by Allan Cole
There was a large stream running through the village. Safar searched the banks until he found a small clay bed of the purest white.
He gathered what he needed and mounted the hill that rose above the village. He could see Zanzair from that hill. See the palace where King Protarus sat on his throne and ruled the land.
Safar spread out the things he needed. He gathered wood and lit a small fire and when it’d burned out he stripped to his loin cloth and covered himself with ashes.
He cut the first slab of clay with his silver dagger and started on the model of Iraj’s great palace.
And there he sat, day into night, and night into day, mourning Nerisa and planning his revenge.
* * *
Epilogue
The Reckoning
The spell was ready.
All his hate was gone. Contained, now, in the model of the Grand Palace.
He’d conjured up every bit of bitterness and made each into a monster. Some he enclosed in the gilded turrets. Others in the smooth domes. Each parapet bore a devil’s visage. Anger, betrayal, murder and lust, on and on until the whole palace was ringed with the faces of hate.
In the bowels of the palace, deep, deep within, where the only sounds were the cries of tortured things and the clank of the chains that bound them to their pain, he placed the greatest hate of all. And that was what had been done to Nerisa.
Satisfied, he looked up from the model. Shimmering under the Demon Moon he could see the real Zanzair, the real Grand Palace where Iraj Protarus sat upon his golden throne. He wondered what Iraj was thinking, what he was seeing as he looked out over his teeming court. Who were his friends, now? Which were his foes? Iraj could hurl the greatest army at the gates of that riddle and never seize the answer. All the mailed men, all the horned demons, could not bring it down.
Safar recalled a riddle from Asper’s book:
"Two kings reign in Hadin Land,
One’s becursed, the other damned.
One sees whatever eyes can see,
The other dreams of what might be.
One is blind. One’s benighted.
And who can say, which is sighted?
Know that Asper knocked at the Castle Keep,
But the gates were barred, the Gods Asleep."
Safar took one last long look at the gleaming city and glorious palace that had been another man’s dream. He turned away.
And would not look again.
Only the final touches remained to make the spell. He surrounded the model with the dried branches of a creosote tree. They had an oily smell, not pleasant, but not unpleasant either. He sprinkled powders all around, concentric circles of red, green, yellow and black. He made a wide patch of all the colors just in front of the gate. And in that patch he first pressed the silver dagger, making the impression firm and deep. Next, the horse amulet, pushing hard so the stallion seemed to rear up from the mark of the blade.
When he was finished he cleaned the dagger and amulet, scouring until every speck of powder was gone. Then he put them carefully away in his saddle bags.
At the crest of the hill a spring trickled from beneath a large boulder, making a shallow pool where the boulder’s weight leaned hardest. He stripped and washed himself, ash-colored rivulets coursing off until the pool was black.
He stepped out, skin gleaming in the morning sun, the pool a dark mirror of sorrow he would leave behind.
Then he dressed with care, clean tunic and breeches and a wide leather belt cinching his waist. He stamped on his boots, buckled on his spurs and then looked around to see what he should do next.
But there was nothing to be done.
So he sat on the boulder and waited, although he couldn’t remember exactly what he was waiting for.
He thought of Kyrania. It came to him on a fresh breeze of imagination, blowing off The Bride’s Veil, clean and full of spring’s promise. He saw the valley’s broad thawing fields with green sprigs bursting through white. And the orchards shaking off winter, swelling knots on the branches where clusters of cherries and peaches and apples would soon appear.
He saw the sleepy-eyed boys leading the goats to pasture, the pretty maids giggling and posing as they passed, the watchful grannies grumbling warnings as they knocked winter’s grime between the washing stones. Out on the lake the birds were returning, filling the skies with the sound of courting and challenge. He saw the hearth smoke pouring from the gray-slated rooftops and smelled roasted lamb, picked with garlic, and bread from the oven and toasted cheese crusting by the fire.
He saw his family at table, mother, father and all his sisters laughing and gossiping and spooning up his mother’s thick porridge to gird them against the day. He heard Naya bleat that she wanted milking and his mother shouting:
"Wake up, Safar, you lazy boy!"
Safar’s head jolted up. He heard the sound of horses approaching and he smiled when he saw Leiria riding up the path, leading another horse behind her.
She had a sword at her hip and Palimak strapped on her back, cooing and gurgling at the world from his little basket stuffed with soft blankets.
Leiria’s brow was creased with worry, but when she saw his smile the creases vanished and she smiled back, sweet hope blooming in her dark eyes like the buds bursting from the fields of Kyrania.
She cantered up to him, smile widening.
Then she looked over at the model of the palace, surrounded by dry brush and votive powders, and the pearly smile melted away.
"Are you ready?" she asked, a tremble in her voice.
Safar answered with a question. "What day is it?"
"Why, the day I said we’d return. The day of the feast when Iraj declares the Era of Great Blessings." She gestured down the hill. "All the villagers are talking about it."
Safar nodded, remembering his final instructions to Leiria. This was the day she was supposed to return if she could.
"Then I’m ready," he said.
"It’s a good thing," Leiria said, "because if you weren’t I would’ve knocked you on the head and taken you away tied to the back of the horse."
Safar could see she wasn’t joking.
"He still hunts me?"
"All of Esmir hunts you," she said. "His troops are scouring the countryside dreaming of the fat purse your head will fetch."
Safar laughed. "I’ve been here all along," he said. "Twenty miles from his gates."
"Don’t feel so clever," Leiria replied. "On my way I saw a patrol heading for the village. I rode with them for awhile. The sergeant told me there’s rumors of a mad priest living in these hills who is none other than Safar Timura in disguise."
She shrugged, the smile coming back. "Fortunately he didn’t think much of the rumors and was going to inspect a few other places before coming here."
Safar looked up at her, searching - for what he didn’t know.
"Are you certain you want to do this?" he asked. "You could leave now. You could give me the child and ride on and find a much better life."
"Shut up!" Palimak cried. He was looking at Safar, hazel eyes turned to demon yellow in his delight at finding him here. "Shut up, shut up, Shuuut Uppp!"
And Safar heard Gundara answer from the nested blankets. "Shut up yourself! I’m tired of shut up! All the time, shut up, shut up, shuuttt upppp!"
Leiria laughed, horse skittering to the side at the loud sound of it.
"There’s your answer, Safar Timura!" she cried.
And so he broke a jar of oil over the palace model and surrounding brush. He lit the brush, blew the fire into life until it roared.
Then he leaped on the horse and they rode away.
As they clattered past the startled villagers there was a thunderclap from the hill. A moment later there was another clap - from a great distance, but louder, as loud as if the gods themselves had awakened.
Then the whole northern sky was a sheet of flame so hot the Demon Moon vanished in the brightness.
But they didn’t look ba
ck. They didn’t pause and wait for the sky to clear and see the molten place where the Grand Palace of Zanzair had once stood. Where kings had come and kings had gone since times most ancient.
And where the last king - the King Of Kings - Iraj Protarus, Lord Imperator Of Esmir, greater even than the Conqueror Alisarrian, abode his destined hour and went his way.
Home was a thousand miles or more distant. But Safar could see it beckoning, a hazy, welcoming vision hanging just before his eyes.
He led them hard and fast across deserts and grasslands and wide rocky plains sprawling to the mountains of his birth.
To far Kyrania.
Where the snowy passes carry the high caravans to clear horizons.
The place he should never have left.
The place where this tale ends.
The End
* * *
About The Author
Allan Cole is a best-selling author, screenwriter, and former prizewinning newsman who brings a rich background in travel and personal experience to his imaginative work. Raised in Europe and the Far East, Cole attended thirty-two schools and visited or lived in as many countries. He’s written more than twenty books, many of which have become international bestsellers, as well as numerous screen plays and television dramas. He lives in Boca Raton, Florida with his wife, Kathryn.
Readers who wish to correspond with Allan directly can reach him through his homepage at http://www.acole.com. More information can also be found at his International Movie Data Base (http://www.IMBD.com) entry and at Wikipedia.com. Stop in at Allan's popular blog - My Hollywood MisAdventures - to read about his days as a screenwriter, along with his late partner, Chris Bunch. The blog is at www.allan-cole.blogspot.com. And be sure to visit Allan's Bookstore (http://sites.google.com/site/colesnewspreviews/Bulletins/allan-s-bookstore) to peruse his other works.
* * *
The Timura Trilogy:
When The Gods Slept
Wolves of The Gods
The Gods Awaken
* * *
Other Books From Allan Cole
Lucky In Cyprus
Tales Of The Blue Meanie
Drowned Hopes
MacGregor
A Cop’s Life
(With Thomas Grubb)
The Hate Parallax
(With Nick Perumov)
The Voyages Of The Anteros:
The Far Kingdoms
The Warrior’s Tale
Kingdoms Of The Night
(With Chris Bunch)
The Warrior Returns (written solo)
The Sten Adventures:
(With Chris Bunch)
Sten
The Wolf Worlds
The Court Of A Thousand Suns
Fleet Of The Damned
Revenge Of The Damned
The Return Of The Emperor
Vortex
Empire’s End
The Shannons
(With Chris Bunch)
A Reckoning For Kings
A Daughter Of Liberty
The Wars Of The Shannons
Freedom Bird
