by Allan Cole
It was a worm, no more than a finger long. It was maggoty white, with a large black spot on its head that Safar thought was an eye. It was a thing that fed on misery and pain. As Safar probed around, he realized the creature was the infant form of something even more deadly. He could see half-formed legs kicking beneath the worm’s skin and an arced tail tipped by a budding stinger.
The little creature blasted him with voracious thoughts. "Mine!" it shrieked. "I want... Mine!"
Safar heard Methydia shout, "Hurry, Safar!"
But he took his time. He made the probe into two thick fingers. He reached for the worm, dodging small sharp knives of hunger and hate.
Then he caught it between the two fingers. The worm struggled, fighting back, searing his senses with blasts of sorcery.
He ignored the pain and crushed the worm.
Immediately he was assaulted by the foul stench of death. He staggered back, drawing his spirit self with him.
Safar heard a rumbling sound. Dazed, he looked up and saw the earthen giant crumbling into huge pieces of rock and dirt clods. As it came crashing down Biner leaped away just in time. A thick cloud of dust exploded as it hit, pebbles and debris showering everywhere.
Then the dust settled and there was nothing to be seen but a large mound of rubble.
Safar felt suddenly weak and confused. He turned to Methydia and recognized the look of awe in her eyes. It was the same look Iraj had given him when he’d brought the avalanche down on the demons.
"It was just a worm," he tried to say, but it came out as a mumble. "A stupid little-"
And he pitched forward on the ground.
* * *
The people of Kyshaat got their circus. Many said Methydia and her troupe staged the best performance of their careers. Children would grow old and regale their own disbelieving grandchildren about that fateful day when the creature that had caused so much misery had been defeated. And of the wild celebration that followed.
Safar, the hero of the hour, saw none of it. He lapsed into a coma for nearly a week. When he regained consciousness he was aboard the Cloudship and they were sailing through a storm.
Once again he was lying on a pallet in Methydia’s cabin. It was dark and outside he could hear the winds moan through the lines and rain lash the deck.
He was thirsty and fumbled around with a blind hand until he brushed against a tumbler. He drank. It was warm wine and honey.
There was a blast of cold air as the door slammed open. He looked up. Methydia was standing there, a hooded parka covering her from head to ankle. Lightning crash followed lightning crash, illuminating her. She glowed in it, an aura forming around her slender body. Her eyes were glittering wells, drinking him in. A gust of wind hurled the parka aside. She was dressed in a thin white gown, nearly transparent from the rain.
Another gust of wind blasted past her, but the cold seemed to light a fire in him.
"Close the door," he said.
At least he thought he said it. His lips formed the words, but he heard nothing come out.
Just the same, Methydia closed the door.
Then he held out his arms and whispered, "Please!"
Methydia floated across the room into his embrace.
He burrowed into the warm heart of her. Found the storm and let it loose. For a long time all he knew was the sensation of their love making and the sound of her voice calling his name.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
The Winds Of Fate
King Manacia - Lion Of The gods, Future Lord Of Esmir, Courageous Protector Of Ghazban, Perfect Of Zanzair, His Merciful Majesty - suffered from nightmares.
In his dreams he was pursued by naked human devils, with their scale-crawling ghoulish skins, talonless claws and thick red tongues that looked like eels grown fat from eating carrion.
He would no sooner slake his royal lust on a concubine and close his eyes to drift off to sleep, when the human hordes would come charging out, screaming blood-curdling cries and gnashing their flat, flesh-grinding teeth. The king would try to run but his limbs wouldn’t obey him. He’d stand frozen as the ugly creatures surged forward, howling their hate.
Two tall humans always led the ravenous crowd. One was fair-skinned, with a golden beard and golden locks encircled by a crown. The other was dark and beardless, with long black hair that streamed behind him. The dark one had huge blue eyes that bored into his soul, ferreting out all Manacia held sacred and secret.
The dreams left him shaken and weak. For a long time he tried to ignore them, telling himself they were caused by nothing more than stress from his royal duties. His plans for invading the humanlands had him overwrought, that’s all.
The planning was not going well, which added to his agitation. His generals were driving him mad with their overly cautious counsel. They wanted to gather an army so large, with supply lines so deep, that no human force could stand in their way.
At first King Manacia had nothing against this strategy. Overwhelming force was the common sense answer to any military difficulty. But what the generals considered overwhelming, the king soon learned, was always double whatever figure he proposed.
Manacia understood the careers and very lives of his generals and their staff depended on the outcome. The king made no apologies for his feelings regarding failure. He had no use for the weak or the unlucky, purging any and all who were associated with less than total victory. Yet his generals’ caution disappointed him. Where was their patriotism? Where was their sense of duty to king and Ghazban? You had to take a chance in this life, Manacia thought, or nothing great would ever be accomplished.
When the invasion came it was true the king intended to sorely punish any failure. But in his view the rewards he was offering for success should more than overcome his generals’ fears.
For some reason they hadn’t. The plan was simple enough. Manacia intended to first conquer the regions north of the Gods’ Divide. The mountain range was a natural barrier that would allow him to work his will, then gather his strength for the final assault over the mountains. True, the ancient maps gave no hint on what route should be taken to cross the Divide. But Manacia was confident - given time and absolute rule over the northern humanlands - that passage would be found. He would find Kyrania, by the gods! Or there were certain lazy, talon-dragging generals who would experience his royal wrath.
To accomplish the first part of his plan - the subjugation of the north - his forces would cross the Forbidden Desert and set up a base camp just beyond the edge. Supply trains and reinforcement columns would pour into that camp, while the main force leaped forward to wipe out the humans.
It was Manacia’s opinion that surprise would carry the day. Yes, he wanted a large force to mount the invasion. But it needn’t be as large as his generals said, or attached to such unwieldy supply lines. No one in the humanlands had even a glimmer that their demon enemies were gathering for an assault. Manacia had made certain of this by refusing any request to send vulnerable scouting parties to investigate the humanlands. He’d already taken too great a chance by sending Sarn and didn’t intend to dare the fates by repeating that error.
His generals, however, had seized on this secrecy, saying the blade cut both ways. Yes, they said, the wise course was to keep the humans in ignorance. But that meant the demons would know nothing of what transpired in the humanlands. When the king struck, he’d be cutting at the dark. There was no way of knowing who might return the blow and with what force.
The only safe thing, prudent thing, to do, his generals said, was to attack with a well-supplied army of such size that anyone who opposed them would be doomed.
Manacia’s generals were a backbiting lot, always maneuvering behind the scenes to attack their brother officers, but on this issue they were united. In a rare alliance, Lord Fari and Prince Luka also joined together to back the generals.
Fari, kept from probing the humanlands with intelligence-gathering spells, had similar concerns as t
he military. So did the prince, who as heir to the throne was expected to lead the vanguard of the invasion.
"If I am to have the high honor of carrying your banner into glorious battle, Majesty," the prince said, "I want to make certain there is no chance it is sullied or befouled in any way.
"I would fight to the death to prevent that from happening."
"Quite right, too," King Manacia said. "My father expected the same from me when I was Crown Prince. And I risked my life many a time for his standard."
Prince Luka placed talon to breast and bowed low, honoring his father’s youthful bravery. As he did so, he thought, You cunning old fraud. You cut your father’s throat in his sleep and seized his standard. And if I only have the chance, I’ll do the same to you.
"You are a constant inspiration to me, Majesty," the prince said, smoothly. "And I’ll need ten thousand fiends for my vanguard."
The king gave them to him.
After much discussion with his generals, he also agreed that a five hundred thousand demon army would be raised - the largest force in the history of Esmir. Backing them with war magic would be two thousand wizards, led by Lord Fari.
The preparations were massive and seemed to move on as slowly as the Turtle Gods carried the continents across the seas.
Making the task even more difficult were countless emergencies calling for his armies’ attentions. Within a single month troops had to be rushed to trouble spots a half-a-dozen times.
Manacia felt as if his whole kingdom was bulging at the seams, ready to erupt.
The feeling was intensified by the nightmares. As troubled night bled into troubled night, the king began to fix on the two human devils who always led the rush - the golden haired one and his blue-eyed companion. They became very real to him and he began to wonder who they might be.
When he could bear it no longer he called on Lord Fari and his wizards for an answer. He tried to make light of the dreams, but he knew he was fooling no one and Fari would mark it down as a weakness.
Starcharts were cast, but proved useless since no chart agreed with the next. With the gods at sleep, the heavens held no answers, although the dreamcatchers were ignorant of the reason for their failure.
Bone cups were rattled, the king had his palm read scores of times. All to no avail.
Finally Lord Fari had a human slave brought forth. He was tortured so his cries would please the gods, then while he was still alive - his belly was slit so the king’s wizards could read the entrails.
Manacia watched with much interest as Fari leaned over the moaning victim, sniffing at the gaping wound.
"A healthy odor, Majesty," the old wizard reported. "That’s a lucky sign."
He scooped up a coil of entrails with a claw.
"Mercy, have mercy," the victim groaned.
Fari peered closely at the rope of tissue. "Better still, Majesty," he said after a moment. "This is a good strong bowel, symbolizing the soundness of Your Majesty’s policies."
The human made a weak cry as Fari pulled up more of his innards. "Please," the man whimpered, "please."
"Aha!" the old demon said. "Here’s our trouble, Majesty."
He held out a glistening coil. A thick rope of internal muscle jutted off of it, dividing into two blunt-ended tubes about an inch out.
"It’s a cancer, Majesty," Fari said. "Attached to the main branch. You see how it divides into two?"
Manacia nodded, he did indeed. Fari extended a talon and sliced each tube. Black blood gushed out.
"Mother of mercy!" the victim screamed. And then he sagged, unconscious.
Satisfied that he had enough information, Fari let the entrails fall. Two slaves slithered over on their bellies to offer him perfumed water and towels to clean his claws.
Fari paced back and forth, wiping his claws and thinking. While he thought two other slaves approached and dragged the human away.
Fari noticed and his snout came up. "The king will want the heart for his dinner," he ordered the slaves. Then he went back to his pacing.
Finally, when Manacia thought he no longer bear the suspense, Fari began to speak.
"Here is how I read it, Majesty," he said. "The cancer, I fear, does represent a threat. The twin ropes drawing off energy from the main bowel are the two humans who bedevil Your Majesty’s dreams. One is a king. The other a wizard."
"So what if one’s a wizard?" Manacia growled. "Human magic is too weak to be a threat to us."
"Most certainly, Majesty," Fari said. "But perhaps when joined with the king he makes a more imposing adversary. I cannot say. The entrails gave no clue to such things.
"But they did tell me that right now these two forces - king and wizard - are apart. They began together, but then separated for some reason. At the moment each is independent of the other."
"When will they come together?" the king asked.
Fari sighed, wiping the last of the gore from his claws. "That was not revealed to me, Majesty," he said. He let the towel fall and a slave scrabbled over to pick it up.
"But what of my invasion?" the king pressed. "How long dare I wait? It seems to me the longer the delay, the more chance there is these two forces will come together."
"Quite true, Majesty," Fari said.
"Advise me," the king demanded. "When do I invade?"
Fari didn’t hesitate. The old demon felt quite sure of himself. The entrails had been that plain.
"In the spring, Majesty," he said. "Soon as the first snow melts."
"And what of this king and this wizard?" Manacia asked. "They won’t be together by then?"
"I don’t believe so, Majesty," Fari said. "They’re too far away from one another. And unless some great wind sweeps one up and delivers him to the feet of the other, we have nothing to fear."
* * *
The storm that hastened the Cloudship over the Plains Of Jaspar lasted for more than a week. The winds that drove it were as fierce as the love-making in Methydia’s cabin.
For Safar it was a wondrous journey to the heart of a woman. In many ways Safar had always preferred the company of women. He’d been raised in a household of generous and intelligent females. As a child he’d sat in their company, so quiet they soon forgot he was about, and he’d listened intently to their troubles and dreams. Safar thought women dreamed better than men. They saw nuances and dimensions where men only saw flat featureless plains. Safar had been unfortunate in his first adult experience with women. Astarias had wounded him. Although he’d been careful not to judge all women by that experience, he couldn’t help all the small doubts and fears that remained.
Methydia wiped them away in a stroke.
For Methydia the affair was altogether different. It shook her sensibilities. It rocked her mortality. She’d had many affairs; some for gain, some for lust, perhaps one or two for love - although as she grew older she’d started to think all three were the same and equaled love of self. But with Safar there was something extra - a tantalizing mystery just beyond her grasp.
What Methydia always liked about young men was that they appreciated you so much. A woman merely had to be a woman and take the upper hand. Young men - well brought up young men - were so accustomed to obeying their mothers they were invariably relieved when responsibility was taken from them. She could beguile them with a look. Arouse them with a touch. Hold them at bay with a frown. Methydia was a consummate actress and could be all things to all men, but with the young it took less effort. There was more time to enjoy. As Biner often said, "The boss likes her toys, she does. She likes ‘em young with a key to wind ‘em up."
Safar could have been such a toy, although she’d plucked him from the desert only out of kindness. When he became well and she’d noted his personality was as pleasing as his appearance, she’d considered him for her bed.
But what truly captivated Methydia was Safar’s magical self. It was a beautiful essence, powerful and passionate. It was potent - never in her witchy days had she sensed such strength
- but there was good at the heart of it. Safar’s spirit self wanted to call you friend before it called you foe. It was young, but graceful rather than clumsy. It had known death - was miserable for being the cause of it - and was reluctant to come out into the light again. For a time Methydia was intimidated by Safar’s magical self. She didn’t fear it, but she did worry if she wasn’t careful she’d injure it so badly all the kindness would vanish. As a villain, a black wizard, a fully mature Safar Timura would be a terrible gift to the world.
Attractive as Safar was, she’d held herself back for a long time. In fact, Methydia had all but decided it’d be best to deny herself an affair.
The incident at Kyshaat had ripped her from that mooring.
In her long life Methydia thought she’d encountered just about everything. She’d visited many realms, entertained many people. She’d dealt with danger and evil aplenty; but in her heart she believed good more than outweighed evil, there were more blessings than ill fortune and she’d made it her life’s work to remind people of these qualities.
As a witch she was well aware the sorcerous landscape was riddled with magicians and entities whose sole purpose was to cause harm. She’d always managed to evade such things. To Methydia magic came from the earth itself. She believed she drew her powers directly from nature, which to her was a loving, grandmotherly presence.
The creature she encountered at Kyshaat had badly cracked that image. When it rose out of the ground it was as if the earth itself were attacking her. That nature had suddenly revealed its true self and it had a jackal’s face. In that awful moment when the earth beast had towered over her she’d thought she’d lost both her life and her soul.
Safar had saved them both.
She’d fled into his arms for comfort and safety and sheer joy at being alive. For a week she hid there from all the terrors the creature had aroused. Yet they gnawed at the edges. Deep in the night, while the storms howled outside and Safar slept, Methydia let them come out one by one. Examining them in turn. In the end she concluded the beast at Kyshaat was the harbinger of doom. That it was only the first of many evils that lay ahead.
