by Allan Cole
"Still," Methydia said, "you’re as anxious to get out of the way of his wrath as I am."
"Armies have no heart," Safar said. "And it’s Iraj’s army we’ll see first. Queen Arma was fool enough to defy him. His soldiers will have their orders to make an example of Sampitay. And I don’t want us to be in their way."
"Are you really so unfeeling about the plight of these people, Safar," Methydia asked. "Am I seeing a side of you I never noticed before because I was so smitten?"
Safar took her hand. She let him, but her manner was wary. "What can I do?" he asked, and there was so much pain in his voice her wariness vanished. "Tell me and I’ll do it at once."
"Speak to Iraj," she said. "Reason with him."
Safar thought about her request for a time. He felt he was at the edge of a cliff. At the bottom was a world he wanted to escape. A world of petty kings and wizards. A world where girls like Nerisa died for no good reason. And then he thought of all the maids and lads in Sampitay who would suffer Nerisa’s fate, or worse, when Iraj’s soldiers came. Methydia squeezed his hand. He took strength from it and made his decision.
"We’ll go find Iraj in the morning," he said. He grinned, but it was such a sad grin that Methydia ached for him. "He shouldn’t be hard to find. We’ll just look for the largest army."
Methydia held back tears and embraced him. They made love, clinging to one another as if they were the last people in the world.
Then they fell asleep.
Safar dreamed of Hadin. He danced with the beautiful people, all cares wiped away by the rhythm of their drums.
Then the volcano exploded with such violence that he was hurled far out to sea. He was suddenly without the ability to swim. He pawed madly at the water, trying to stay afloat - burning embers raining down on him.
And then a familiar voice urged, "Wake up, Master! Wake up!"
Safar’s eyes snapped open. Gundara was perched on his chest, sharp little teeth chattering in fear. Safar blinked, thinking he was still dreaming. The last time he’d checked the stone idol - which he always kept near him - it’d seemed like there was barely any magical life inside.
Then he felt the Favorite’s weight on his chest and although it was slight, it was very real.
"Where did you come from?" Safar asked.
Gundara ignored the question. "They’re coming, Master!" he said, hopping onto the floor. "Hurry! Before it’s too late!"
Safar heard sounds of fighting outside and came fully awake. He scrabbled for the knife he kept under his pillow and rolled to his feet. Realizing he was naked, he hastily pulled on clothes. The turtle fell out of his tunic pocket and bounced on the earthen floor. Gundara instantly disappeared into it. Then he heard Methydia cry out from the bed and he shouted for her to stay down. He scooped up the turtle and thrust it into his pocket just as the soldiers burst through the tent opening.
Safar didn’t give them a chance to get set, but charged directly into them. He dodged a blow and sank his blade into softness. He heard a gasp, tried to pull his knife free, but it stuck. Behind him Methydia screamed a warning and he let the knife go, ripping the sword out of his victim’s dying grasp.
He whirled, striking out blindly. He didn’t have time or room to turn the blade so only the flat of it struck his attacker. But the force of his blow was so great it sent the soldier reeling back, exposing his belly. Once again Safar felt soft flesh give under his weapon. He didn’t wait to see the man fall, but turned again as other soldiers crowded through the tent opening.
He attacked with such fury they fell over each other to escape his wrath. Then he jumped back, heaved up a chest he’d normally have needed help to lift, and hurled it through the opening. Satisfying yelps of pain told him that he’d hit his target.
Methydia was out of the bed now, hastily drawing on a robe.
"This way," he shouted, slashing at the rear of the tent. The cloth parted and they pushed through the opening.
The night was a mad thing of screams and clashing armor and weapons. Fire raged whichever way they turned.
Methydia clutched him, pointing. Safar turned to see her glorious Cloudship going up in flames.
There was an explosion and the Cloudship became a shatter of burning wood splinters and smoldering cloth. Methydia sagged and he caught her in his arms.
Mailed horsemen charged out of the boiling smoke, flailing about with curved blades that cut anyone down who got in their way.
A banner, carried by the lead horseman, fluttered over them. It bore the ancient symbol of the demon moon and silver comet.
The warriors were shouting, "For Protarus!"
Six horsemen split off from the group and rushed toward Safar. He let Methydia drop to his feet, and grasped his sword in both hands.
He made a spell of strength and power surged through his body until he felt like a giant. He made a spell of sharpness and sliced the air with his blade. It shimmered with the force of his blow.
Then the horsemen were on him. He cut the legs out from under the first steed, slew its rider, then leaped on the horse’s body to confront the rest.
A spear floated toward him and he ducked it easily, coming up to deal a death blow to the one who’d hurled it. A huge man with a black beard struck at him with a scimitar. Safar parried and the man’s bearded mouth became a wide "O" as Safar’s sword pierced his throat. Then there was a horseman behind him and he whirled just as the soldier’s mount trampled on Methydia’s prone body.
Safar howled in fury and leaped at the man, his weight carrying horse, soldier and himself to the ground. The quarters were too close to swing his blade, so he hammered at the soldier with the haft of his sword, crushing the helmet.
Then he was up again, parrying the next blow, killing the next man.
He fought for what seemed like an eternity. But no matter how many he struck down, there were always others crowding in to take him.
Then there was a sudden respite and he was swinging at empty air. Cutting back and forth, meeting nothing, but still slashing, still fighting, as if there were invisible devils all around him.
He stopped, finally realizing no enemy was within reach.
Safar looked up and all was a haze in his battle-lust view. Then he saw a grizzled old veteran mounted on a warhorse about ten paces away. Safar’s head swiveled. He was surrounded, but now instead of swords there were raised bows confronting him, arrows drawn back - waiting for the order to fire.
"You’ve done yourself proud, lad," the old veteran said. "Now put your sword down and we’ll spare you."
Safar grinned. He was covered with the gore of other men and made an awful sight.
Then, instead of tossing his sword down, he pushed it point first into the ground and leaned on it.
"Tell Iraj Protarus," he said loudly, "that a friend awaits him. And begs the pleasure of his company."
The veteran reacted, surprised. "And who might that friend be, lad?"
"Safar Timura of Kyrania," he replied. "The man he once called his blood oath brother.
"The man who once saved his life."
* * *
Chapter Twenty
All Hail The King
It was well past dawn when Iraj finally came.
The smoke and soot from the burning city was so thick it made the day more like night. The air was filled with the stench of death and the loud weeping of Sampitay’s survivors as they were led out to meet their fates.
Safar was pacing within the same circle of bowmen. Although they’d lowered their weapons, he noted they were ready to lift them again and fire if he made a wrong move. They were all fierce plainsmen, small in stature, muscular in build, with misshapen legs from so many years on horseback. They wore flowing robes, cinched by wide leather belts bearing scimitars on one side, long daggers on the other. Their boots were felt, with sharp spurs strapped to them. They had turbans for head coverings, with steel caps beneath and most sported long, drooping mustaches, giving their dark faces a grim, determined look.
A small part of Safar - the child that weeps for its mother even at a great age - quaked at the sight of them. The rest was armed with a cold, tightly-gripped rage he was ready to release at the slightest pretense.
The soldiers didn’t know what to make of Safar. He was either the mightiest of liars or truly the king’s blood oath brother. The only thing certain was Safar had more than proven himself as a warrior. It was for this reason, almost more than his claim of friendship with the king, that had stayed their hands. Safar had leaned heavily on their respect to rescue most of the members of the troupe and he’d bullied the old sergeant into letting them join him.
He used the circle like a shield, pacing the perimeter to keep it intact, pointing the tip of his sword accusingly at any soldier who dared stray closer. In the center the troupe was silently tending the unconscious Methydia. Safar feared for her - she’d been badly trampled by the warhorse - but he didn’t dare show his concern in front of the bowmen. He knew it would be taken as a sign of weakness.
Then he heard a great horn blare and war drums beat a tattoo. Orders were shouted and the ring of bowmen suddenly parted.
A tall warrior mounted on a fiery black steed cantered down the path they made. He wore the pure white robes of a plains fighter. His head was wrapped in a white turban, with the tail pulled about his face like a mask.
The warrior pulled the horse up a few paces away. He studied Safar for a long moment, taking in the gore stained costume, bloody sword and soot-streaked face. Safar stared back, making as insolent a grin as he could manage. Finally the warrior’s gaze came to Safar’s eyes and there was a sudden jolt of recognition.
"Safar Timura, you blue-eyed devil," Iraj cried, sweeping away the mask, "it is you!"
"In the flesh," Safar said, "although as you can see that flesh is a little worse for wear and definitely in need of a bath."
Safar, remembering the first time he and Iraj had met, pointed at the soldiers and said, "I think I could use a little help here. It seems I’m completely surrounded by Ubekian brothers."
Iraj roared laughter. "The Ubekian brothers!" he shouted. "What a sorry lot they were!"
Then, to the amazement of his soldiers, the king leaped off his horse and threw his arms around Safar, gore and all.
"By the gods I have missed you, Safar Timura," he shouted, pounding his old friend on the back. "By the gods I have missed you!"
* * *
Iraj called for a mount and personally escorted Safar back to his command tent - set on a hill overlooking Sampitay. When Safar indicated the unconscious Methydia and the others members of the troupe Iraj asked no questions about Safar’s odd company, or even acted surprised. He immediately issued orders all were to be well cared for and the best healers summoned to tend to Methydia.
"And I want hourly reports on her progress," Iraj demanded. "I don’t want my good friend, Lord Timura, to worry unnecessarily."
Lord? Safar thought. How did a potter’s son suddenly become a lord? He glanced at Iraj, saw the look of warning in his eyes and realized it wouldn’t do for a king to have a blood oath brother who less than noble born.
During the ride back to his command post Iraj kept the conversation light, loudly regaling his aides and guard with exaggerated tales of his youthful adventures with "Lord Timura."
"Why, if it weren’t for Safar," he said, "I wouldn’t be here today. And you’d all be serving some other king, a weak-kneed, inbred bastard, no doubt. Someday I’ll tell you the story of how he saved my life. You’ve already witnessed how bravely he fought here, so you can all rest assured it is a stirring tale that will take a long winter’s evening to give it proper justice.
"But I will tell you this. After the battle the people of Kyrania were so grateful to us for saving them from that gang of bandits that they trotted out fifteen of their prettiest virgins for us to deflower."
He laughed. "I gave up after five."
He turned to Safar. "Or was it six?"
"Actually, it was seven," Safar answered.
Iraj’s grin told him that he’d lied correctly.
"Seven it was," Iraj said. "But that was nothing compared to my friend here. He deflowered the remaining eight, then strolled out of his tent, easy as you please, and announced he was still feeling peckish and wouldn’t mind a few more."
The aides and guardsmen roared laughter and crowded in close to slap Safar on the back and praise his prowess as a fighter and lover.
"Mind you," Iraj said, "he wasn’t playing fair. Even as a boy Lord Timura was a mighty wizard. He confessed to me later that he had a secret potion for such occasions."
Again, Iraj turned to Safar - a frown of mock accusation on his face. "If I recall, my friend," he said, "you promised to supply me with some. A promise you never kept."
Safar held out a hand, palm up. "I was hoping you had forgotten that, Your Highness," he said, adding the royal honorific for the first time and pleasing Iraj immensely. "You see, there were only five virgins left in all Kyrania. And I didn’t want us to quarrel over them."
More bawdy laughter - led by the king - greeted his clever reply. The royal party continued on and there were many manly jests and many manly boasts to mark the journey.
They wended their jocular way past scenes of incredible brutality. Sampitay’s dead and wounded littered the battlefield. Captives, working under the stern direction of Iraj’s fierce soldiers, piled the dead in mounds. Oil was poured on the corpses and they were set on fire; greasy black fumes, smelling like sacrificial sheep, rose to mix with the smoke of the burning city. Other soldiers moved across the field, slitting the throats of the groaning wounded. Thousands of civilians were being separated into groups of young and old, men and women. Construction crews were hammering together execution blocks for the aged and infirm. Sharp-eyed slavers were moving through the rest, drawing up estimates of the price each would bring and whether it would be worth the care and feeding they’d require.
Safar felt as if he were trapped in the worst kind of nightmare - one that required him to wear a mask of light-hearted unconcern amid all that horror. And soaring above that was the dark raven of his fear for Methydia.
Although Iraj had greeted him warmly - as if only a few months rather than years had separated them - Safar didn’t let down his guard. His old friend had the same easy, open manner. Other than the beard he looked much the same as before. His manner was casually royal, but it had always been so. He’d also matured. With the beard, which Safar suspected Iraj had grown to look older, he appeared to be in his thirtieth summer, rather than in his early 20’s like Safar. He still had that cunning look in his eyes, a cunning he’d had develop at an early age to survive family wars. But Safar could see there was no malice, no cruelty.
Somehow Iraj had drawn on the mantle of a conqueror, had been the cause of much bloodshed, yet seemed untouched by it.
It made Safar, who was wary and secretive at heart, warier still.
Iraj still had the look of a great dreamer. There was an innocence about him - the innocence of all dreamers. That was what confounded Safar the most. How could Iraj appear so innocent, yet move through scenes of such awful cruelty - which he’d ordered - with his innocence intact?
He glanced at Iraj, once again noting his remarkable resemblance to Alisarrian.
For the first time Safar truly understood the enigma Gubadan had unknowingly posed when he’d asked his favorite rhetorical question: "Who was this man, Alisarrian? A monster as his enemies claimed? Or a blessing from the gods?"
Safar wondered if he’d ever learn the answer.
He put confusion aside. His first duty was to Methydia and his friends. After that he’d try his best to keep his promise to Methydia and see what he could do to ease the suffering of the people of Sampitay.
Beyond those two immediate goals was a chasm, deep and wide. Fate seemed to be driving him toward the brink of that chasm.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
* * *
After Safar had bathed, changed into fresh clothes and heard a promising first report regarding Methydia’s health, he was summoned to Iraj’s private quarters.
Other than its size and placement, there was nothing to mark Iraj’s tent as the dwelling place of a king. It sat in the center of scores of similar tents, all made of a plain, sturdy material. The hillside encampment was a bustle of uniformed officers and clerks and scribes in drab civilian garb. Safar later learned Iraj conducted all of his business from tents like these - a kind of traveling court, moving from one battlefield to the next. Iraj ruled a vast new kingdom - ranging from The God’s Divide to the most distant wilderness - while on the road.
The furnishings in Iraj’s tent palace were spare and utilitarian. Chests were used as tables, saddles were mounted on posts to make chairs. A plain portable throne - with Iraj’s banner hanging over it - sat on a raised platform against the far wall. When Safar entered the throne was empty. The two aides assigned to him ushered him past officers and sergeants who were bent over maps, or absorbed in reports.
Heavy curtains blocked off one large section of the tent and as Safar approached he caught the scent of perfume. Surprised as he was by this oddity in a place of such military bearing, he was even more amazed when the curtain parted and two young women dressed like soldiers stepped out. Although they were both remarkably beautiful, they had eyes as fierce as the weapons belted about their slender waists.
Without a word they searched him for weapons. It was an odd sensation being handled so intimately by such beauteous, deadly women.
When they were satisfied they escorted him into the room. In the center, wine cup in hand and lolling on soft pillows, was Iraj - surrounded by a dozen other women warriors.
"Safar," he called out, "come join me. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a drink together."
He clapped his hands and women rushed about to fetch food and drink while others plumped up pillows to make Safar comfortable.
It was all very bizarre being waited on by these mailed, perfumed handmaids and Iraj chortled at Safar’s bewildered expression.
