by Allan Cole
Safar's face darkened. "I wish I could say no one died," he replied. "I'm to blame for many deaths in this mad contest I've been caught up in with Iraj. Besides war dead, many old people, who should have been sitting at home spoiling their grandchildren, have given up the ghost before their time." Then he smiled. "But there's still at least a thousand of us," he said. "More, I suspect, than when we started because so many of our women have given birth on the trail."
The old caravan master eyed him, considering. Then he nodded. "Now I understand why you never claimed credit for saving my life," he said. "You let Iraj take the greatest share of the glory. This puzzled me at the time, because I suspected what you had done but was loathe to embarrass you by asking for an explanation."
Safar blinked, seeing the mental image of a young Iraj leaping on the demon's back to rescue Coralean from certain death.
"It was Iraj who saved you," he objected. "Not me. No matter what has happened since you can't deny that he was once a hero."
"This is true, my friend," Coralean said. "Iraj was … and is … a brave man. And I think that once he had good in his heart. Coralean is the most ambitious of men and he truly understands how ambition, however well meant in the beginning, can turn the most charitable men into devils. So understand, I was not slighting that particular deed. However, we still would all have fallen to those demon bandits if an avalanche had not suddenly, miraculously, swept that band of fiends back into the hells they came from."
He oiled his throat with a sip from his goblet. "Coralean is a believer in many things. In repose, with his wives begging his favors, he is quite a romantic fellow." He snorted, sounding like a bull. "But I am always suspicious of coincidence. You must admit, Safar, that the avalanche was too convenient to be marked up to coincidence. Then I didn't know, although I suspected, that you were a wizard. Now you are alternately cursed and hailed as the greatest wizard in all Esmir. So confess, my friend. It was you who caused the avalanche, was it not? It was you who ultimately spared my wives the awful grief of losing their dear, sweet Coralean."
Safar grinned, mischievous. "I'll never tell," he said. "Was it chance, or was it purpose? Come now, Coralean. You'd never expect a wizard to reveal something like that!"
Coralean slapped his thigh. "Well said," he rumbled. "You should have been king instead of Iraj. With me to advise you, we would have built the grandest fortune the world has ever seen."
Safar turned serious. "Thrones or fortunes," he said, "mean nothing in these times. Perhaps they never did. Perhaps they never will. It's useless to speculate."
Coralean shrugged. "Speculation is my nature," he said. "Speculation is the sole reason I not only listened to the red robed one, but waited many days after my planned departure from Caspan to see if what he said was true."
He pointed to the bobbing ship lights. "I even hired ships on the doubtful word of an insane messenger, who claimed to speak for an unseen queen whose name had somehow escaped Coralean's notice."
Coralean paused to empty his goblet. "I told you I thought you lucky. Luckier even than Coralean. You are also wise. Not as wise as I am, to be sure, but that would be an impossibility." He tapped his head. "No, in wisdom I am your superior. Just as I am every man's superior when it comes to the art of pleasing women. Strong brain, strong loins, those are things that make Coralean, Coralean."
"I'll grant you both with no argument," Safar said. "Especially wisdom. Who else but Coralean would be calculating enough to remain Iraj's confident, but still place a wager on his worst enemy?"
Coralean grinned. "Only a portion of it was due to calculation," he said. "The rest was because of my deep feelings of friendship towards you."
"And my luck."
Coralean's grin widened. "And your luck. Especially your luck."
Safar nodded at the ships sitting offshore. "What happens when Iraj finds out what you've done?" he asked.
The caravan master grimaced. "Coralean has no intention of lingering in Caspan long enough to realize the depths of Iraj Protarus' wrath. My original intention was to seek retirement as far away as my gold would take me. My thinking was, once Iraj caught you he would start looking at men like me with suspicious eyes. And that would be my end. Once that decision was made, I didn't know where to run. Either Iraj would eventually find me, or I would die a trivial but agonizing death in the chaos that has afflicted Esmir."
Safar laughed. "Now I understand," he said. "You couldn't flee Esmir, because no one really knows what lies beyond the Great Sea."
"Except for you," Coralean said. "One of the things that madman told me was that you had a goal. A peaceful island you knew of far across the sea."
"Syrapis," Safar said.
"Yes," Coralean said. "Syrapis. I like the sound of it. A good place for business."
"You really are casting the dice, my friend," Safar said. "Things must be desperate for you."
"Desperate enough," Coralean replied, "to consider things that go against my generous nature. A lesser man than I might threaten to deny you passage on those ships if you did not agree to carry him away from this cursed place."
"I have no objection to your company," Safar said. "In fact, I welcome it."
Coralean refilled both their goblets. "Good, it's settled then. A nice bargain for both of us, with each thinking he got the better of the other, but not too much to injure friendship."
Safar started to speak, then hesitated, thinking. Finally he shrugged and dug an old map from his pocket.
"You gave me maps once," he said. "They saved my life and the lives of my people. Now, let me return the favor."
He unrolled the map, copied in his flowing hand from the Book of Asper. It showed the Great Sea from Caspan, to a large island many miles away.
Coralean studied it with an expert eye. "Yes," he said. "I see how to go."
Safar rolled the map up and handed it to him. "Here," he said. "Take it."
The caravan master was so surprised by this gesture that his mouth fell open and for a moment he looked like a huge, bearded fish.
His jaws snapped shut. "Surely you have another."
"No, that's the only copy," Safar said. "I have three days to accomplish what I have to do. If you don't see me by then, sail without us."
Coralean grinned. "How do you know I'll wait?" he asked. "Coralean is a man of his word, but sometimes urgent business forces a man of industry and ambition to make regretful decisions."
Safar looked at him, measuring. Then he nodded. "You'll wait," he said, flat.
"I suppose if I don't," Coralean pressed, "you will cast some wizardly spell of misfortune upon me, correct?"
Safar chuckled. "Another sort of question no wizard will ever answer, my friend," he said. "But let me tell you this. If I do, your wives will be the first to notice!"
The caravan master roared laughter, leaping to his feet to drag Safar from his chair for another tortuous embrace of Coralean friendship.
"What a man you are, Safar Timura!" he cried. "What a man!"
Then he broke away to refill their goblets.
"More drink, Safar," he said. "More drink. It's the only honorable way to seal a bargain between such like-minded brothers.
"To Syrapis!" he shouted, raising his glass.
"To Syrapis!" Safar replied. "And may we live long enough to see it!"
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE FACE OF MURDER
Luka was a fighting prince. Born of rape and murder, teethed on steel, he had carried his father's royal banner into scores of crucial encounters. Under Iraj, he had seen warfare on an even greater scale. When it came to the shedding of blood and the taking of life, Luka firmly believed he had seen it all. But when he led his shock troops into the Caluzian Pass all his previous experiences seemed like nothing.
The road through the pass was treacherous. The storm had left a thick blanket of snow in its wake, hiding the pits and broken rubble, turning them into traps for the unwary. Overhead, a threatening sky boiled with clouds that cast everyth
ing into intermittent shadows, making travel harder still. Even the demon steeds with their fierce natures and huge cat claws were sorely tested. Several suffered broken limbs and had to be destroyed before they'd progressed beyond the second bend.
Luka thought he knew what to expect. Fari's vision had given him a good look at the enemy he would face. Powerful spells had been cast to sheath their weapons so they would cut through ghostly flesh and parry ghostly thrusts. Even so, he was not prepared when the horde of warriors rose up to confront him.
The battle for the Caluzian Pass was to consist of three waves, of which Luka's was easily the most dangerous. He was to lead a shock force composed of his best cavalryfiends. His mission was to charge through and break the enemy formation. Under no circumstances was he to engage in fixed fighting or worry about what was happening behind his back. He was to charge and keep charging, leaving the next two waves of troops to deal with whatever was happening behind him. Not only that, but he must maintain his demon form to inspire his soldiers, thereby abandoning the extra magical powers and strength of a shape changer. In short, if the slightest thing went wrong he would be the first to fall.
Skilled as he was, brave as he was, Luka had no love of battle. As a prince his death was always ardently sought-on both sides. The enemy wanted his head as a trophy of their prowess. And in his own court so many would gain from his assassination that he had to be constantly on lookout for a knife in his back from one of his own soldiers. So he despised battles. Distrusted the motives of those who sent him to fight.
Killing, he firmly believed, was a dish to be enjoyed in private. It was like torturing an animal bound for the table-the greater the entree's agony, the tastier the dish. In other words, the fear and pain should be confined to the victim with no danger to the chef.
Luka was thinking of such things when he entered the pass and so he shouldn't have been surprised when he was stricken by a sudden feeling that he'd entered a kitchen where he was set to be the main course.
Never mind that Fari had warned him-and armed him-against the spells of fear and hopelessness the enemy was sure to employ against him. A vision leaped into his mind's eye of a demon bound to a spit slowly rotating over a slow fire-twisting and screaming and begging his tormentors to end the agony with a swift and merciful death. The demon was Luka.
The prince might have been overcome there, the battle lost before it had even begun. But the moans and wails of his brother warriors jolted him to his senses. Cursing himself as a fool and a coward, he cast Fari's spell. There was nothing to mark one moment from the next. No fiery blast, no sorcerous smoke, only an immediate feeling of heavy shackles falling away-and then he was free.
His demon brothers shouted gleefully, as if they'd already won a great victory. Jokes and laughter ran through the ranks, punctuated by loud boasts from young warriors about what they'd do to the enemy when they found him. Luka was too experienced to be drawn in. He had no doubt this would be only the first of many spells hurled against them. And if his opponent was wily he would be saving the worst for last.
A dedicated survivor, Luka granted extreme cunning to his enemy. But he couldn't pause or turn back to study the extent of his enemy's perfidy. In such circumstances a prudent soldier, a soldier loath to have his fangs plucked from his lifeless jaws to make a necklace for some tavern wench, knows he has only one recourse-madness.
Luka signaled his buglers to sound the attack, unsheathed his sword, and raised it high-desperately driving away the memory of the human, Vister, in identical circumstances. Digging deep for all the courage, all the blind battle lust he could muster.
"For the King!" he shouted over the blare of the horns.
"For the King!" his brothers roared in return.
And with no enemy in sight they charged.
In the end, it was this act of madness that saved him.
As Luka came around the bend, honor guard lagging several paces behind him, his mount's claws broke through the snow's crust into a hidden pit. The beast stumbled, nearly foundering, Luka sawing on its reins and raking its sides with his spurs to bring it up. Hissing in catlike fury, the animal's head snaked around, long fangs bared to punish him. He leaned forward, whacking its sensitive nose with the flat of his blade to remind it who was master and who was slave.
At that moment the air was suddenly filled with the deadly song of the arrow and something passed over his head. He heard meaty thunks of arrows striking their targets, cries of the wounded, surprised coughs of those who would never breathe again.
He came up, raising his shield in time to deflect a second swarm, cursing Iraj for putting him in such a place. Shouting orders to rally his warriors out of the shock of ambush.
It was then that he saw the enemy. Time was knocked from its course and Luka's whole world became a long and frozen moment. Hundreds upon hundreds of ghostly warriors were marching toward him. There were no challenging roars, no shouted insults, no loud chorus of what would be done to them. He heard none of the words that give a normal army its voice. Curses that warriors are encouraged to shout when they advance on their foes. Shouts of bloody purpose crafted by bullying sergeants long ago and passed down from one generation of soldiers to the next. All calculated to shrink the enemy's courage and enlarge the imagined prowess of the aggressor.
Luka, who would have ignored such things like a fishing hawk ignores water when it dives for its prey, was unnerved by their absence. His entire existence was suddenly filled with the image of silent men, deadly men, marching in measured steps to crush his life away. The thud of their boots, the clank of their armor, hammering their purpose against his.
Fari's final words of warning crawled to the fore. "There is no single heart to this enemy," he'd said.
"No single head we can lop off to defeat them. Each one will fight until the end. The only way to defeat them is to kill them all."
Luka forced himself to ignore the mass of advancing warriors. He fixed on one man-a huge ghost with hollow eyes and bloody lips-one step ahead of the others.
The demon prince spurred his mount forward, shouting for his soldiers to follow.
He had time for one long breath, then he was on them. The large ghost he'd aimed for hurled his spear with such force that it broke Luka's shield in two. He threw the shield away, slashing with his spell-charged sword. He had a moment's satisfaction of feeling his blade bite through ghostly flesh, seeing the man fall, mouth coming open to spew blood-red smoke, then he felt the shock of collision as his mount crashed into the advancing soldiers. That shock followed another and then another as his fiends waded into battle, cutting and jabbing, forcing their way through by the sheer weight of their massed charge.
Made vulnerable by Fari's spells, the ghosts no longer had the protection of shadowy afterlife. When they were struck they died, bloody smoke spurting from their mouths. Even so, they did not die easily. They fought with wild but still silent purpose. Luka killed many of them, but he saw just as many of his own soldiers die as well.
For what seemed like an eternity the struggle was stalled at the point of first collision. It seemed that every ghost who died was immediately replaced by another. Luka felt as if he were pressing against a huge wall. And no matter how hard he fought, the wall would not give.
Just when he thought all was hopeless, he sensed a sudden weakening. He pressed harder, driving his mount against the armored mass, crying out for others to join him.
Then the line broke and Luka burst through the first formation. A moment later he was surrounded by his own soldiers who were streaming through the gap.
Luka had enough time to see a second force-mighty as the first-coming toward him.
He charged, once again bracing for the shock of collision.
Then blood lust overcame him and he knew no more.
Biner turned away from the scene below, sickened by the slaughter.
"I can't watch anymore," he said to Arlain. "Got nothin' left in me guts to heave."
&nbs
p; Hidden by the magical cloud cover, the balloon was hovering over the Caluzian Pass spying on Iraj's fight to take it.
"Poor devils," Biner said. "Dyin' once seems hard enough. But twice!" He shuddered. "Makes me skin crawl even thinkin' about it, much less havin' to watch! It's more'n a sensitive showman like meself can take."
Arlain stood well away from the railing, trembling, tears streaming down her face. She hadn't been able to watch at all.
"Ith it over yet?" she asked.
Biner nodded. "Almost," he said. "For awhile I was hopin' them Guardians wouldn't break. But they did. And then old Protarus hit 'em twice more. Mos' awful thing I ever did see-or ever hope to see.
Protarus' fiends are down there now finishin' off what's left."
"Pleath!" Arlain protested. "Don't tell me anymore. All I think of ith what'th going to happen if thoth awful tholdierth catch uth."
Biner squared his massive shoulders. "They won't!" he vowed. "Not if old Biner can help it."
"If only Thafar would get back," Arlain said.
"Never mind Safar," Biner said. "He's either gonna make it or he ain't. We have to be ready either way."
"Maybe they won't find the gate into the valley," Arlain said hopefully. "Maybe they'll mith it and jutht keep on going."
Biner snorted. "Sure," he said. "And smoke don't rise, the wind don't change, and if you dump the balloons the airship'll just keep on flyin'!"
King Protarus was agitated as he approached the group gathered around Lord Fari. From the angry tone of the voices he heard echoing across the gory snow, the king was riding into the middle of a debate. It was an argument so heated the participants didn't notice the imminent arrival of the royal party.
Iraj pulled up his horse, raising a hand to bring his aides and guards to a halt. Pushing aside the reason for his agitation, he leaned forward, listening.
"This is insanity, Fari!" Luka was raging. "You're holding up the entire godsdamned army with all your second-guessing."
"I must agree with Prince Luka," Kalasariz said. "There's a time for caution and a time to strike onward."