by Allan Cole
Fari hoisted himself up on his cane. It was something he no longer needed-the transformation to shape-changer had rid him of all the ailments old demons suffer. But he used the cane anyway, out of habit, and as a badge of authority. He strode away, his slaves scrambling to keep up. The one who served as his stool ran the hardest. When Lord Fari decided to sit, he would sit. The slave's most constant nightmare was that he wouldn't be there, hunched on all fours and steady as a rock, when Lord Fari took it into his mind to rest.
Fari climbed a short hill, stopping at the crest and leaning on his cane to take in the view. His slaves scrabbled around him, the stool ready to leap into any position, the shade unfurling the wide umbrella over Fari's horned head, the fan swishing the air with her feathery plumes, the maid at the ready with cup and jug. Spread out behind him were guards and runners and bearers carrying small comforts he might desire while taking the air.
Fari glanced back, taking rare notice of his entourage. The king had more, he thought, much more. So many to tend his whims it beggared the imagination. Fari shrugged. What did it matter? It was better to be Grand Wazier than king. He gazed out at the Black Lands, where tornadoes rutted a ghastly terrain and volcanoes spat their fire, poisoning the air with their stench. To Fari it was a place of beauty and promise that soothed his old demon's soul.
When Lord Fari first saw the Black Lands he felt as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. For too long he had been held in the grip of the wild emotions and sensations of a shape changer. It was difficult to think clearly, to plan beyond the immediate goals and challenges. A demon of more two hundred feastings, he had seen many kings come and go. He'd survived them all by always being attentive to their moods, guessing which way they would leap next and racing ahead to that point so he could be there when they lighted. Not unlike the living stool Fari now sat upon. Court intrigue was second nature to the old demon. Many a knife had been aimed at his back by his rivals. Many a deadly plot hatched with Fari's removal at their core.
He was not a fiend normally driven by emotions of any kind-other than fear, that is. Fear alone was to be trusted. Fear kept a fiend wary. Fear could see into shadows. Fear could creep around corners unnoticed. Fear could read the lips of whispering conspirators. Fear could divine the deepest thoughts of a king. Fear had been with him as long as he could remember. It was his father, his mother, his brother and sister and most loyal friend. Fear was his lover whom he ardently embraced every hour of every day.
When he looked out over the Black Lands and felt the constant pounding of magic gone wild, Fari realized he had been without fear for much too long. He'd allowed himself to be overcome by his shape changer's heart where only bloodmust raged. Fari felt a little ashamed of himself when he realized that.
The old Fari, the Fari who had kept his head while thousands of others were losing theirs, would have made better use of the new powers he'd gained when he became a shape changer.
It was Fari who was the architect of the Spell of Four, after all. It was Fari who'd drawn Prince Luka and Kalasariz into the conspiracy to seduce the king into the shape changer's bond that had saved them all from Safar Timura's great spell of revenge, which had turned Zanzair into a molten ruin, killing all but the new brotherhood Fari had formed. The trouble was, he had forgotten his original intent. At the time it had seemed as if he were losing control. Safar Timura was the Grand Wazier, not Lord Fari. What's worse, Timura was such a powerful wizard Fari had no hope of competing against him. It was no secret.
Everyone knew it. And in the game of Grand Waziers, second best is a shadow away from an assassin's blade.
The old demon sighed and lumbered about, his entourage shifting with him, those who might impede his view falling to the ground to let him see what he wanted to see. The king's banner-silver comet collapsing onto the red demon moon-hung limp over the huge pavilion that housed his court and quarters. From the hilltop Fari could see the three smaller pavilions that made a half moon frame for the king's traveling palace. One was his. The others belonged to Prince Luka and Lord Kalasariz.
Each had his own fear, his own driving ambition. Each sought not just to find favor with the king, but to control him. To master him. To Lord Fari it only seemed right and just that it should be him. But how to go about it? How to slip past the canny Kalasariz? And Luka. What about him? His hate for Fari was long and deep. His ambition also burned brighter, because Prince Luka wanted nothing less than to be king himself. Something Fari could never allow him to achieve. It suddenly occurred to the old demon that Luka and Kalasariz might naturally seek an alliance. He wondered if they'd realized it yet. He wondered if their minds had become clear before his own.
He snorted. Not likely. He was not only wiser and cannier, but he possessed more magic than any of them. But then he thought, Just in case, my dear Fari, just in case … you'd better plan for the worst.
Then he straightened as he thought of a course of action. He'd begin with the king. All else should follow after that. First he had to shake the king from his melancholy. He needed to put the hunger back into Iraj Protarus. To rouse the hunter from his sleep.
A final, piercing shriek caught his attention and Fari looked over at the field, a smile curling up from his fangs. The soldiers had finished off the victims and were gleefully ripping them to pieces so the next game could begin. Actually, he thought, they'd done quite well. Considering their two captives were so young-barely in their teens-it was really quite a feat to keep them alive so long.
Then he saw a tall demon holding up the heads, the greatest prize of all. Many cheers greeted this gory sight.
Lord Fari grinned as the idea dawned. He rapped his cane for one his aides.
He tossed him a purse of gold, saying, "Buy me those heads."
Renor and Sinch sat easily in their saddles, nibbling on dried fruit while keeping a casual watch on the entrance to the pass. They'd neither heard nor seen anything amiss since Leiria and Dario had set out to investigate the Caluzian Pass.
Renor chuckled. "Old Dario had me about ready to wet my breeches with all that ambush talk," he said.
"But I guess that's all it was-talk." He stretched, yawning. "At least he's not wastin' our time for a change. We get to rest up while he and Cap'n Leiria scout the trail for us."
"I don't know if it was such a big waste of time," Sinch said. He waved at the dark entrance of the pass.
"Sure looks like ambush pie to me. And the only way to find out is to dig into it." Despite his comments, Sinch felt a sense of great ease and cheer.
"The sergeant's a good sort, don't get me wrong," Renor replied. "He just goes on and on, is all. You've got to listen to the whole history of the Tarnasian Wars, or some such, before you come to his point."
Again he stretched and yawned, really enjoying it. For the first time since they'd entered the Black Lands Renor felt safe and quite comfortable sitting here talking his friend about nothing in particular.
"Oh, I don't know," Sinch laughed. Actually, it was more like a giggle. "Depends on what sort of story he's telling. Like the kind you wouldn't want your little sister to overhear. The other night he told me one about an old lamplighter in Walaria. Did you hear it?"
Renor laughed in anticipation. "No, I haven't," he said. He nodded at the pass. "Nothing happening there.
So go ahead."
Sinch chortled, remembering the jest. "Anyway," he said, "there was this old lamplighter in Walaria named Zenzi. And old Zenzi had been lighting lamps faithfully in one neighborhood for nearly thirty years.
And now it was time for him to retire and collect his pension from the king.
"Comes his last night and when he gets to the first house the family comes out with food and drink and a few silvers to thank him for all his years of service. Same thing at the next house and the next. Everybody liked Zenzi, so they were piling on the gifts and making his last night something really special.
"Then he comes to the last house on the street and a slave comes t
o fetch him, saying her mistress wanted to speak to him. The slave takes Zenzi by the hand and leads him into the house and up the stairs, where he is pushed into a bedroom, the door closing behind him.
"You can imagine his surprise when he sees there's a beautiful woman waiting for him-dressed in nothing but a filmy gown and a big smile. 'My husband is away for the night,' she says, real sultry, then she takes him to bed and they make mad passionate love. The greatest love poor old Zenzi had ever experienced.
Then the woman claps her hands and the slave brings in a wonderful dinner of the best kabobs and sherbet and all the other delicacies the rich get, but Zenzi had never tasted before. When he is done the woman pours him some fragrant tea.
"Zenzi starts to reach for the cup, then notices a copper coin sitting beside it."
"'Pardon, my dear lady,' Zenzi says, 'but everything has been so wonderful. The hours of love. The food.
The drink. Everything. But what's this copper coin for?'"
"The woman smiled and said, 'Well, yesterday I told my husband this was your last night after thirty years of service. And I asked what we should give you. And my husband answered, 'Screw Zenzi. Give him a copper!' The woman shrugs. 'The dinner,' she says, 'was my idea!'"
Renor roared laughter, slapping his thigh and looking quite unsoldierlike when Lord Timura came riding up on his great stallion, accompanied by thirty men.
"I thought there was an emergency here," he said, blue eyes fierce under his dark brows. "Instead I find my best men lolling about like tavern sops. Laughing and making merry."
Renor shook his head, amused. "This is a pretty funny situation if you think about it, my lord," he said, chuckling. "Here we are telling jokes-dirty ones, at that. And then you ride up and-"
"Where's Captain Leiria?" Safar barked, breaking into Renor's babble. He glanced around. "And Dario!
Where's Sergeant Dario?"
Renor grinned and motioned toward the entrance. "Checking out the pass, Lord Timura," he said, choking back laughter. "To see if there's … ha ha ha … an ambush! Ha ha ha."
Sinch snorted laughter. "Did you hear the one about the guys who ate the frogs?" he asked.
Safar slipped his silver dagger out. He mumbled a spell.
Renor shook his head, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. "No," he said.
"Well there was this plague of frogs, see … And-"
Safar sliced the air, casting his spell, and the two young men were suddenly left gasping and flailing the air as if they'd been drenched with icy water.
Renor was the first to recover. His eyes were wide with shame and fear. "I'm sorry, Lord Timura," he said, voice trembling. "I don't know-"
"Never mind, lad," Safar said gently. "It wasn't your fault. Now, join the others. You too, Sinch."
The young men did as he said. At Safar's signal everyone formed up and checked their weapons and gear.
He turned back to the entrance of the Caluzian Pass, probing with his magical senses. Khysmet chuffed and shifted under him, as if he too were investigating. Safar pushed harder. It was difficult to "see" in the constant hail of wild magic that pelted the Black Lands, but whoever had cast the spell of amusement on Renor and Sinch had left a faint trail. In Safar's magical vision it looked like a silvery path left by a snail.
But it faded away just before it reached the first bend in the road.
To Safar it seemed obvious that whoever, or whatever, had tricked the young scouts was trying to keep their attention away from what was happening down that dark avenue through the mountain. Not for the first time he wished he had Gundara with him. The little Favorite was an expert at snooping out such things.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind away from what might be happening to Leiria. And Dario, oh yes, mustn't forget Dario. But it's Leiria, dammit, Leiria! She has no stake in this whole thing … except for me.
Then Khysmet pawed the ground and Safar jerked back. He knew immediately he was being seduced by another sort of spell and he shook it off like clinging moss. Quickly, he raised a magical shield over himself and his men so there could be no other such surprises.
Safar leaned forward, patting Khysmet and whispering, "Who needs a Favorite?" The horse jerked its head up and down as if agreeing.
Then, without a thought passing between them Khysmet moved toward the pass and Safar signaled for his men to follow.
They made their way much as Leiria and Dario had done-leapfrogging from one cleared section of road to the next. Although the passage was narrow, it was still wide enough to carry caravan wagons and so Safar had little concern he might encounter an overwhelming force. There was plenty of room for him to deploy his men in strength, and either fight their way through or retreat to safety, dealing out much death and injury to whoever opposed them.
Khysmet moved easily over the rubble-strewn ground, finding firm footing in places where the other animals stumbled. Safar was left free to concentrate solely on the task at hand. His eyes pierced every shadow, his hearing was acute and his magical senses kept up a slow sweep for any sign of danger.
It came without warning-the heavy tread of many boots marching toward them. Khysmet whinnied alarm and Safar heard his men shout. With a start he realized the sound of marching came from both before and behind him!
As the air shimmered he scrabbled for a blocking spell, mind yammering that there had been no sign of a magical attack, but it was coming just the same.
Then he saw what Leiria had seen: long columns of huge mailed warriors marching toward him, closing the jaws of the trap.
He reared back to blast them, praying he had the right spell. But just before he struck he heard a shout:
"Safar!"
Safar blinked. It was Leiria's voice.
She called again. "Over here, Safar!"
He looked in the direction of her voice, then realized he could see through the warriors as if they were ghosts.
And there, just beyond, he saw a small golden pavilion. And in that pavilion, sitting at their ease before a table filled with food and drink, were Leiria and Dario.
Leiria waved to him. "Just push on through, Safar," she said. "They're harmless. Come and meet our hostess."
Lord Fari fussed with the heads, pushing a stray curl away from the woman's dead eyes, wiping a spot of blood from the man's pale lips.
"Perfect, your Majesty," he said. "Just perfect. We couldn't have asked for better heads."
Protarus gloomed at him from his throne, eyes hollow, features slowly changing from man to wolf to man again. Scarred lip twitching in all forms.
"What's so special about these heads?" he asked in a deadly voice.
"Exactly what I was wondering, Majesty," Prince Luka said.
He glared at the old wizard, who stood between the two posts that held the heads. "The king is ill," he said to Fari. "Why are you disturbing him with such nonsense?" And he thought, what an old fool you are.
I've been waiting for you to slip. Now I'll boot your arse the rest of the way down the stairs.
Fari sneered at Luka. "His Majesty will soon be able to judge for himself whether this is nonsense or not," he said. And he was thinking, You haven't a brain in your noggin, my prince. You were bred to fight, not to think. Your father was right not to trust you.
Kalasariz shifted his glance from one demon to the other, highly amused at the barely disguised hate between them. He kept silent-ready to jump to whichever side most benefited him.
Protarus motioned. "Get on with it," he said. His voice, however, was less threatening than before. The game between Fari and Luka had sparked his interest more than Fari's urgent call for a meeting.
"My mission tonight is most vital, Your Majesty," Fari said. "If I am successful in my experiment we will know the whereabouts of Lord Timura within the hour."
Iraj shifted in his throne, black mood momentarily abated by this news. His features becoming wholly human.
Luka sneered, exposing many rows of gleaming fangs. "I supp
ose the heads are going to tell us," he said.
"We've tried that sort of thing before. But Timura's shields are too strong to get past."
"That's true, Lord Fari," Protarus said, mildly amused. He was thinking of various torments he could apply to the old demon after he failed. "It's never worked before. Why now?"
Fari raised a talon, looking a bit like an old demon school master. "In a moment, Majesty," he said, "all will be clear."
He busied himself with the heads, taking jars of magical oils and powders from the stand beside him and sprinkling the heads.
"For most of this hunt, Majesty," he said, "Lord Timura has been dashing all over the landscape. Going in first one direction, then another, then back again. It made it more difficult to find him, because we couldn't determine his eventual goal."
"He had no goal," Luka snorted. "Except to live another day. He's running, that's all."
"Do you think that's true, Majesty?" Fari asked, daubing a bit of ointment on the woman's head. "Does this sound like Lord Timura? You know him best."
Protarus frowned. "Not one damn bit," he said, surprising himself a little by his answer. "Safar always has a goal. A direction."
Luka was alarmed. "Well, of course he has some eventual goal, Your Majesty. But that's only to find some place of permanent safety for his people."
Kalasariz thought it time to insert a neutral comment. "He has been moving generally toward the northwest," he said. "Taking in all miles traveled, that is."
"That's most likely accidental," Luka protested. "We're the ones doing the driving. He's fleeing in the only direction left open to him. Which just so happens to be northwest."
But to the Prince's dismay, Protarus had already gone past that point. "I wonder what he's looking for?"
he mused. "What's in that region?"
Fari pretended to be busy, hiding a smile as he poured golden oil over each head.
Kalasariz thought it was safe for another neutral answer. "Eventually, Majesty," he said, "there is only the Port of Caspan. And then the Great Sea."