by Allan Cole
These men knew her-she'd once been their queen. And if her father finally admitted defeat she'd be their queen once again.
Then she smelled the stink of magic and quickened her pace, moving ahead of Coralean toward a knot of officers gathered around what she knew to be her grandmother's litter.
They were pale and trembling when they saw Jooli, but not out of fear of her. The men parted as she strode forward, Leiria close behind-sword drawn to protect her friend's back.
When Jooli saw what had happened she froze in her tracks. Both her father and her grandmother were dead. Clayre was sprawled in her litter, while Rhodes was slumped on the ground.
One of the officers said, voice trembling, "It wasn't us, Majesty! They did not die at our hands!"
Jooli said nothing, but only shook her head. She knew quite well no mortal had slain this pair.
And then, while she was struggling for an answer, the corpses started to fade and to shimmer with a strange light.
"Get back!" she shouted to the men.
They didn't need her warning and were already scrambling away.
Then the light grew brighter and the corpses became fainter still.
There was a double crack as magical forces split the air-and the bodies were gone!
Jooli turned to Leiria. "It was the Goddess Lottyr who did this," she said, almost in a whisper.
She was keeping a heavy check on her emotions. It was no time to test her feelings about her father and grandmother.
And she added, "But they aren't really dead. Well, not as you and I know death."
"Where are they, then?" Leiria asked.
The ground rumbled beneath them and several soldiers shouted. "The volcano! The volcano!"
Jooli slowly turned, then pointed at the cone-shaped mountain. Thick smoke was boiling forth and lava was flowing down its sides.
"There," she said.
Leiria was bewildered. But then she became even more confused when Coralean called to them in his big voice.
"Eeda wants to speak to you!"
They went to her where she was nestled in her husband's brawny arms, the infant whimpering at her breast.
"Safar has need of us," Eeda said, voice weak but urgent.
"What should we do?" Leiria asked, fear clutching her heart.
Eeda gestured at the volcano. "The airship," she said. "We must get in the airship. It's the only way to save him."
Immediately, Leiria sent a signal for Biner to descend. Meanwhile, Jooli told her father's men to flee as best they could.
"Get back in your ships," she said, "and sail like the hells for Syrapis. I'll meet you there, by and by, and we'll put the kingdom into order."
The men didn't need to be told twice. They ran, shedding armor and weapons and never looking back when another blast shook the volcano.
Leiria gave the Kyranians similar orders. She was only going to keep Renor, Sinch and Sergeant Hamyr with her. The rest were told to get back to the ships and tell the pirate captains to stand far off from the island.
"And if we don't make it," she added, "return to Syrapis and tell our friends what happened here."
Then the airship was down and the others were boarding it.
Leiria ran to join them, praying that this time she wouldn't be too late.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
INTO THE HELLS
They plunged through hot darkness, the sound of what seemed like heavy whips whirring and cracking on every side. Far ahead of them they could hear the muted boom of big metal drums and the distant wail of hundreds of tortured voices.
Red tongues of flame flicked out at them and Khysmet swerved in mid-flight, dodging most of the hot spears. The big stallion shrilled in fury as one blast hit him, then steadied his course and flew onward at an even greater rate of speed.
Palimak felt a searing pain across his thigh but took heart from Khysmet's example and ignored it, concentrating solely on the transport spell he'd created with his father and Eeda.
They were plummeting deeper and deeper into the bowels of an immense sorcerous machine with nothing except the transport spell to guide them.
Enormous unseen gears groaned somewhere in the darkness. They were driven by what Palimak imagined to be huge clattering chains that powered the hellish machine in its mysterious, yet clearly evil purpose.
Gundara and Gundaree chattered fearfully in his ear, crying, "Look out, Little Master! Beware! Beware!"
in a never-ending chorus of warnings.
He couldn't see any of the dangers that were stalking him-he could only sense fierce presences looming up with gnashing teeth and rattling claws and the stink of old carnivores.
Khysmet never stopped, only swerving from side to side like a swift-moving eagle, somehow always avoiding the danger.
All of Palimak's instincts shrieked for him to draw his sword and defend himself. But there was nothing to see except for an occasional cloud of hot sparks drifting up to meet them.
A verse from Asper came to him-leaping crazily into his mind and crowding out the fearful sensations.
Palimak chanted it, adding the old demon's powers to the transport spell:
"Into the Hells my soul did fly;
Not knowing if we'd live or die.
But then it returned with this reply:
No truth in Heaven, only lies, lies, lies!"
Palimak felt his strength return, his fears vanish. And the cold demon side of him opened like a yawning gate.
He felt his claws arc from their sheaths and he felt powerful and ready for any monster that dared approach.
And just then-looking over the shoulder of the creature who wore his father's body-he saw a large red ball of light appear. It was as if they were nearing the end of an incredibly long tunnel.
He'd seen a bright light when the tunnel had first opened, but then it had been swallowed by darkness.
Palimak looked closer, gripping Safar's tunic tighter with his claws. Features began to appear on the ball of light. Familiar features.
It was the Demon Moon!
Iraj gloried in Khysmet's fierce ride through the jaws of the Hells. Blood on fire, body burning with the joy of impending combat, he felt like he could take on the gods themselves.
And when the monsters came scrambling through the darkness, with only the beat of their leather wings and gnashing teeth to give them away, he laughed aloud at Khysmet's swift change in course, foiling their charge.
The awful sounds of the great machine and the distant wails of agony only made his bloodlust burn hotter.
He didn't know what awaited them at the end of this magical ride through the spirit world, but he also didn't care.
His enemy was there, that was enough.
What enemy?
Did it matter?
Never!
Only show me your face, he thought. And you'll curse the day you chose Iraj Protarus for your foe!
Then, far below, he saw the Demon Moon. Khysmet was flying straight toward it.
Is this where my enemy waits? he wondered. Then he thought perhaps it was the moon itself that opposed him.
He laughed, thinking, What a marvelous boast for a man to make: I was the one who slew the Demon Moon!
* * * *
Buffeted by the storm of Iraj's emotions, Safar kept a tight rein on his own. He didn't care a damn for the dangers lurking in the darkness, nor did he allow himself to marvel at Khysmet's skillful flight.
His whole being was focused on the transport spell. He hoped Palimak was doing the same.
Several times he sensed his son's attention falter and the spell weakening under his grasp.
Safar wished mightily that he could speak to Palimak. He had a good idea what his son was going through. To know that his father's body had been invaded by another, much hated presence. Feeling somehow betrayed, but without reason or evidence to support that feeling. Putting his faith and trust into a stranger's hands-hands that had previously done their best to kill him.
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Once Safar almost asked Iraj to let him voice words of comfort to Palimak. Then he realized that this would only make things worse.
For how would Palimak truly know it was his father speaking and not Iraj Protarus?
Then the young man suddenly seemed to become stronger than before. Safar caught a whiff of demonic magic and knew that Palimak had transformed himself-giving free rein to his demon side.
And Safar wondered, At what cost, my son? At what cost?
Then Iraj said to him, Get ready to fight, brother! We're at the final gate!
And Safar saw the bloody face of the Demon Moon rear up, with its death-mask grin.
Khysmet trumpeted a challenge and Iraj reached for his sword.
Safar said, Wait, brother! It's not yet time for steel!
And at that moment the moon's face burst into a violent sheet of flame. The hot blast smashed Khysmet back and they spun over and over, the stallion fighting desperately to right himself. Iraj and Palimak clawing for purchase.
Finally, Khysmet kicked himself aright.
"Go!" Iraj shouted, digging in his heels. "Go!"
And the stallion swooped toward the hot flames.
Safar hissed, The trumpet! We need the trumpet!
Iraj immediately plucked the shell horn from his tunic, lifted it to his lips-and blew!
Safar put all his magical energies into Iraj's breath. And the sound was like a thousand war trumpets shouting in unison.
A pale light bloomed, swelling larger and larger. And then the beauteous Spirit Rider burst out of the light on her glorious black mare.
Princess Alsahna turned in the saddle, waving her sword. "This way, Safar!" she cried.
And she and the mare charged straight into the flames.
Khysmet bellowed lustily at the sight of the mare and charged after her.
Then they were surrounded by a sea of fire. Great boiling waves of flame bursting in from all sides.
Bone-scorching spears of fire cracking out of those waves.
The heat and the pain were so intense that it was all Safar could do to keep himself from screaming out, I surrender! I surrender!
Iraj shuddered with the pain, crying, What's this, brother? What's this?
And Safar felt Palimak's claws tighten, spearing through his tunic and into the flesh. He thought he heard his son shout, "Father! Father!"
But he realized that Palimak was actually urging them on, crying, "Onward! Onward!" And even in all his pain, Safar felt supreme pride at his son's bravery.
Then he saw the Spirit Rider charging back. The black mare rearing up and pawing the air.
Blue spears of light shot from her hooves, driving the flames back. And opening a passage through the boiling red sea.
Then the Spirit Rider whirled her mount about, shouting once again for them to follow, and charged out of sight.
Khysmet surged forward and there came a crack! crack! crack! A series of explosions so loud Safar felt like the bones of his shared body were about to burst.
And then everything became hazy. And everything became quite still.
And the only sounds were the boom of a slow, gentle surf, the rhythmic throbbing of sweet harvest drums, and a thousand glad voices lifted in song:
"…Lady, oh Lady, surrender.
Surrender. Surrender…"
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE VAMPIRES OF HADIN
The haze lifted and Safar found himself striding across warm sands. Khysmet was no longer with him, nor was the Spirit Rider.
In the distance he could clearly see the handsome dancing people of Hadinland. And there was their fabulous queen, bronzed hips and breasts heaving in the harvest dance.
Above the whole scene loomed the volcano. Beckoning and threatening at the same time.
Safar felt suffused with renewed hope and energy. His sight had returned and he was once again in full control of his body.
He felt so strong he barely noticed his armor. If the fates decreed his death, he thought, this was how he wanted to meet it.
"Welcome back, brother!" came a familiar voice.
And Safar looked to his left and saw Iraj striding beside him. Bedecked in burnished, kingly mail, Protarus was as young and handsome as when he'd first taken to the conqueror's road. His golden hair and beard glistened in the bright, tropical sun. And his smile was glad and innocent, as if he'd been washed of all his sins.
"The question is," Iraj said, "after all that has happened between us, are we still truly brothers?"
Safar wasn't sure how to answer. Wasn't clear in his feelings. And even if he had been capable of such clarity at this particular fates-colliding moment, he wasn't sure he ought to answer.
And then:
"I'm here, father," came another voice.
Safar looked to his right and saw Palimak, tall and slender, with shoulders as wide as the spreading branches of a new oak tree. His eyes glowed with demon fires and his claws were ten glistening daggers.
Palimak smiled, exposing long, double-rowed demon teeth. And even as Safar looked he saw his son's face transform, the forehead bulging, the demon horn bursting through. And his skin toughened and deepened in color until it was an emerald green.
The boy sadly flicked out his long demon tongue and asked, "Do you still love me, father?"
Again, Safar was confounded. But for an entirely different reason. How could Palimak ever doubt he loved him? Had he been such an unfeeling father that his own son-never mind he was adopted-doubted his love? Under any circumstances? Demon or human, or half-way in between, what did it matter?
Palimak was just Palimak.
Then it came to him-the same was true of Iraj!
And Leiria, oh, yes, Leiria; he loved her too.
Safar said: "All my words are poor. You ask if I love you, son. Of course I do. I always have and always will. And you, Iraj. You ask if I am your friend. And my answer is the same. Even in my hate I loved you."
Then he pointed at the glowering, fire-spitting volcano.
"There is the doomspell that has driven us all these years. And if we manage to destroy it we'll awaken the gods.
"But I must warn you both it's unlikely that the gods will thank us. I think they'll curse us instead and make us suffer for what we've done."
Iraj said, "Be damned to them, brother! What can they possibly do to me that I haven't already done to myself?"
Palimak snorted agreement. "I don't care what the gods think. They may have created this world but we're the ones who must make a life here the best we can!"
Safar laughed. "Very well, then," he said. "Let's have at it!"
Iraj slapped him on the back. "Good, it's settled. Now, brother, let's hear your plan."
He gestured at the dancing people. Just beyond them, standing behind Queen Yorlain, was the bulky figure of King Rhodes, leaning easily against his sword.
"What's the best way," he asked, "to make these fools beg for mercy?"
Safar grinned ruefully. "Actually," he said, "I don't have a plan. Nor do I have any magical tricks up my sleeve. Just my sword to put with yours."
"And mine," Palimak whispered, drawing his weapon.
Iraj roared laughter. "Then be damned to us all!" he shouted.
And with that he charged the dancing people, bounding across the rolling sand dunes on his way to meet whatever the fates had in store for him.
Feeling as foolish and frightened as he had years before when he charged after Iraj down the snowy passes of the Godsa€™ Divide, Safar ran after him.
He heard Palimak shout something, but he couldn't make out the words. And a moment later his demon son was sprinting past him, closing on Iraj.
Safar put on speed to catch up, leaping over dunes and showering sand in his wake as he raced onward.
Soon he was up with them, Iraj and Palimak only a few steps ahead.
But then he smelled the thick, rusty scent of blood. And he knew it to be his blood and Iraj's blood and Palimak's blood.
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br /> The scent was delicious-soul-satisfying. And then he realized he was smelling their scent through the hungry senses of others.
Then the dancers all turned to confront the three charging warriors.
They smiled, exposing long canine teeth. And they shouted in glee as their prey ran into their arms.
And Safar finally realized who the dancers really were: emotional and physical vampires, who sucked out a man's soul along with his blood.
And they sang:
"Surrender … surrender…"
And all his will left him. To be replaced by a fabulous narcotic-like joy. He wanted to be with them again.
He wanted to be ruled again.
Oh, how he ached to dance.
Dance, dance, dance.
Dance to the beat of their hungry hearts…
And more than anything else he desired to expose his throat, his wrists, his every blood-pumping, pulsating vein and artery to their fangs.
Just beyond them, Queen Yorlain danced, thrusting her hips, harder, harder. Making him lust for surrender all the more.
But then he saw Rhodes, leaning on his sword and laughing through his thick beard.
Damn you! Safar thought. Damn you!
And he was released from the death spell that bound him and he started dealing out death of his own.
Beautiful people, ugly-spirited people, all dying under his sword.
Evil as they were-long teeth reaching to suck the life from him-Safar cried out in agony with each killing sword stroke. As if each mortally wounding blow were struck at himself, instead of his enemies.
Yet, to his wonder, it was his enemies who died, not Safar Timura.
And they died so easily. Their flesh was soft, their defenses weak.
And they fell away, fell away, with each stroke of his sword.
And blood-so much blood-was released by his blade.
The dancers didn't shout or scream, but only chanted his name as he killed each one of them.
"Safar, Safar, Safar. Safar, Safar…"
On and on, dying and spouting his name along with their blood.
Then he was stumbling over the bodies Iraj and Palimak had left in their wake. And mortally wounded men and women-so beautifully formed one and all that it made their wounds and impending deaths seem especially abhorrent.
