by Allan Cole
"All excellent points," Kalasariz said.
"Yes, yes, I agree," Fari said, impatient. "But we're all forgetting we have an actual eyewitness to what occurred in that pass." He pointed at the king's pavilion. "And right now he's in there with Protarus telling him the gods know what! So how can we, uh … guide our master-if you understand what I mean-if we don't know what is being said? Much less his reaction to it."
There was an uncomfortable silence as each being considered. Finally Kalasariz said, "Let me start. To begin with … might I be so bold as to propose a truce?"
The others considered. Brows furrowing. Weighing what this might entail. The first-and by far the largest-was trust, which slowed down the thinking considerably.
Kalasariz hastened to fill the gap. "Only a temporary truce, of course."
Fari's brows climbed in approval. "Ah!" he said. "That might work."
"Yes, yes, it might," Luka agreed. "Go on, please."
"Well, as Lord Fari so wisely pointed out a moment ago," Kalasariz said, "King Protarus will summon us soon. None of us can predict how he will behave. What he will do or say. Except we do know this-no matter what passes, he will demand an immediate response."
He paused, looking each demon in the eyes by turn. "True?"
Luka nodded. "True."
"I most fervently agree," Fari said.
"So, to protect ourselves," Kalasariz said, "wouldn't it be prudent to see what transpires before we act?
Then instead of each fighting the other … we can examine the situation calmly … rationally … without fear of attack from our own ranks. Finally, when we speak we should speak with one voice. None of us trying to win the advantage as long as the truce lasts."
"I can see much value in that line of reasoning," Fari said.
"As long as we remember the truce is temporary," Luka added. "There's no sense pretending it could be anything but that."
"No, there isn't," Kalasariz said, "In fact, why don't we make the truce for the duration of our visit? In other words, when we leave the king's company the peace will end."
A harried aide rushed out of the pavilion. "King Protarus calls, my Lords," he said. "Hurry, if you please!
He's in no mood to be kept waiting."
To the amazement of the aide the three burst into laughter as one.
Then Kalasariz said, "Well, my Lords. What is your thinking? Are we in agreement?"
Luka eyed the aide, who was shuffling about, wondering what was being said. "What about him?" Luka said, jabbing a talon at the aide.
Kalasariz smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "He's one of my flies."
More laughter.
Then Luka stretched out his right claw. "To the Unholy Three," he mock intoned.
Kalasariz and Fari caught the spirit. "To the Unholy Three," they chorused, layering hand and talon with his.
Then, chuckling and shaking their heads, they stomped the snow off their boots and went inside to see what was in store for them.
Iraj was waiting-lolling in his throne, booted legs supported on the naked back of a comely slave. He was completely at ease-frighteningly so for the Unholy Three. He was in his human form and they'd rarely seen him in such control. Only the red glow of his eyes gave him away.
Sitting to his right-on a smaller throne-was the soldier, Vister. He was wearing only a clean white loin cloth and was being tended by several pretty human and demon maids, who had just finished washing him and were now rubbing scented oil into his limbs. In one hand he had a silver flask of wine, from which he took frequent pulls. In the other, he clutched a thick sandwich of roasted lamb with several large ragged wounds in it.
Heaters had been brought in when the storm began and the throne room was uncomfortably hot. Sweat poured from the soldier's body, mixing with the oils and coating his heavily muscled torso with an heroic sheen. Vister's age and experience were apparent in the thatch of gray hair on his battle-scarred breast.
When the Unholy Three were announced, Vister's head wobbled up to blear at them through half-closed eyes. He was drunk, he was exhausted, he was wounded in body and soul. The maids had to keep at him constantly, bathing away blood and sweat, changing the bowls of scented water frequently as they became discolored and fouled.
At first he didn't recognize them and waved a drunken hand. "Come and join us, friends," he shouted.
"Me and my cousin, the King here, are havin' a party!"
Under Protarus' glare, the Unholy Three chuckled kindly, covering their reaction at being addressed so rudely. In normal circumstances Vister would have been beheaded before he finished the first sentence of his greeting.
Then the old plainsman's eyes cleared and he realized who they all truly were. He choked on a mouthful of meat, the wine he'd just taken to wash it down dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
He pushed weakly at the maids and tried to come to his feet, sputtering apologies.
"Please, my dear fellow," Kalasariz said smoothly. "Don't trouble yourself." As much as this foul peasant's manners turned his stomach, under the circumstances he had to be treated with the utmost respect.
"Yes, yes," Fari came in. "Don't interrupt your meal, my friend. You must replenish your strength after such a trying day."
"We salute you, brother," was Luka's skillful addition, touching ringed talons to royal brow, "for all you have suffered in our service."
Still, Vister was clearly overcome. He fell to his knees, babbling, "Please, Masters. I am not worthy!"
His words snapped Iraj's crossbow trigger. The King leaped from his throne, roaring, "Never say master to ones such as these! You are a soldier from the Plains of Jaspar! Worthy of any company!"
He helped Vister back into his seat, casting foul looks at the Unholy Three as if they had tried to humiliate the old soldier. Making much of the gesture, Iraj personally fetched up the flask that had fallen from Vister's hands, feeding the wine to him as if he were a child.
"There, there," he said. "Rest easy, Cousin. Your brave toil is done. Only honors await you."
Vister gurgled down the wine, eyes glazing over. Finally he pushed the flask away, wiping his lips and belching. A bold, drunken grin spreading over his features. Iraj patted him and sat back, coldly observing the Unholy Three.
"Speak to them, kinsman mine," he said to Vister. "Tell them everything you told me. Explain to them in the simple, common logic of a plainsman what they have been doing wrong."
Vister belched loudly. Then he said, "They're killin' too many of us, that's what!"
Iraj sneered at Fari and the others. "Do you hear, my brothers?" he growled. "The answer is as plain as the frowns on your ugly faces-which I have grown to despise more with each passing day. By the gods, you're killing too many of my soldiers! And I won't stand for it. Everyone knows how much I love my soldiers. Demons as well as humans, they are more brother to me than any of you. And be damned to your Spell of Four!"
He gestured at Vister, whose attention was now totally fixed on human needs. He was staring at either hand, trying to decide what to do next-bite another hunk off the sandwich or slobber down more wine.
In the end he did both, biting and drinking, biting and drinking. Crumbs and dribbles of wine splattered his lap-the maids giggling and fussing over the mess as if it were all a marvelous jest.
Iraj turned his full attention on the Unholy Three. "I told Sergeant Vister that I-Iraj Protarus, his kinsman, his king, was to blame," he said. "And this is true. I am not only king, but king of all kings in Esmir, so it is only right that final responsibility must rest on my shoulders."
He paused dramatically, throwing an arm around Vister's shoulder. "However … This…" Aand he dabbed at one of Vister's wounds with a napkin. " … This was never my intent! I have made it plain from the very beginning that I dislike having the lives of my soldiers shed needlessly."
"I assume you are speaking of the pass currently in dispute, Majesty?a€ Luka said.
"Of course I'm speaking of the
pass!a€ Iraj roared, eyes turning to red coals. "What else what would I be talking about? We've lost two hundred of our best so far. And not an inch of gained ground to show for it!"
He patted Vister. "Instead we have won only pain and torment for those I value most."
Luka wanted to laugh. Protarus thought nothing of hurling a thousand demons and men to their doom-if it won him what he wanted. But now he was presenting the face of an innocent. Posing as a king who wished only the best for his subjects and required little for himself-except for their kind opinion of him.
Fari rapped his cane and Kalasariz coughed, bringing Luka back to reality. Just in time he realized his wolf's snout was about to break through.
To cover, Luka bowed low and thumped his breast abjectly, murmuring, "…a misunderstanding, Majesty.
The fault is entirely my own."
When he'd regained control over his shape-changer's body, he straightened, saying, "Your words have given expression to the confusion of all our most worthy ideas, Majesty.a€ He gestured at Fari and Kalasariz. "The three of us were only just discussing this most terrible of affairs. And we all agreed that we have failed you, Sire."
Fari broke in. "Except, perhaps I am more to blame then the others, Highness,a€ he said. "After all, this is sorcery we are fighting in that pass. And things involving sorcery are my responsibility and no other."
"I beg to differ, my great and good king,a€ Kalasariz said. "Lord Fari and his wizards have done their utmost. It is I who is most at fault for not discovering what we were up against before we sent men such as this…" he nodded respectfully at Vister, who grinned like a baby and burped-" … correction, heroes such as this … into battle."
"Some of what you say is true, my brothers," Luka said to Kalasariz and Fari. "But in the end, it is I who direct all special missions. I should have been at the forefront … leading both attacks. But I listened to my cowardly aides who claimed the King would be badly served if I were killed." The Prince shook his head. "I'll dismiss them from my service the moment I return to my headquarters."
Vister croaked laughter and everyone swiveled to see him hoist himself upright on his elbow. "Sounds like we're gonna have a nice day o' executions tomorrow, lads," he said. "There's nothin' like a couple of whacked necks to fix a soldier's mind on his job, I always say." He leaned closer, elbow nearly slipping out from under him. Grinning at Luka. "Course, you'd be talkin' about officers and such, wouldn't you, Sire? Maybe that's not such a good idea. Neck whackin' don't come so easy with the officer class.
Might not have the same affect it does down in the ranks. Maybe it wouldn't be so good for morale."
Then he lifted his haunches and farted.
Iraj slapped his thigh, howling laughter. "That's telling them, Cousin!" he said. "The truth-and from deep, deep within you, by the gods!"
Vister chuckled drunkenly, lifting the flask to his lips. Then he frowned, turning the flask upside down.
Nothing came out. He shook it, frown growing deeper.
"It's empty," he said in a voice so mournful you'd have thought he was announcing the death of his dear mother. One of the maids traded it for a full one and he was happy again.
He drank, then thumped his chest. "I was the only one!" he said. "Me! Vister! The rest are dead and rottin' in that pass. We all went in. Like so." He wriggled his fingers, making walking motions. "Then along comes the ghosts and whack!" He chopped at the air. "Ever'body's dead … 'cept Sergeant Vister." He settled back in his chair, chuckling and drawing a maid onto his lap. "Now I'm guest o' the King! Ain't that a tale to tell!" He tapped just beneath his right eye. "And these are the eyes what seen it!"
"A marvelous tale indeed," Kalasariz murmured. He turned to Fari. "Pardon, my good Lord Fari,"
he said, "but it seems the good sergeant is too modest to tell his story more fully."
Fari nodded. "He's too tense, poor fellow," he said. "That's his trouble."
Luka took the cue. "Wouldn't it be prudent, Majesty," he said to Iraj, "to see if we could learn more?" He laid a ringed claw of sincerity across his breast. "Let the good sergeant be our teacher, Majesty. And we his humble students."
Kalasariz muttered from the side of his mouth. "A little thick, don't you think?"
"What was that?" Iraj demanded.
"I was only agreeing with Prince Luka, Highness," Kalasariz replied.
Now Fari was up to speed. "Yes, let this humble hero instruct us, Majesty," he said. "As all know, I have always been particularly sensitive to the lower classes. Like Your Majesty, I pride myself on listening most intently to their crude words of wisdom." He shrugged. "Of course, sometimes we need a little assistance to understand their meaning."
Iraj raised an eyebrow. "What's to understand?" he said. He turned to Vister. "Tell them what you told me, my friend. And leave nothing out."
Vister struggled upright and the maid slipped off his lap and resumed her place with the others.
"Sure," he said. He snapped his fingers. "Nothin' to it! Simple as all the Hells! The problem is this, see. There's ghosts in that pass. Hundreds, maybe thousands of 'em. And they can kill you, but you can't kill them. And that's all there is to it!"
He gave Luka an owlish look. "So all's you officer sorts gotta figure out is how to turn the whole thing around. Like we get to kill them, but they don't get to kill us." He tapped his nose. "Simple as the nose on your face." He gave Luka another look and giggled. "Oops!" he said. "Didn't mean to speak outta turn there, Sire. You bein' a demon and all, I'm not so sure that's a nose you got stickin' out there. Could be another horn, for all's I know. No offense intended, Sire."
Luka dipped his head. "None taken," he murmured, thinking he'd like to rip this filthy human's heart out. Fari's cough and Kalasariz' sudden grip on his elbow helped steady him. He turned to Iraj. "As first field reports go, Majesty," he said, "that was most enlightening. But I, for one, would certainly want to know more."
"That's why I called you here," Protarus said. "To listen and learn." He turned back to Vister. "Tell it again," he said, "but in more-" a loud snore cut him off. Vister was sprawled his seat, head lolling on his chest, sound asleep.
Iraj chuckled kindly. "Let him rest," he said. "He deserves it. We'll question him later."
"Pardon, Highness," Fari said. "But what I had in mind will be much easier while he sleeps. What I propose is that we witness his travails first hand. I don't need much in the way of preparations." He indicated an ornate charcoal brazier that had been brought in to warm up the throne room during the snow storm. "In fact," he said, "I can use that for our stage." He pulled a pouch from his wizard's belt, opening it to sniff at the contents. He nodded in satisfaction. "I have everything we require, Majesty," he continued, "for all to be revealed."
Iraj studied the Unholy Three from beneath lowered eyelids. He appeared bored, but he was observing them closely-growing warier by the minute. At first he couldn't put his finger on what was bothering him.
Then it came to him that the three were displaying remarkable unanimity. He certainly didn't feel violent waves of tension between them-which was by far the more normal state of affairs within his inner court.
For a panicked moment he wondered if they had uncovered his secret-the spell the witch, Sheesan, had given him that would not only destroy Safar, but free him from the Unholy Three. Were they were conspiring to foil him?
Then he relaxed. How could they know? Say what he might about his brothers of the Spell of Four, they had worked hard to bring him this close to his goal-the capture and ritual slaying of Safar and Palimak.
If the Unholy Three knew about his plans, they certainly wouldn't have pressed so hard to bring them to fruition.
So-what were they up to? Were they seeking a means to break the bonds with him? That would certainly be the worst case conclusion he could make. But the more he thought on it, the more unlikely such a scenario seemed.
Very well. The best way to find out what was going on, he thought, w
as to give way to their suggestions and see where that carried him.
"Proceed, my lord," he said to Lord Fari. "Enlighten us all with your magic."
Fari bowed low, then quickly assumed command of the shapely maids tending Vister. Naked, except for modesty patches at their loins, gleaming with a faint film of perspiration from the overheated room, giving off the scent of the most remarkable perfumes, the female humans and demons made exotic magical assistants for the old master wizard.
Taking a lesson in magic as entertainment from Timura, the Lord Fari made the most of the maids'
presence-drawing out and changing his spell so that it showed off their jiggling forms to the best advantage.
When he reached the penultimate moment he glanced at Protarus and was sorely disappointed when he saw how unaffected the king was. Instead of being flushed with excitement from all this mystery and magical erotica, Protarus sat boredly in his throne, fingernails tapping impatiently.
Fari hurled a handful of votive powders into the brazier and there was a flash of smoke, a swirl of colors.
Despite himself, Iraj's pose of unconcern dissolved and he bent closer to see. Timura was right, Fari thought. The King can't resist magic, especially when accompanied by a little showmanship.
As Iraj stared into the brazier the smoke began to shape itself into a deep canyon with high walls. He heard Vister groan in his sleep and suddenly the throne room vanished and Iraj found himself sitting on a nervous warhorse, those steep walls now towering over him on either side. He was in the lead group of a tightly-packed force of men and demons moving cautiously through the Caluzian Pass.
Iraj felt somehow diminished. Weaker-not just in muscle and bone, but weaker of spirit, of self, of … he fumbled for the word, then it came in a flash-Authority!