by Allan Cole
As he readied himself chaos erupted all around him. The crowd roared in fury at the interruption. Gamblers attacked odds makers and odds makers shouted for their bully boys’ who waded in. The fights spread like a plainsfire and the stands and arena floor became a swarming mass of struggling bodies. Didima thundered orders and soldiers rushed toward Safar and Gundara.
Safar chanted:
"Here are the hypocrites of Walaria,
Cursed be. Cursed be.
King Didima and Umurhan and Kalasariz,
The unholy three. Unholy three.
Devils and felons are welcome in Walaria,
Say the three. Say the three."
The scroll burst into flames and Safar flung it into the faces of the charging soldiers. The fiery bits exploded into a white-hot mass flinging the soldiers back, screaming and twisting in pain.
Safar snatched up the stone idol and Gundara hopped onto his shoulder, crying, "Run, Master! Run!"
He leaped off the platform into the madness of the crowd. A soldier slashed with a sword, but Safar dodged the blow and cracked his head with the idol.
Behind him Olari had shouted the other condemned youths into life and they all swarmed off the platform and raced for cover.
Didima’s amplified voice thundered, "Seize the traitors! Don’t let them escape!"
Safar rushed toward the place where he’d last seen Nerisa. Gundara conjured a flaming brand that shot off spears of magical lightning. Holding tight to his master’s collar, he waved the brand about, scattering the crowd. Safar came to the spot where Nerisa had been attacked.
There was nothing there but a drying pool of blood.
"She’s dead, Master," Gundara shouted. "I saw her die!"
Rage gripped Safar and he whirled around to face the royal stage. He saw Didima and Umurhan being rushed away to safety by Kalasariz and his men.
He was helpless in his fury. He could feel great pools of power gathering near him. He only had to reach out and take it and then strike. But his enemies disappeared before he could form the killing spell and then a mass of armed men was charging toward him.
He gestured and a white cloud formed overhead. A deadly hailstorm erupted from that cloud, ripping through the soldiers’ ranks. Men cried out, falling to the ground, moaning from broken heads and limbs.
Gundara kicked at him with small sharp heels. "Run, you fool!" he shouted. "Quick, before they send more!"
Safar ran.
He bounded up the emptying stands like a mountain goat until he came to the highest wall. On the other side was a broad street leading to the main gate - not more than a hundred yards away. Just beyond was freedom. Safar jumped, tucked and rolled when he hit, and raced for the unguarded gate.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Despite the chaos Safar left in his wake, Kalasariz regained order by day’s end. He shut down the city at Last Prayer, imposing a dusk-to-dawn curfew. All violators were killed on the spot. Then he sent his men out to seize anyone who might threaten the throne before Didima had a chance to recover the dignity of his office. Only one of Safar’s seven companions was recaptured. The rest, including Olari, seemed to have vanished. Kalasariz wasn’t concerned about the missing youths. He’d always seen them as more of a symbol to be exploited than a real danger.
He’d once viewed Safar Timura as such a symbol. Now he wasn’t so certain. Umurhan certainly viewed Timura as a threat, demanding that men be sent out immediately to capture Safar, and babbling for nearly an hour about the tortures the young man would suffer for his crimes. Kalasariz saw naked fear in the High Priest’s ravings - a fear that could only be caused by the magical powers Timura had displayed in the arena. The spy master was no expert on such things, but when he added Umurhan’s fear and Timura’s friendship with Iraj Protarus, he thought it best to take extra precautions.
The first hedge involved the group of hunters he’d sent after Timura, who were hand-picked for their loyalty. He’d given them secret orders to kill Safar on sight. They were also told if Timura managed to elude them for any length of time they were to give up the chase and return home. By no means was he to be captured and returned to the city as King Didima had demanded.
The incident in the arena prompted Kalasariz to take one other major precaution. Umurhan had unintentionally revealed that as a wizard he was all bluff. Otherwise he would’ve used his magic to destroy Safar - or least block his spell. It was plain to Kalasariz that if Walaria were ever attacked there’d be little help from the High Priest. This was a huge hole in the city’s defenses, a gap that couldn’t be filled.
So the spy master penned a careful message to Iraj Protarus. In it, he deplored the actions of Didima and Umurhan. He also subtly hinted if the day ever came when Protarus might wish his assistance, Kalasariz was his humble servant and would be pleased to comply. With the message he included the documents he had hidden away: Safar’s death warrant and Kalasariz’ letter of protest.
The message was sent the day his hunters returned with the sad news that Safar Timura was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Nerisa crouched in the corner of her cell, a blood-crusted bandage wrapped around her forehead. She was weak from hunger and loss of blood. She had no idea how long she’d been in the cell or how long she’d remain before they came to take her.
Despite her weakness, she remained stubbornly unafraid. She held firm to a prisoner’s ultimate defiance - they can kill you, but they can’t eat you.
She’d rescued Safar. This was satisfaction enough. No one could take that back. If she were to be sacrificed for her love, so be it. Safar would go on living and he’d have the magical idol and Asper’s book - which she’d given to Gundara - to remember her by. She was certain he would make a great future for himself and no matter what happened to Nerisa, she would always be a major part of that future.
Nerisa had one real hope. When she’d been captured her unconscious body had been dumped in a holding cell with others caught up in the arena riots. When she’d regained consciousness she’d had the presence of mind to swallow the gold coins Safar had given her. If she ever had the opportunity she intended to use those coins to win her freedom. At the very worst she could bribe the executioner to make her death swift and painless.
It was a slender hope but it was hope just the same.
A rattle of keys and heavy footsteps brought her up. She saw the warder unlocking her cell door. There was another man behind him.
"Oh, it’s you, Zeman," she rasped. "What are you doing here? Run out of flies to torture?"
Zeman stretched his lips into a nasty grin. "You should be more polite to me," he said, waving an official looking document at her. "I’m your new owner."
Nerisa spit. "No one owns me," she said.
Zeman stepped into the cell. "They do now," he said. "You have no idea how far-thinking and kind the law is in Walaria when an underage child is involved. I’ve just paid out a small sum to rescue you from this cell.
"In return for my generosity you have been given to me as a slave."
Nerisa was shocked. The fear she’d fought against since her capture rose up to grip her heart in icy fingers.
She clutched at hope "Your grandfather will never allow it," she said. "Katal doesn’t believe in slavery."
Zeman snickered. "Don’t look to my grandfather for help," he said. Then he made a mournful face. "Poor old dear. He’s dead you know. Something he ate didn’t agree with him."
Nerisa became numb. She had no doubt Zeman had poisoned the old man. Tears welled. She shook her injured head violently, using pain to quell the tears. She’d be damned if she’d give Zeman the satisfaction.
"You are looking at the sole proprietor of the Foolsmire," he said. "And the sole owner of you, as well."
"What do you want with me?" Nerisa snarled. "You know I’ll run the first chance I get. Either that, or kill you in your sleep."
"Oh, I don’t intend to own you very long," Zema
n replied. "I’ve already approached a buyer who’s willing to take you off my hands. I’m making a handsome profit, if you must know. Although not as much as your buyer is going to make. Apparently there are certain men - rich men, I’m told - who have an appetite for little whores like yourself."
Zeman pasted on another of his ugly smiles. "And after you’ve grown breasts and are no longer any good to your new owner, I’m sure he’ll make other arrangements for your future."
Zeman snickered. "He gave me his word on that."
Nerisa screamed in fury and launched herself at Zeman - nails coming out like a cat’s to rake his eyes from his head.
The warder stepped in and clubbed her down. She fell to the floor, unconscious.
The warder raised his heavy stick to strike again.
Zeman stopped him, saying, "Let’s not damage the merchandise."
* * *
Safar huddled in the slender shade of a desert succulent. His robe was hitched up over his head to protect himself from the merciless sun. A hot wind blew over the desolate landscape, intent on wringing every drop of moisture from his body. His tongue was a thick raw muscle, his lips cracked and drawn back over his teeth. He scraped at the hard ground with a jagged piece of rock, trying to dig a deep enough hole to expose the moisture held by the succulent’s roots. He’d been working at it for hours but was so weak he’d barely managed a slight depression.
The sun had only just reached its zenith. The hottest and longest hours were still ahead. It was unlikely that he’d last until nightfall. But he kept at it, knowing neither hope or despair. He was like an animal with no thought in its head except survival.
A few days before he’d had life enough left to know joy when he saw his pursuers turn back. The hunters from Walaria had tracked him doggedly for a week, forcing him to flee deeper into the desert. With Gundara’s help he’d cast spells of confusion to shake them off. Although he’d managed to elude them several times, the hunters kept reappearing on his trail. Gundara said it could only mean they had magic of their own to assist them.
The hunters gave up when they ran out of water. Safar, who didn’t have that luxury, had run out long before. Divining spells proved to be useless - he never had a chance to stop and resupply himself. Finally he was even denied Gundara’s company and help, the intense desert causing the little Favorite to grow weak and retreat into the stone idol. After that, Safar had paused when he could to kill a lizard or snake and suck out its moisture. It was a losing battle, with the sun and wind draining his life as quickly as he’d drained those poor creatures.
Safar made one more swipe at the dry depression. Then all his strength fled and the rock fell from his grasp. He sagged back on the ground, gasping for breath.
Then even breathing seemed to require too much effort and he thought, Well, I’ll just stop. But to his disgust his chest insisted on heaving in and out, drawing in air filled with sharp bits of grit. Then he thought, it has to end sooner or later. I’ll rest here until it does. He sighed and shut his eyes.
Then Safar heard music - distant pipes and bells. He thought, this must be what it’s like to die.
The sound grew louder and he was overcome with a vague curiosity to look this strange, music-playing Death in the face.
He opened his eyes and wasn’t disappointed. A huge low-flying creature swept across the desert towards him. It looked like an immense head, swirling with all sorts of marvelous colors. There were no wings or body attached to the head, but in Safar’s daze this seemed quite natural. The creature flew closer and now he could make out its face.
He had strength enough to feel surprise. He thought, I didn’t know Death was a woman. And such a beautiful woman - a giantess with sensuous features painted in glorious colors like a savage tattooed queen.
The music seemed to be coming from her lush mouth as if she had a voice composed of wondrous pipes and bells and harp strings.
The woman’s head was hovering over him now. Safar smiled, thinking Death was finally going to take him. He closed his eyes and waited.
Then the music stopped and he heard someone speak. It was a woman’s voice, but smaller than he thought a giantess would possess.
"Merciful Felakia," the woman said, "spare me this sight. He’s only a lad. And a handsome lad at that."
"Handsome or plain, makes no difference to the buzzards," came another voice - a deep baritone - "He’s dead, Methydia. Come on! The Deming fair’s only two weeks off and we gots a long ways to go."
Safar was disappointed. This wasn’t how Death was supposed to behave. Was she going to leave his body here? Abandon his ghost to this wasteland?
He stretched his lips and tried to speak, but only managed a croak.
"Wait!" said the woman. "Sweet, merciful Felakia - he’s alive."
No I’m not, Safar tried to say. I’m dead, dammit! Don’t leave me here!
Then from above he heard a loud whoosh of escaping air and he felt a huge presence drifting down to him.
Safar smiled - Death was on her way. He ached for her embrace.
* * *
Part Three
Wizard Of The Winds
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
The Demon King
"Do you see anything, Luka?"
"No, Majesty. I see nothing."
King Manacia frowned, his royal brow a deeply plowed field of displeasure.
"Are you certain, Luka?" he asked his oldest son and heir. He jabbed a long talon at a point on the horizon. "Isn’t that something, or someone, moving over there?"
Prince Luka shielded his yellow eyes with a claw - peering out over the Forbidden Desert. Manacia and his court were camped on the edge of the blackened wasteland. The King sat on his traveling throne, placed on thick carpets and shaded by a white canopy, billowing in the desert wind. Behind him was the main camp - a city of gaudy tents that housed his court.
After looking long and hard the prince sighed and shook his bony head - a dozen heavy golden chains of office rattling against his armor.
"I don’t believe so, Majesty," he said. Then, soothing, "But it’s early, yet. Perhaps Your Highness is hungry, or thirsty. Why don’t you retire to your tent and I’ll send for the stewards. Possibly you’d enjoy a little nap. You look so weary, Sire, that it nearly breaks my heart.
"I’ll alert Your Majesty the instant Lord Fari returns."
Manacia exposed his fangs - a wide, multi-rowed smile of fatherly pride. "You’re a good and loyal son, Luka," he said. "No king could ask for a better prince. But it wouldn’t be seemly. A king must not fear to suffer the same trials and tribulations as his subjects."
Prince Luka laid a claw of sincerity across his mailed heart. "You are an inspiration to us all, Majesty," he said. "I worship and study at your feet, praying I will have half Your Highness’ courage and wisdom on that most regretful day when the gods decree that I must succeed you to the throne."
The whole time the Crown Prince spoke he was thinking, I hope you choke on a bone, you horrid old fiend. I hope the sun fries your brains and the hyenas feast on your liver.
Manacia chuckled fondly. "To think I nearly wrung your neck at birth," he said. "I thought you’d grow to be a conspiring little savage like your mother. Instead, you’ve matured into the most civilized and considerate subject in my kingdom. It’s a pity I couldn’t let your mother live to see what a fine son you’ve turned out to be."
Prince Luka bowed low, humbly thanking his father for his kind words. But he thought, You old fool. You wouldn’t look so smug if you knew Mother made me swear on her death bed that I’d avenge her.
Manacia gestured and a slave crawled over on his belly with a cup of cold wine. The king sipped, reminiscing.
"Looking at you, my son," he said, "no one would ever guess your mother was a barbarian. You are my strong and serene right claw. And to think when I bedded her the first time she tried to stab me with a knife she’d hidden in her girdle."
He smiled at the m
emory. "Your mother was understandably overwrought," he said, "because I’d just killed her father and brothers. I had to have her tied to the bed before I could mount her."
"Your Majesty has regaled me many times with the tale of that illustrious moment," Prince Luka said. "I never tire of hearing it."
The king laughed and slapped his knee. "Did I ever tell you what your mother said after I’d had my pleasures?"
"Yes, Majesty," the prince said. "But it was such a delicious incident I’d be pleased if you told me again."
"She said I’d raped her!" the king chortled. "Can you imagine that? Me, rape her?"
"She should have thanked you for honoring her with your royal seed, Majesty," the prince said. "But she was young and of a savage tribe. Mother didn’t know what she was saying."
The king was impatient to complete his story. "Yes, yes," he said. "But that’s not the point. We already know she was a savage. I said so, didn’t I?
"The point is she accused me of raping her. And do you know what I replied?"
"No, Majesty. What did you say?"
"I replied - ‘that wasn’t rape.’ ‘That was’ - now get this - ‘assault with a friendly weapon.’"
Manacia howled with laughter at his joke. The prince forced sounds of immense amusement.
Then the prince said, "One thing you’ve never told me, Sire... what was Mother’s answer?"
The king’s laughter cut off in mid-snort. "What was that?" he growled, green skin mottling with building anger.
"I said, what did Mother reply after you made that marvelous jest about rape being nothing but assault with a friendly weapon?"
"It doesn’t matter what she replied," the king snapped. "That wasn’t the joke. The joke was the friendly weapon part. Not what she said after. Who cares what that fiendbitch thought? It’s what the king has to say that’s important. Whole histories are devoted solely to the remarks of kings. In my case, I’m also noted for my sense of humor. The anecdote concerning your mother is only one especially revealing example."
