by Allan Cole
Manacia shouted orders to make them return to their positions, but in the chaos no one heard.
Furious, the Demon King’s eyes swept up to westernmost tower of rock. He felt the presence of a powerful enemy wizard - Timura!
Manacia shrieked in fury and hurled his spell.
* * *
Safar was ready.
He sensed the pressure of the oncoming attack, and cried out, "Come, Ghostmother! Come!"
* * *
Manacia screamed an oath as he felt his spell blocked.
His attacking spell backblasted and he struggled for a shield and got it up just in time. A hot wave burst over his magical shield, spattering his spirit with hot drops of sorcery.
Before he could recover and strike again, he heard a mighty spine-cracking roar and a huge lion leaped out of nothingness and was on him.
Manacia grappled with it, and the lion’s body was so cold it was like fighting death itself. He flung it away, and the lion tuck rolled and came to its feet.
It was then Manacia realized he was fighting a ghost. He could see right through the creature and when it opened its mouth and roared defiance, the sound had the ring of the unreal, the distant.
The lioness came for him again and Manacia dug as deep as he could into his bag of magical tricks.
Just before the massive jaws closed him he cast the spell.
The lioness vanished - returned to its ghost world.
Manacia sagged back, exhausted of all his powers.
* * *
Iraj wheeled his horse about and prepared to meet the demon onslaught pouring toward the gap, Demon Moon at their backs.
They were packed tightly into a black river of warriors, but not as tightly as Iraj wanted. He signaled his flanks and the slingmen let loose, aiming at the edges of the demon column. At the same time the cavalry units charged in, backed by fast running ground troops.
A heavy swarm of missiles fell on the demons, killing and maiming many. Another swarm struck, dealing out more pain and death.
The human cavalry units slashed in, one from the east, the other from the west. They played a dancing game, darting in to savage the edges and darting out again before the demons could close on them. The ground troops struck immediately afterward, hurling their heavy spears, then grabbing axes from their belts and wading into the fight.
Gradually, the demon column narrowed more and when it finally struck through the portal between the two rock pillars the warriors were so densely packed they were easy pickings for the humans.
Iraj killed so many his sword arm grew tired, then his sword broke and he fought with a hand ax grabbed up from one of the fallen.
He saw Luka, separated from his guard, desperately fighting off three horsemen.
Iraj saw his three soldiers fall and Luka dash back into the demon ranks, a feat which drew Protarus’ cold admiration.
Iraj fought on, raging against the demon tide.
Then slowly the battle changed. The sheer size of the demon army finally overcame all its flaws.
Iraj and his men found themselves being driven back as hammer blow followed hammer blow.
It wouldn’t be long, he realized, before his lines cracked. And that would be the end of his army, his dreams and most certainly his life.
He chanced a look up at the western rock column.
And he thought, come on, Safar! Come on!
* * *
Safar readied his Grand Illusion.
It was the last weapon in his magical quiver.
He had no time to admire his father’s artistry as he cast the spell that sent the fleet aloft.
* * *
Luka’s fighting hopes were at their highest.
They were through the gap now and his army was spreading out, leaving themselves more room to use their weapons against the humans.
Luka could feel the enemy crumbling before him. One more hard effort, no more than two, and victory would be his.
Then, even above the noise of battle, he heard a murmur running through his troops, followed by collective gasps and cries of alarm. He saw several fiends pointing talons in wonder at the red-lit sky.
He looked up and it was all he could do not to gasp himself.
Sky borne warships were hurtling across the heavens to join the battle. They were the strangest vessels Luka had ever seen - fighting ships, suspended under big balloons, all crammed with warriors bearing spears with glowing tips. He couldn’t tell what size they were. The ships seemed small and so he assumed they were at a great height. But certainly they were large enough to hold hundreds of warriors.
Then the ships were overhead and those warriors were hurling their spears into the demon masses. The spears grew before his eyes as they fell, each becoming easily as large as a tall demon.
They struck like lightning, glowing tips exploding, sending out great sheets of flame.
Another wave of spears hit. Then another. Blasting holes into the demon ranks. Filling the air with thunder and the smell of sulfur.
Then the demon army lost its nerve.
Luka could feel it, feel the fire go out of his warriors, smell the acrid stench of their fear.
They turned and ran. First a trickle, then a stream, then a full-sized river of shrieking demons, throwing down their weapons, shedding their armor and running over their own comrades to escape the horror from the skies.
Luka ran with them, spurring his mount to keep up. He wasn’t running out of fear, although he was certainly frightened enough. He was racing to keep up, shouting for calm and order, doing his best to contain the rout.
Behind him he could hear the crack and thunder of the flying ships.
And the howls of Protarus’ pursuing army.
* * *
Hours passed before Manacia restored order. But when he did the best he could manage was to wheel his forces about and set up a fortified camp.
In the distance Protarus paused and set up a camp of his own.
"The fight isn’t over yet," Manacia railed, striding about his command tent, kicking and clubbing any slave who got in his way. "He can’t stand up to me again. I’ll hammer him into dust!"
* * *
Iraj paced his command tent, but his pace was measured, his manner calm.
"I hope we don’t have to fight him again," he said to Safar. "If we do, it’ll be out in the open on ground of his choosing. He won’t fall for our tricks again."
"I suppose this where luck comes in," Safar said.
Iraj paused, considering, then nodded. "Yes," he said. "Now we get to see how lucky we really are."
* * *
"He’s lucky, that’s all," Manacia said, voice still shaking with fury. "Moreover, he was aided and abetted by cowards in my own court."
Luka, who’d been listening as patiently as possible, turned cold.
"What is it you are suggesting, Majesty?" he asked, not bothering to hide his anger.
Manacia turned on him. "I’m not suggesting anything," he said. "It’s clear enough my son is a coward, who leads a band of cowardly fiends."
"Ah!" Luka said as if he’d suddenly made a great discovery. "You intend to blame me, is that it?"
"You’ve shamed me," Manacia said. "But I’ll not hide that shame. Fault will be directed at its source, no matter if that source is my son and heir."
Luka came closer, as if to appeal for reason.
Instead he said, "Father, tell me about the time my mother accused you of rape. It’s such a humorous incident it will give us all good cheer."
Manacia frowned. "What’s wrong with you?" he snapped. "This is no time for humor."
"Oh, but it is, father," Luka insisted. "This is the very kind of situation that does call for humor."
Manacia drew himself up for another angry bellow.
But Luka quickly drew his sword and cut the bellow off at its source.
He watched his father’s headless body flop to the floor.
Luka turned to the others, calmly wiping h
is blade.
"Any objections?" he demanded.
The generals and aides were frozen, gaping at this turn of events.
Fari was the first to speak. "Not at all, Your Majesty," he said.
Stiffly and with much joint cracking he lowered his aged bulk to its knees.
"Long live King Luka!" he cried.
The generals followed his lead, dropping to the ground and abasing themselves and shouting, "Long Live King Luka!"
Luka peered at his father’s head, eyes open and staring.
"What’s wrong, father?" he asked. "You’re not laughing!"
* * *
Some weeks later Iraj crossed the Forbidden Desert, leading a grand victory procession down the road to Zanzair.
Kalasariz had carried Luka’s surrender terms to Protarus and acted as a go-between in the ensuing discussions. The demon army was broken up into small groups and sent home. Luka offered himself as hostage, sending Fari back to Zanzair - Manacia’s head stored in ice - to arrange for Iraj’s arrival.
To Safar’s displeasure Kalasariz was rewarded with much gold and a high position on Iraj’s staff. Safar advised his king against it, but Iraj had brushed off his advice, saying there was always a desperate need for good spies.
At last the day arrived when the gates of Zanzair came into view.
They were marching along a misty highway, banners fluttering, drums rapping time.
Iraj rode Manacia’s great war elephant, Safar at his side. A large flag made of fine Sampitay silk hung from the howdah. On it was the Crest of The Conqueror, the red Demon Moon and silver comet.
But it was no longer Alisarrian’s flag. Iraj had claimed it as his own.
In a week an elaborate ceremony would be staged in Manacia’s former palace. Dignitaries, both human and demon, would crowd the grand throneroom and humble themselves before Protarus.
There he would be declared King Of Kings, supreme monarch of all Esmir.
The breeze stiffened and Safar saw the mist lift. Directly ahead were the gates of Zanzair.
"Look!" Iraj said, excited as a child. "We’re almost there."
Hanging from a post above the gates was Manacia’s gory head.
The gates swung open and an enormous crowd of demons poured out to hail their new king. Iraj waved a mailed hand in return.
The demon cries became wilder, chanting: "Protarus! Protarus! Protarus!"
Iraj turned to Safar, a broad smile on his face.
"My friend," he said. "I owe all this to you."
Then the smile became a loud laugh of surprise.
"I said that in the vision, didn’t I?" he reminded Safar.
"Or something close enough to it," Safar answered.
Iraj clapped him on the back. "And it’s all come true," he said. "Everything you predicted."
Safar smiled. "I suppose it has," he said.
But the smile hid gnawing worry. His vision had carried him to the gates of Zanzair, but no farther.
And now all he could think was... What happens next?
* * *
Part Five
Zanzair
* * *
Chapter Twenty Three
Thief Of Hearts
She was a rare woman. She had beauty, she had wealth, she had power.
She was also a woman of mystery, which in the time of the Demon Moon made her the rarest of women among men.
Her crest - the sign of the House Of Fatinah - was a silver dagger and there was much talk of how it had come to be.
Some said it had been the crest of her late, unlamented husband, Lord Fatinah, a merchant among merchants so smitten by his young wife he’d left her his fortune. The Lady Fatinah, it was said, hastened her husband’s departure from this world with his own dagger, which was made of silver. That the woman wore rich gowns all of mourning black and bearing the silver dagger crest added credence to this story.
Others speculated she’d once been the favorite courtesan of a king, perhaps even Protarus himself. In this version she’d come up the loser in a harem war and was driven out, but with many chests of gold and rare stones to speed her departure. Some said she’d slain her rival with a silver dagger, but the death caused such a scandal she was banished from the harem. Once again the tale of the aging Lord Fatinah came into play. Rumor mongers said the marriage was arranged to sidestep the scandal. They also said Lord Fatinah died before the marriage was consummated. Again, the dying nobleman had been so enamored of his beauteous wife that he’d bequeathed her all his worldly goods.
The curious throngs of Zanzair, with nearly as many humans as demons among them, babbled those tales and others when she passed by in her carriage, with the silver daggers emblazoned on each door.
The Lady Fatinah had demon outriders to push the throngs back and a human driver to hurry the matched black team of horses along. A burly demon guard sat next to the driver, sweeping the crowd with his ever watchful eyes.
Inside, Lady Fatinah’s representative to Zanzair gushed on about all the arrangements he’d made in anticipation of her visit.
"You will see with your own eyes, My Lady," the man said, "that you chose wisely when you picked Abubensu to tend to your business in Zanzair."
He gestured out the window. They were traveling through the bazaar, an exotic scene of demons and humans haggling with stall keepers, or munching strange delights from the food carts; of families strolling along, purchases in hand, trailing human children and demon kits in their wake.
"Zanzair is surely the most marvelous city in the whole history of Esmir," Abubensu said. "Since our beloved king, Iraj Protarus, made it the center of his empire seven years ago, beings of every variety have flocked here, hoping against hope they can clutch the king’s cloak and fly away with him to prosperity."
He raised a cautioning finger. "But Zanzair is also a most dangerous place, My Lady," he said. "Some who came were honest business folk, like myself. But many were thieves, both of the common and noble-born variety.
"And the intrigue!" He shuddered. "I can tell you stories about the intrigue and disgraceful goings on at the Royal Court that would set your teeth on edge."
"I’m sure you can," Lady Fatinah said smoothly. "And I’d be delighted to listen to your delicious tales at another time. But I hope you understand I have other things on my mind just now. Such as the living arrangements."
Abubensu beamed. What a genteel and soft-worded employer he had. Quite unlike a woman who’d supposedly killed her husband. And so beautiful! Abubensu had never been this close to such a woman. She filled her expensive black gown quite pleasingly. Her lips were full, dark eyes sparkling with what he dared dream was promise.
"You’ll love the house I’ve found for you, My Lady," he said. "It sits on a hill, quite by itself. The night view of Zanzair is simply overwhelming. Especially the view of Protarus’ palace. It’s solid gold, you know, and when all the lights are turned on and the fountains are at play, why you would think it was the heavenly palace of a god."
"The view sounds most pleasant," Lady Fatinah said, wiping the chin of her child - a boy whose age was just past suckling and just short of speech. His name was Palimak, the Walarian word for promise.
"But to be frank," she continued, "it’s more important to me that it have a good nursery."
"Remodeled to your exact specifications, My Lady," Abubensu said. "The grandest nursery ever created. No expense was spared."
"I hope it isn’t too grand, Lady," the nurse broke in. She was a small woman, round and with a deep grandmotherly bosom. "Large spaces can be frightening to a child."
"There’s a separate room for you right next to the young master’s, Scani," Abubensu hastened to tell the nurse. "It’s quite comfortable and you’ll have no trouble keeping your eye on him."
Scani looked doubtful and started to speak, but Lady Fatinah silenced her with a warning look. The nurse took Palimak from Lady Fatinah’s arms and fussed and cooed over him, making furiously whispered promises that no m
atter where he slept, Scani would always be nearby.
Abubensu went on. "Your neighbors," he said, "are all of wealth and breeding like yourself, My Lady. Their homes are close enough to give comfort, but distant enough to ensure privacy."
"I mentioned in my letter," Lady Fatinah said, "that I’d like to host a banquet as soon as possible to introduce myself to Zanzarian society."
"It has been done, My Lady!" Abubensu said with a pleased smile. "As a matter of fact I’ve taken the liberty of arranging an affair two nights from now. Invitations have been sent to a favored few - all beings of quality, mind you. And your staff, which I picked myself, is at this moment readying the banquet."
"There was one person in particular I asked you to invite," Lady Fatinah said. "Was that done?"
Abubensu bobbed his head. "Yes, My Lady. Lord Timura has been invited."
"And has he accepted?"
He hesitated. "Alas, My Lady, not as yet."
"But you expect him to?" Lady Fatinah pressed.
The little man shrugged. "I can’t promise, My Lady," he said. "After all, he is the Grand Wazier, second only to King Protarus in importance."
Abubensu attempted a bit of gossip to steer conversation away from disappointment. "They were childhood friends, you know," he said. "They even call each other by their first names - Safar and Iraj - when in private."
He leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. "Although it is said that Lord Timura is not in such good grace with His Majesty these days. He has enemies who whisper ill things in the king’s ear."
A dramatic shrug. "Who knows if these things are true, My Lady," he said. "Perhaps it is best after all if Lord Timura fails to attend. Why bring his political troubles to your esteemed doorstep?"
Lady Fatinah’s eyes narrowed. "I want him at the banquet," she said, and there was no mistaking her firmness in the matter.
Abubensu struggled with his answer, clearly at a loss. "I will try, My Lady," he said, "but I can’t swear that it’s possible."
Lady Fatinah smiled, saying, "I have every faith in you, Abubensu."
She handed him a silk purse filled with coin. "Favor who you want with those," she said. Abubensu hefted the purse, brows rising as he noted the weight. "And you may keep whatever is left over for yourself.
