by Allan Cole
Palimak stirred beside her. She'd promised Safar that she'd guard the child until the danger had passed.
"If I were bigger," he said, "I could magic their howls right out of their throats." He lifted up both hands, cupping them into paws like a cat's. Needle point claws emerged from his fingertips. "I'd do like this…"
and he slashed the air with his claws … "and cut those howls right out!"
Not for the first time, Leiria felt a shiver when confronted with the demon side of the child's nature. Claws and glowing eyes are damned hard to get used to! She wondered, also not for the first time, if she would've been able to adopt the child as her own as Nerisa had done. The thought of Nerisa made her feel momentary resentment. The woman had remained her rival even beyond the grave. Then she remembered her resolve and smiled at the lapse. She and Safar were friends, not lovers. So there was nothing to resent.
Then the howling stopped. The silence came so abruptly it was like falling off a cliff into nothingness.
Leiria tensed for danger, one arm going around Palimak.
"Look, Aunt Leiria," the child said, "there's my father!"
Her eyes swept left and she saw Safar walking from the small shelter to the raised platform in the center of the field. People called out to him as he passed and he had a quick smile and word of reassurance for each of them, but he never paused, always moving easily and quickly along towards his goal. Leiria remembered when he'd done the same at Iraj's great court in Zanzair, giving cheer to his followers while hurrying to an appointment with the king. Except then he'd been moving through a dazzling royal chamber instead of a makeshift campground full of frightened peasants and their flocks.
Palimak struggled to get up. "I'd better go help him," he said.
Leiria gently pulled him back, saying, "Your father said you had to stay with me."
Palimak frowned. "Well, maybe he did," he admitted. "But I still think I ought to help. This is going to be a really, really hard spell. Maybe harder than he thought. I can feel it all the way over here."
His voice was mild, but Leiria could tell he was worried and a little angry with her for holding him back.
His eyes were beginning to glow yellow and his little pointy claws were emerging unbidden.
"But if you disobey your father," Leiria said, "you might spoil his spell. I mean, what if he's so worried about you that he can't concentrate? Then what'll happen?"
Palimak sighed dramatically and slumped down. "I suppose you're right," he said. Then he brightened.
"But we can be his … his … reserves, right?" he said. "Like they do in the army?"
Leiria chuckled. "That's exactly right," she said. She patted her sword. "We'll be his brave and loyal reserves. I'll provide the steel." She nodded at the stone turtle clutched in his hand. "And you can provide the magic."
Palimak chortled. He lifted up the little idol. "Did you hear that, Gundara? We get to be reserves. You too, Gundaree. Won't that be fun?"
There was no answer, at least any Leiria could make out. But Palimak seemed satisfied so the two little Favorites must have heard. She looked up and saw Safar mounting the platform, waving to the crowd, while at the same time directing some men who were quickly encircling the platform with a pile of wood.
That circle was the center of a great four-pointed star also made of wood. Many barrels of oil, magically enhanced by Safar, had been poured on the wood, as well as on the mounds of additional wood scattered strategically about the field.
It would be a strange kind of fight, Leiria thought. Logs and bundles of brush instead of spears and swords. Like Palimak, she wished she could join Safar. Perhaps even more so. Finer feelings aside, Leiria had been Safar's personal bodyguard for many years. She'd turned away assassins' knives in the dark and had even charged into battle with him to protect his back.
Safar's orders, however, had been quite plain. If he failed-and all was lost-she and the two Favorites were to carry Palimak to safety. The child, he said, must survive at all costs. He'd entrusted her with one other thing, nearly as precious, he said.
Leiria patted her breast pocket. Inside was a small book, the Book of Asper. She was to keep that safe as well.
"Give it to the boy when he's old enough," Safar had said. "He'll know what to do once he's read it."
Just then, Safar made a gesture and green flame and smoke burst from the earth. The crowd went silent.
Not a child cried, or a goat bawled. And when next Safar spoke his voice rang out like a great temple bell.
Leiria leaned forward, swept up like the rest.
"Gentle people," Safar said, "the moment is upon us, so listen to me closely. You will need courage and boldness this night, but you will also need your good common sense. No one here has had experience in magical battle, but I can assure you it isn't much different than the ordinary kind. There'll be lots of noise, smoke and confusion. The trick is to concentrate on your duties, whether it's to help me or assist a child or sick family member. Pay no attention to anything else and we'll be just fine when this is all over."
Safar saw all the wise nods his remarks drew, but he also saw the glazed, wide-eyed look in them that comes from facing a nightmare. He wondered if any of them really understood what he was saying. Hells, he wondered if they were even capable of hearing what he had to say.
As he struggled for words to break through their fear Iraj launched the first attack.
CHAPTER NINE
ESCAPE TO SYRAPIS
He was only a boy, too young to be alone in the mountains and he came out of the night crying, "Help me, Renor! Help me!"
The boy was a ghostly figure whose plaintive cry cut into every human heart gathered in the fort. His father collapsed, his mother shrieked and his brother shouted, "Tio! Tio!"
Kalasariz laughed as he manipulated little Tio's ghost. He put all the pain he could into its voice as it cried,
"Help, me, please! Help me!"
He fed on the crowd's hysteria, straining to conjure up more ghosts. Kalasariz was new to shape-changer's magic and he found it difficult to concentrate.
Then Renor ran to the top of the fort's walls and clawed at the sky, weeping and flailing at nothingness in his effort to help his brother.
Kalasariz laughed again and made stronger magic.
Nine other ghosts faded into being.
They were the slain Kyranian sentries, with Rossthom at the their head, pleading with all their families and friends, "Help me, please help me!"
Now the crowd in the fort went from hysteria to blind madness. To Kalasariz' delight they rushed the walls wailing comforts to the dead.
The spy master's blood boiled with delight. As he liked to tell Luka and Fari-his demon rivals for influence over Protarus-native intelligence was more important than magical prowess. Even with his lesser magic, he could accomplish much by simply knowing his target's weaknesses.
He gloried at the agony he'd caused, drawing in more power from that pain and adding other little touches to his handiwork, like a bloody scar on Tio's face and a gory stump on Rossthom's right arm where a hand used to be.
Kalasariz struggled mightily and gave them all a voice, crying, "Help me! Help me!"
He basked in the misery, his black spirit wallowing in it-sinking and rising then sinking again in the heady musk.
And then he heard a voice shout, "Kalasariz!"
His spirit head jerked down, looking from sky to ground for the source of the shout-spectral eyes honing in like an eagle owl hunting a squeaking rodent. When he found the source of the squeak he would blast it from existence. But instead of a puny creature his eyes fell on a tall man with fiery blue eyes that cut across the great distance to sear his heart.
It was Safar, posing on a stone platform in the classic frieze of a bowman, heavy weapon bent tip to tip, string making a high-pitched whine as the flaming arrow leaped from the bow.
Kalasariz loosed his own killing bolt, but the fiery arrow speeding toward him made him jerk
, spoiling his aim, and he desperately flung himself to the side.
In the fort Safar heard the boom! of his arrow exploding, heard Kalasariz wail, then swiveled, grabbing up another arrow as his eyes swept the skies for his next target.
Behind him, a huge gray wolf leaped onto the walls. The creature's claws gripped the rough stone and there was a flash as the wolf transmuted himself into demon form.
It was Prince Luka, eyes aglow, fangs bared, sword lifted high. Although people screamed warnings it was almost too late for Safar, who whirled, falling and firing at the same time. A tongue of flame arced from Luka's sword, but Safar's own arrow exploded simultaneously. He heard Luka shriek then felt pain sear his own back as the prince's bolt blasted close overhead.
He came to his feet with difficulty, stifling a groan as he picked up his third arrow and fixed it into his bowstring.
Lord Fari watched Safar shuffle in a clumsy circle, pain-dulled eyes searching for the next point of attack.
But the canny old demon wasn't so foolish that he'd mistake his enemy's stumbling show for real weakness. Safar was hurt, yes, he could see that. But how badly? Long ago, when Safar was the prize jewel in Iraj Protarus' crown, Fari had noted Safar's talent at showmanship. It was a thing that Fari, who was a purist when it came to sorcery, particularly disliked in him. Still, he had grudging admiration for the way Safar used his magical theatrics to convince the entire royal court, demon and human alike, that he was a most powerful wizard truly deserving of the title Grand Wazier.
So Fari assumed that much of Safar's present difficulty was a sham to draw him out.
Instead of leaping onto the walls of the fort, Fari crept up on them. He put his spirit self into its demon presence and scrambled to the high point at the ruined gate. Then he made his spell, chuckling at his cleverness as he did so.
Even Leiria, who had seen all the terrible things a soldier could see, was shaken by what happened next.
The stone walls of the fort came suddenly and horribly alive as the rubble was transformed into small mountains of gore that moved and squirmed and streamed torrents of blood. People screamed and fled this way and that, bouncing from one horror to the other. Then pustules of gore bloomed on the walls and each pustule became a face and each face was a Tio or a Rossthom or any of the other slain sentries.
But this time instead of begging for help, the ghosts snapped at their friends with long teeth and spewed obscenities.
Leiria gathered up a struggling Palimak and was preparing to flee when Safar fired his arrow.
Automatically her eyes followed its fiery flight and she saw it was hurtling toward the north corner of the wall. There were dozens of human faces there, shouting filth or begging for assistance.
Then she saw the target and the moment became quite still. Just below center, between two faces that were both Tio's, she saw Lord Fari. The demon was scowling with concentration, putting all his clever old ways into the apparition that was the wall of blood.
Safar's arrow flashed toward that face and Leiria had a jolt of pleasure when she saw Fari's yellow jaws widen with fear.
Then, crack! as the arrow struck. Flame running all around the walls. And then they were nothing but blank stone again. Leiria saw a spot of blood where Fari's face had been and prayed that Safar had done heavy damage.
On the platform Safar took his time as he fitted the fourth arrow into his bow. Iraj would be next, he thought. But from which direction would he strike … and in what manner?
The answer came in a great shout from above: "Safar!"
It was Iraj's voice and Safar's head shot up and he saw the face of the Demon Moon suddenly split down the middle and yawn open like a gigantic mouth. A ghostly cavalry charged out of that mouth, lead by a mighty warrior in golden armor.
It was Iraj.
And he shouted a challenge-"Safar!"
Iraj yanked back on his horse's reins and the huge ghost animal reared up, pawing the night, sparks shooting from its hooves.
Then horse and rider plunged down toward the fort, a horrid cavalry of demon riders sweeping after them.
Safar fired and the arrow arced toward Iraj. It exploded just in front of him and there was a blinding flash as magic collided with magic.
Iraj paused, but only for an instant. Then he and his demon riders continued their charge.
In the fort the crowd shrieked in terror. But Safar paid no attention to their panic. As calmly as he could he swept up his final bolt. As Iraj and his spectral army closed in he whispered the spell that brought the arrow into fiery life.
He drew back, aiming for Iraj, then at the last moment he swiveled and fired the bolt into the dry mass of wood encircling the platform.
The oil-soaked fuel ignited with an enormous blast that nearly hurled Safar off the platform into the roaring flames. He teetered on the edge, but recovered his balance just in time.
The soles of his feet prickled with the intense heat and his scalp hair bristled like so many hot needles. He smelled scorched cloth and knew it came from his own robes. They smoldered at the hems and sleeves and the smoke curled up to bite his eyes.
But now it was Safar's turn to laugh. He saw flame tongues leap across the arena, shooting along the paths of wood he'd laid out, leaping from place to place until the entire arena seemed to be engulfed-with Safar and the blazing platform at its center. The whole mass finally combusted into a blazing pentagram of magical flame that smashed upward like a massive shield.
It caught Iraj and his cavalry in midstride, lifting them up and up, hurling them back at the Demon Moon.
A clap of thunder, then the sky turned white. The white shattered and became snowflakes that drifted down and down until they struck the pentagram shield blazing over the arena and flashed out of existence.
The sky was empty and there was a momentary quiet as the crowd sagged in relief. Then the air was rent with cheers as the Kyranians congratulated themselves and Safar for turning back such a deadly force.
Safar shouted to them, his voice thundering across the arena. "It isn't over yet!" The cheers vanished, swallowed by this bad news. "Iraj will be back," Safar warned. "But we'll be ready for him, my friends!
We'll be ready!"
Then he shouted orders and a select group, Renor among them, sprang into action. They ran to the spare piles of brush and fed them into the flames. The fiery pentagram took on new life, soaring brighter and higher, forming a sparkling shield above the fort..
Iraj came again. As did Kalasariz and Luka and Fari. But each time the flaming pentagram hurled them back. Safar shouted orders until he was hoarse, urging his fellow villagers to feed the fires, whipping them past exhaustion while hour piled on hour and still the attacks were unrelenting.
Many horrors were lived that night. Many threats were posed, many ghosts were roused, but somehow Safar and the villagers managed to turn them back. They burned all the gathered wood, then broke up the carts and ripped off their clothes to feed them into the magical fires.
They were exhausted when dawn finally came and the attacks ended. The pentagram was nothing more than an ugly black smudge with foul smelling heaps smoking and sputtering in the morning's wet chill.
People shuddered with relief and collapsed to the ground. There were no choruses of self-congratulation.
The enemy had been defeated, yes. But all knew the defeat was temporary. Iraj would return, but now he'd be backed by a real army, not specters in the sky.
Safar slumped on the platform and looked around at all the spiritless people. It was as if they had been the losers, instead of Iraj. Even so, he had to rouse them, enthuse them, convince them that all was not lost. Then somehow he had to prepare them for a challenge far more daunting than Protarus and his army of demons and wizards and human savages. To do this he would have lie to them, manipulate them, then keep on lying and manipulating until either the goal was achieved or they were all dead.
Suddenly the whole thing seemed hopeless. His people's weary d
espair had infected Safar and now his plan seemed foolish, impossible in the extreme.
A voice cut through, "We haven't much time, Safar."
He looked up. Leiria was standing there, a sleeping Palimak in her arms. Her eyes were red from the smoke, her armor blackened. But her back was straight, shoulders square, and there was a gleam of determination in her tired eyes.
She nodded at the slumbering Kyranians. "We have to get them up and going," she said, gently lowering Palimak to the platform. There he curled up to sleep on, the stone turtle clutched between grimy paws.
"We have maybe two days at the most," she continued, "before Iraj shows up with his whole damned army."
"I know that," Safar said, a little sharp.
Leiria snorted. "Good for you," she said. "Now, would you mind enlightening me about what we're supposed to do next? All you've said is that somehow we're going to make an entire village of over a thousand people disappear." She chuckled. "I know you are a wizard above all wizards, Safar Timura, but that's magic I'm going to have to see to believe."
As she spoke, Leiria returned the Book of Asper. The sight of the book and the buzz of sorcery when he put it away firmed his resolve. A greater tonic, as always, was Leiria's presence. Her attitude had always been, show me the mountain and we'll both figure out how to climb it together.
Safar slipped Coralean's maps from his belt. "Actually, there's no magic to it," he said, unrolling the maps.
"Well, not much, anyway. It's more of a trick, really. Sleight of hand, except with two thousand hands."
"That's still one hells of a trick," Leiria said.
"Not when you consider that Iraj will be dragging along of tens of thousands of soldiers," Safar said, "plus baggage trains that'll stretch from one horizon to the next."
He showed her one of the maps. "Look here," he said, tracing a finger north from the Gods' Divide to the Great Sea. "There are so many canyons and hills and secret roads and trails between Kyrania to the Port of Caspan we could hide a small city of people, much less a village."