder, hissing, "Master! Master!"
Safar rallied, beating back the spell. He said, "If you are so all powerful, Iraj, why don't you just do away with me now? Kill me. Kill the child. Blast Kyrania to dust with your most powerful spell. What's stopping you?"
Iraj forced laughter. He was shocked at Safar's swift recovery. This wasn't how it was supposed to work! On his right Fari growled, urging him to keep on.
"Think about it," Iraj said, swiftly trying to repair the spell. "The only thing that held me back from true greatness before was my lack of magical abilities. You were the one whose powers were so awesome even demons feared you."
"That's hardly my fault," Safar said, mentally brushing aside the spellweb. Looking for his chance. "I was born with those talents. And you weren't. What more can I say?"
"Still," Iraj said, "you could have given me those powers. They could have been a gift to your oath brother and king." He gestured at Luka and Fari, who growled at his motions. "They were certainly willing to give me such a gift. Why wouldn't you?"
"You won't believe this," Safar answered, "but even if I'd wanted to, I didn't know how. Not safely, anyway. With these two-plus Kalasariz-you formed the Spell of Four. Very powerful. But also a two-edged sword. It is dangerous not only to others, but to yourself. You don't realize it now-perhaps you never will-but the pact you made was your downfall. I did nothing to you. Not really. True, I made a spell of destruction. But it depended upon your own nature for it to work."
"You're right," Iraj said. "I don't believe it."
Safar shrugged. "I didn't think you would."
"As for destroying my kingdom," Iraj said, "it was only temporary. Even as we speak my armies are putting it back together again."
Safar ignored this. "You still didn't answer my first question," he insisted. "Why all this talk? It's really quite unlike you, Iraj. Why not just kill us now?"
"The answer is simple, Safar," Iraj said. "I'm here to collect your powers." He nodded at Palimak. "And the boy's."
Now, Safar thought. Now! And he let himself sag a little, as if in spell-induced shock.
Iraj's temples hammered with sudden elation. He gestured at the sleeping child, grinding in his perceived advantage.
"My friends and I are perfectly willing to drain those powers from your dying bodies. And put them to better use." He shrugged. "The result would be rather weak, but it'll do, it'll do. Alive would be better, of course. And with your full cooperation it'd be better still."
"You'd still kill us," Safar said. "Eventually."
Iraj barked humor. "Oh, I promise you that, old friend. As I said, I owe you much. But if you surrender now, I'll let the boy live."
"That's no bargain," Safar said, pretending unconcern. "I'd still be dead."
Iraj frowned, as if deeply concerned at an impasse that did not exist. "But I require the boy alive. He's the key ingredient to what I need to secure my new throne." As he spoke, he and his Brothers of the Spell poured all their powers into their assault on Safar's will.
"I know t
he child's just a foundling," Iraj continued. "So you probably don't have any deep feelings for him. You won't suffer greatly when I tell you we intend to make the boy's life as miserable as possible.
And believe me, there's nothing about misery I don't know, Safar Timura."
Safar let a soft moan escape. Iraj grinned, excitement so great that he lost control of his human shape and a wolf snout suddenly erupted from his face.
"What luck!" he growled. "You do love the boy, you poor sad fool." He sniffed the air, licking his chops.
"Marvelous," he growled. "I can already taste your pain."
Iraj sniffed again, liked what he found even more, and drew in a long breath, shuddering from the infusion of fear and servile misery Safar was pumping into the atmosphere.
I am small and weak, Safar thought, and you are large and strong. Mercy, Lord, mercy. If I must die make it swift. Mercy, Lord, mercy. And spare the child. I beg you, spare the child. Mercy, Lord, mercy.
Iraj gloried in the rich scent of Safar's humiliation. Grinned at the sour sweat running off of him in streams.
It made a quite a heady concoction.
When he relaxed his guard Safar struck.
It wasn't his strongest spell. In fact, it was rather weak. But it was the best he could do without killing Palimak in the backblast.
A fiery arc leaped from his dagger point to Iraj's crown. There was a flash of light and a howl of pain as Iraj was hurled back by the force of Safar's attack, slamming against the far wall.
Hoping against all the odds Safar turned to his left, aiming a second blast at the demon wolf who was Lord Fari.
"To Palimak!" he shouted to Gundara.
The little Favorite leaped from his shoulder onto the bed.
Fari was almost on him when Safar let loose the next sorcerous blast. But it was weak, too weak and the demon wolf shrugged it off and kept coming. From the corner of his eye he could see Luka leaping for him. Just beyond Iraj was rising up, shaking off the affects of Safar's attack.
Then he felt a heatshudder as Gundara threw a protective shield over the spellbound Palimak.
He reached deep for his strongest spell but even as he formed it he knew he was too late.
All was lost but he kept going, praying his enemy would make the smallest mistake or misstep.
It was a foolish prayer because there were claws scything toward him and the euphoria of certain death leaked into his brain, numbing him for the shock.
Then there was a thunder of hooves bearing a chill war cry and the house shook as an enormous weight struck the wall.
Safar's three attackers stumbled about in surprise as the whole wall crashed inward-showering them with debris-and they hurled themselves to the side just as a mailed warrior on horseback smashed into the small room. And then everything was a confusion of flying hooves and slashing sword and shrill battle cries.
Iraj and his demon/wolves were flung apart. They roared in pain and fury as horse and rider whirled about, barreling into them.
Safar leaped back through the doorway as the horse swerved toward him. He glanced over at Palimak's bed and saw the boy was still asleep; Gundara crouched over him, his shielding spell keeping bed and boy miraculously untouched by the chaos.
Safar turned back to the melee. He had his killing spell ready but there was no clear target. A slight miss and his rescuer would die as well.
Then the equation became simpler as the two demon/wolves were driven through the shattered wall and horse and rider plunged after them. And then there was only Safar and Iraj, who was coming up from a pile of debris. As Iraj rose a powerful light radiated from his body. He began to transform into a giant wolf, black as a starless night with the fires of the hells in its eyes.
The wolf turned its huge head toward Safar, maw coming open. Their eyes met … and held for what seemed like an eternity. It was only a moment but it was time enough for an arc of recognition to leap between them. It was like two souls brushing together-souls from another place and another time when they were just boys, fast friends, with only clear horizons before them.
Then hate rushed back and Safar let loose his spell.
He meant to kill and held nothing back but when his sorcerous bolt struck there was a white hot flare, a loud crack of overheated air, and when his eyes cleared the demon wolf who was Iraj had vanished.
Cursing, Safar sagged back against the shattered door frame. Iraj had escaped unscathed. And he was certain to return-in one form or another-with even greater forces than before.
Safar looked over at Palimak and knew a small bit of joy when he saw the boy was still sleeping peacefully as if nothing had happened. There was debris all around the bed and spatters of blood on the lower frame.
Gundara stood over the boy, chest puffed up under his elegant little doublet, standing as tall as he could, a sharp-toothed grin gleaming in his little demon's face.
"Never fear, Master," he said, bold as can be. "Gundara is here."
Safar sighed and nodded his thanks.
He heard the clatter of hooves and the creak of harness and looked up to see the mounted warrior canter up to the gaping hole that had once been a little boy's bedroom wall.
The warrior reached up with a mailed glove and swept the helm away.
Safar was too numb for surprise and he barely reacted when he saw Leiria grinning down at him.
"Are they gone?" he croaked, exhaustion overcoming him.
"Vanished, is more like it," Leiria said, still burning with the odd joy battle fever can cause. "Good thing, too. They were coming at me from both sides and I thought I was in for a helluva fight. Then, poof! they disappeared."
At that moment Palimak sat bolt up in bed. He rubbed sleepy eyes and looked all around him, noting the destruction of his room.
He looked up at Safar, still a little dazed, a worried frown creasing his brow.
"I didn't do it, father," he said. "Honest, I didn't."
CHAPTER SIX
THE COUNCIL OF ELDERS
The funeral ceremony for Iraj's victims was depressingly easy to arrange. The village was still draped in black from mourning Tio. The wailing women's cheeks were well oiled for tears. This time, however, there were no swaggering louts shouting vows of revenge.
If Tio's death had shocked the villagers, the toll they now faced was beyond shrieks and tears and shouts. Besides the three murdered sentries Leiria had found, there were six others who had been surprised and killed by Iraj and his companions.
When the dawn came and the bodies were discovered there had been so much blood they couldn't keep the children from seeing it. After Safar pronounced the funeral prayer and the boats were fired and launched, many of the young people became hysterical with grief. They clutched each other and wept, shouting the names of their dead friends. It was a scene that would haunt many a dream for years to come.
As soon as he could Safar retreated into the little temple. But there was no peace to be found in the dusty silence of his inner chambers. Solitude makes misery larger, not smaller, Safar thought. And when you are truly alone there's no one to curse but yourself. He was exhausted from his encounter with Iraj, so tired his limbs were ungainly weights and the air itself seemed formed of the thickest clay, resisting his every motion. It was as if he had been stripped of all spirit and will, leaving him so weak that if Iraj had suddenly appeared Safar would have surrendered gladly.
It made him ill prepared when his father entered the chamber, shamefaced and shuffling.
"You are my son," he said, avoiding Safar's eyes. "But it is my duty to speak to you not as a father, but as a member of the Council of Elders. Forgive me, Safar, for what I am about to say. It's their words, not mine, that I must speak. And you should know it is only out of courtesy that the Council is allowing me to carry them to you so the insult might be lessened."
Safar nodded. "That was good of them," he said. If there was sarcasm in his manner, it was unintended.
His father stiffened. "Safar Tim
ura, son of Khadji and Myrna Timura, it is the wish of the Council of Elders that you report immediately to the Meeting Lodge. There you will wait while the Council considers the recent tragic events and the part you played in them. You have the right to address the Council before their final decision is made. However, you may not be present while that decision is being discussed. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Safar said.
Khadji's formal pose collapsed into that of a worried and awkward father.
"You know I'll speak up for you at the meeting, son," he said.
"Of course you will," Safar said, feeling like a child pretending to be an adult so he could reassure his parent.
Khadji added to the awkward moment by suddenly leaning forward as if to embrace him, then pulling back at the last instant, embarrassed.
"Your mother and sisters send their love," he said. Then, lower, "To which I add mine."
"Thank you father," Safar said, realizing the reply was weak, but under the circumstances it was the safest one he could manage.
He saved his father and himself further embarrassment by becoming occupied with a misplaced sash.
While his eyes were lowered he heard his father let loose a long sigh of frustration.
It was a sigh best ignored, so Safar drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. "Tell the Council," he said, quite formal, "that I will be honored to attend them. And will abide by whatever wise action they deem necessary."
Khadji's eyes welled with tears. He stepped back, fighting for control. Unlike Safar, he was not a self-assessing man, so he didn't understand the difficulty he had with his son. A man of strong beliefs, rights and wrongs, blacks and whites, he assumed it was some glaring fault in the clay he was made of and berated himself for his failings. Safar had inherited many of his father's flaws. On sleepless nights, when good deeds are cracked in guilt's jaws to find the sinful center, he'd added greatly to that score.
Still, he was a wizard with an instinct for striking for the truth and sometimes he was even lucky enough to find it. So where his father turned away, Safar looked deeper. Over time he'd come to understand that Khadji suffered from the ancient curse of all master potters. Under a potter's hands clay is a spirit demanding form and life. It also wants to be useful. It requires a purpose. What's more it insists that purpose and beauty be combined. To achieve this unity-which all potters desire above all else-perspective must be maintained at any cost. A potter loves the clay as deeply as any being can love. Yet he can never declare it. He must not let the barest hint of it come through. Above all things a master potter must keep his distance or he will lose his vision, hence control. Or else what he loves will become an ugly thing that bursts in the kiln at the first firing.