Wolves of the Gods

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Iraj dreamed of horses-a great wild herd flying across the plains. He sailed with them, moving at breathtaking speed, the air full of fresh spring currents, the horizon a joyous thing of blue skies meeting lush green earth. He felt like a boy again, a fully human boy with innocent dreams and youthful yearnings.

He was skimming just above the herd, which moved in graceful unison like a flock of birds flying to some glorious home that was free of all earthly cares.

Iraj quickened his pace, moving along the herd until he came to the leaders. There were two of them, the first creamy white, the other hearthstone black, and both were so magnificent he loved them at first sight.

The black was a fiery mare, the white a tall, noble stallion.

He chose the stallion and settled down, down, and just as he touched the world spun and he suddenly found himself crouched in a canyon, the stallion standing next to him. Now the horse was saddled and harnessed and he was holding the reins loosely in one hand.

Iraj heard the sound of fast-moving riders and he knew his enemies were hunting him just over the ridge.

He didn't know or care who that enemy was, but he thrilled at the prospect of an encounter. The horse nickered, sharing his excitement. Laughing, Iraj came to his feet and vaulted into the saddle.

Astride the horse he felt strong and swift, a man who feared nothing. The horse was magic under his hands, moving with easy fluidity. It was as if he were part of the animal and it was part of him.

Blood sang in his ears and he shouted in glee as he and the horse surged forward. They practically flew up the steep sides of the canyon, dust and rocks boiling behind them as they plunged up and up and then they were over the rim charging across a hilly plain.

When he spotted the scouting party he brought the horse to a skittering halt. Iraj was startled at the animal's quick obedience. He'd barely touched the leather straps and the horse had stopped on a skinned copper. It was as if the action had been communicated by thought alone. Now the stallion stood trembling under him, ready to charge into the fight, or turn and run like the winds.

Iraj waited, keeping a rein on his own high-pitched emotions. He felt wonderful. Full of life and spirit and clean purpose. Gone were the ravenous urges of a shape changer. He had no overpowering lust for blood and misery. No fiery dreams of grand thrones and bowing subjects. He didn't even hate his enemies who were thundering toward him. He only wanted to bedazzle them, confound them. That would be enough to make a joyous victory.

He patted the horse, soothing it as the scouting party came closer. There were twenty: six main scouts astride fast horses in the lead, and eighteen demons, bristling with arms and riding the huge, cat-like beasts that could take a charge and turn it back with their ferocity.

When the scouts were near enough to see him, Iraj raised his fist high in challenge. He stood his ground until he heard excited shouts of recognition: "It's him! Don't let him get away!"

At the last moment Iraj wheeled the stallion and raced away across the plain, the soldiers in thundering pursuit.

It was a ride like no other and Iraj whooped in joy as they sped over rocky ground as if it were meadow grass, leaping wide ravines as if they were merely narrow clefts. Sometimes he got too far ahead of the soldiers and he had to turn back to swoop just outside of their range, then wheel and charge away again.

He led them far from the main track, through rough hills, barren valleys and dusty canyons full of tricky switchbacks and false trails. He never stopped, riding on through the night, the horse never tiring under him. The scouts grew weary, their animals ready to drop. Laughing at their plight, Iraj gave them no mercy, prodding and teasing whenever they tried to rest.

He rode that way for many a day, until he finally abandoned the soldiers, exhausted and lost in the middle of a desert.

A few hours later he came to a small wooded area with a creek running through. A tall willow shaded a pool where the creek widened. He dismounted and led the horse to the pool for a cool drink and shady rest. The two of them drank long and deep, a warm feeling of comfort and satisfaction shared between them.

Iraj splashed water on his face, breaking the mirrored surface with his cupped hands as he sluiced dust and grime from smooth cheeks.

Strange, he thought, I remember a beard.

Curious, he peered into the water and saw a wavery reflection floating up at him. He couldn't make it out at first, but then the surface calmed and the image resolved itself.

With a shock he realized he was looking at the face of Safar Timura!

Safar jolted back, nearly losing his balance and falling into the water. Khysmet nuzzled him, wondering what was the matter.

"It's nothing," Safar said, stroking the soft nostrils. "I'm just tired, I guess."

Even so it was with some trepidation that he leaned forward again to peer into the water. Floating there was the reflection of his own smooth features.

A moment before he would have sworn an oath that he'd seen the face of Iraj Protarus staring back at him. The illusion, surely caused by exhaustion, had been so strong he'd even felt a beard under his fingertips when he washed.

Ridiculous as the notion was, Safar was vastly relieved. To calm himself he washed and groomed Khysmet, then gathered some sweet grasses for a treat. He also found berries all fat and full of juice and he fed them in alternating handfuls to Khysmet and himself. Then he slept. It was a sound and dreamless sleep and when morning came he felt refreshed and full of energy. Khysmet evidently felt the same, for he pranced about and kicked up his heels like a colt. Safar was eager to get into the saddle and be on his way. He had many miles to cover before he reached home. Although it was nothing more than a tented encampment soon to be on the move again, home was how he thought of it and so home it was.

As they cantered out of the woods, Safar thought of his wild ride-the ride that seemed as if it would never end. Khysmet snorted, tossing his head, as if sharing the memory and enjoying it equally. Then Safar thought of the soldiers he'd left in the desert. They were so exhausted and so lost he doubted they'd survive. To his surprise he felt not one pinch of pity for them. They'd chosen the wrong side and too bad for that.

It was a cold, just so, feeling and it was discomforting how easily it sat upon his soul.

And he had a flash of awareness of what it was like to be Iraj.

In Iraj's most private quarters the king paced the room, fighting to control his emotions and retain his human form. He kicked at the pillows and snarled at a terrified serving wench to fetch him some wine and make it quick or he'd tear her heart out.

The dream was gnawing at him. Although to call it a dream would be an exaggeration, because Iraj never slept. That was one of the things he missed most about his previous life. Sleep, blessed sleep. As a shape changer he only dozed, or, as Fari explained it, he entered a neutral state where he was vaguely aware of his surroundings but was resting.

Iraj knew all this, but he still thought of the experience as a dream. And it had left him with a feeling of great loss. Normally, if normal it could be called, Iraj's neutral state was full of quick, bloody images mixed with snatches of voices; some screaming, some wailing, some babbling, some shouting in fury.

When he came "awake" he was angry, always angry and the only relief was causing pain. The greater the pain the closer he came to a state of-joy? All that had somehow been welded to his overweening ambition and combined into a ferocious desire to always be on the move-doing something, crushing something, killing something.

It was like a furnace, Iraj thought, an immense furnace straight out of the hells that could never be satisfied.

But the dream, ah the dream, if only he could capture it and make it into a potion then drink it down and quench that angry fire.

Wine was thrust into his hand and he drank and paced and drank some more, letting the dream spill out.

The horse! That magnificent creature, a plainsman's treasure unmatched by any Iraj had ever seen. And the ride! By the gods that was a chase to end all chases! Iraj chuckled, remembering how he and the horse had fooled the soldiers. Most of all he remembered the feeling of being whole and human again-the sense of freedom so strong it was like being lifted up to the skies.

Then he came to the uncomfortable part, the part that had smashed him out of his dream into dismal reality.

He thought of the moment when he'd stared into the pool and seen Safar's reflection instead of his own.

Everyone knew dreams sometimes had deep meaning, but what was that all about? The strangest thing was although seeing Safar had been a shock there had been no feeling of hatred for him. And for certain Iraj hated Safar with passions only a shape-changer could know. Iraj hated him now as he paced and thought and wondered, thinking, if he had Safar in his grasp at this moment he'd rip off his limbs and devour them before his still living eyes.

However, for a brief span, just as Iraj was recovering from his surprise at seeing Safar, there was no hate. In fact, the first thought he had was being glad that he'd met an old friend in his dream.

He was still worrying that bone an hour later when Kalasariz begged an audience. The spy master entered, cool and smooth as ever, with only a few spots of wolfishness to show his inner excitement.

"I bear good tidings, Majesty," he said. "Our witches' net has proved itself already. There's still some rough spots, such as communications, to burnish, but I do believe we are on the right path with this."

"A sighting of Lord Timura?" Iraj asked, nerve endings burning with interest and he remembered his bargain with the strange witch known as Old Sheesan.

"Better than that, Majesty," Kalasariz said. "A witch over in Naadan not only sniffed out Lord Timura in a festival crowd of thousands, but she was able to alert the authorities in time so he could be captured."

Caught by surprise, Iraj's wolf snout erupted from his face. "You mean, we have him?" he snarled.

Kalasariz sighed. "Unfortunately, he was able to escape, Majesty," he said. "His magic was too strong and his kinsmen were too clever for the local king. Disappointing perhaps, but only when looked at from a certain angle."

"And how should we look at it?" the king growled. "How can Lord Timura's escape be viewed as anything other than abject failure?"

Kalasariz had been ready for this. "Why, Majesty, Old Sheesan only just set up the witch network. And already we have proof that no city in your kingdom is safe for Lord Timura." He shrugged. "Nest time we'll get him! We only have to improve the response of the local authorities. They have no experience in dealing with wizards."

"You'll see to that?" Iraj demanded.

Kalasariz smiled. "Gladly, Majesty," he said, "except I fear I'd be treading on Prince Luka's territory.

He's in charge of dealing with local authorities, if you recall."

Iraj looked at him coldly. "You've certainly managed to wriggle off that hook," he said.

Kalasariz acted hurt. "Why, Majesty," he said, "you've misconstrued my intent. I was merely reporting what I thought was the best news since this whole exercise began."

Iraj decided to ignore this large chunk of dissembling, saying, "Tell me the details. Exactly what happened in Naadan?"

Kalasariz reported as fully as he could, from the tavern encounter to Safar's strange challenge of the wrestler, Ulan, to his capture and eventual escape.

"Now, here's where it really gets interesting, Majesty," he said. "We nearly had him twice. The Naadanian messenger was on the road to this camp and luckily encountered one of your scouting parties a few miles from Naadan. They went in pursuit."

"Yes?" Iraj said.

Kalasariz took a long breath. This was another dangerous area to be bridged. Then, "Well, I can't say what happened exactly after that. The soldiers never returned. I suspect they were ambushed by Lord Timura's forces."

Iraj was rocked by the news, his features becoming more wolflike. Not at the defeat. He was thinking of the dream, the mad chase into the desert. The soldiers-his soldiers! — in pursuit. Could this be true? Had it been a vision, not a dream?

"There's another way Prince Luka can aid our cause," the spy master went on. "We should post similar scouting units in each city, backed by sufficient troops to prevent another ambush. Then we don't have to leave things to chance."

Iraj was drifting now, not really paying attention. He was thinking of the dream in a completely different light, which had an odd calming effect on him.

It was a human hand that he waved at Kalasariz, saying, "Yes, yes, tell Luka to do all that."

"And the witch, Majesty?" the spy master asked. "Old Sheesan? Shall we increase the reward? I'm a great believer in financial incentive."

"Fine," Iraj said absently. "Double it if you like." He paused. "And send for the witch. I want to speak with her."

"Yes, Majesty, it will be done, Majesty, just as you say." Kalasariz hesitated. He'd won every point thus far and was willing to try his luck once more. "One other thing, Majesty."

"Say it."

"Prince Luka informs me he plans to punish Naadan for allowing Lord Timura to escape."

"Whatever he decides," Iraj said.

"Yes, Majesty," Kalasariz said, "except Naadan is such a rich area-one of the few bright spots in your kingdom that can pay real taxes, instead of chickens and scrawny goats. And the king who was responsible for letting Lord Timura get away-King Quintal-suddenly died. He was probably scared to death. Ulan the wrestler is king now."

Iraj shrugged. "Luka knows my views on that issue. I assume he took them into account when he made his decision."

"Yes, I'm sure he did, Majesty," Kalasariz said, "and I meant no criticism."

He slipped an object out of his sleeve and held it up for Iraj to see. "However, I don't think he took this into account, Majesty," he said.

Iraj goggled at the object. It was the horse amulet he'd given to Safar long ago! Hurled it at him, actually, in his anger at Safar's defiance over the woman, Nerisa.

"King Ulan sent this to you as a gift, Majesty," Kalasariz said, "and he begs you to spare his people."

Iraj took the amulet with trembling hands. He had no doubt the spy master knew the tale behind the amulet. But Kalasariz could have no idea that it now had even deeper meaning.

"It's true," Iraj murmured. "The horse really exists."

"Pardon, Majesty?" Kalasariz asked.

Iraj shook his head. "Leave me."

"But what about Naadan, Majesty?" the spy master asked. "Shall we spare them?"

Iraj snarled, "Yes, dammit! Now get out of my sight!"

Kalasariz left, vastly pleased with himself. He cared nothing about Naadan's fate. However, he'd just won a major victory over Luka by having his orders reversed.

When he was gone, Iraj hung the amulet about his neck. He felt the warm glow of its magic against his chest. Once again he was astride the great horse running free with the winds. The reverie ended with a crash and he shouted for his officers.

They came running and he issued orders to break camp immediately. He would march within the hour, never mind there wasn't time to rouse the whole army. "They can catch up to us later," he said, dismissing the men.

The furnace in his belly was burning full force. He knew exactly where to go to pick up Safar's trail.

Somewhere outside Naadan there was a canyon where Safar had lain in wait for his soldiers.

Iraj had no doubt he'd recognize the spot the moment he saw it.

Palimak felt like he was swimming in camel curds, which he hated more than anything, especially if the milk camel had grazed in an onion field and then it was really awful because all the onion juice seemed to concentrate in the curds. Grandmother Timura said it was good for him and made him eat it anyway, but why was she making him swim in the stuff? It was thick and slimy and hard to swim in and he kept on bumping into big pieces of curd and then he'd sink down and down and get it in his nose and mouth.

Then he thought he heard voices. He wasn't sure whose voices they were but he heard his name so he turned over on his back and floated on the curds to listen.

"Palimak's been sick since the storm," he heard his grandmother say. He knew she wasn't really his grandmother, although she acted like one and talked like one and cuddled like one, and scolded like one, so that's what he called her.

The same with Grandfather Timura and that's who he heard talking now. He heard him say, "We've been scared to death. First it was a fever, which seemed to hit when the rain stopped."

"I got the fever down just fine," his grandmother said. Her voice quavered. "Then he went to sleep and we haven't been able to wake him up." She sniffled, trying to hold back tears. "It's been more than a week, now."

Someone answered but Palimak couldn't tell who because he sank under those stupid curds again and he was swimming and swimming and then he was whirling around and around in all that onion tasting stuff and then … Nothing. A long, long time of nothing. Then he smelled incense, except not just one kind because there were so many layers of scent-rose and sage and lemon and cinnamon-that it was like he was smelling a rainbow … if only you could break off a rainbow hunk and put it in an incense burner.

Then he sensed light and he heard someone chanting, but they were whispering so he couldn't make out what the chant was all about.

He thought, talk louder, please! and just like that someone said, "Wake up, Palimak!"

The boy opened his eyes to find his father bending over him. His threw his arms around his Safar's neck, crying, "Oh, father, I'm so glad to see you!"

Safar hugged him back and told him what a good boy he was, and brave too, and other things like that until the world was whole again.

Then Palimak remembered and became alarmed. "What about Gundara and Gundaree?" he asked, fumbling around his bedclothes for the turtle idol. "They've been sick too!"

"Don't worry," his father said, slipping the turtle from his sleeve. "I had to take care of you first." He laid it on Palimak's chest. "Just leave it there for awhile," he said. "Before you know it they'll be out here driving us crazy again."

Palimak giggled. "They will, won't they," he said. "Saying 'shut up, shut up' all the time." Then he remembered something else and the giggle turned into a full-bodied laugh. "You sure looked funny in all that mud, father," he chortled. "Falling down, splat! And that big wrestler, boom, splat!"

"So you were the one who made it rain," his father said, laughing with him.

"Sure," Palimak said. "Well, not just me alone. Gundara and Gundaree helped too. It was pretty hard to do. You have to sort of catch clouds and keep squeezing them to get all the water out." He made wringing motions with his hands. "And then you have to blow real hard to make a wind." He puckered his lips to demonstrate. "At first it was fun. Then we had to keep going and going until you got out of that dungeon and it wasn't fun anymore."

He shrugged. "I guess that's why we got so sick," he said. "But it was worth it. You escaped, right?"

More giggling. "All those mosquitoes!" he said. "That was really, really disgusting, father. Would you show me how to do it someday?"

"Soon as we can find some mosquitoes," his father promised. Then, "When you're well again," he said,

"perhaps we'd better talk about doing great big spells, like making it rain. You can see for yourself that it can be very dangerous."

"It was the only way I could help," Palimak said.

"I know, son, and I thank you for it. You were very brave and very smart and you might even have saved my life."

Palimak squirmed with pleasure. "Did I really save your life, father?"

"Absolutely," Safar said. "And I wasn't criticizing you for doing it. I was only saying that you have to learn how to be careful about that sort of magic. We have to go slowly, son. Sometimes you'll even have to help me keep up with you. Even though you're still a boy, there's things you can do that I can't." He smiled. "Like making such a big rainstorm!"

"Oh, sure you could, father," Palimak said, feeling quite manly in his reply. "You're much stronger than me!"

"Only because I'm older, son," his father said. "And I've studied very hard all my life. You'll catch up to me one of these days. Plus more. Much more."

"That's because I'm half demon," Palimak said with much satisfaction. "It's better than just being one or the other, right?"

"That's right, son," his father said.

Palimak had a sudden thought. "What about the horse?" he asked, worried. "Khysmet, right?"

His father looked surprised. "Yes, that's his name."

"Is he here? Did you bring him back?"

"He's outside the tent eating a big basket of corn and rye."

"That's good," Palimak said, quite solemn. "He deserves it after riding around all over the place."

His father frowned, then, "Did you see that too, son? Me on Khysmet and the soldiers chasing us?"

Palimak hesitated, then, "I guess I did, but not the same way I saw you in Naadan. It was after I got sick and I had these strange dreams. One of them was you and Khysmet."

"That was a vision, son," his father said. "Not a dream. I was wondering when you'd start having them."

Palimak wasn't listening. He was thinking of something else. "The really, real strange thing was that you weren't always on Khysmet," he said. "Sometimes somebody else was riding him."

His father's blue eyes narrowed. "Who, son? Who else did you see."

Palimak remembered and his heart gave a bump. "It was Iraj Protarus, father!"

"I'm no wizard," Leiria said, "but that sounds worrisome to me."

Safar nodded. "Exactly why I wanted to talk to you before the meeting," he said. "There's no sense getting everyone alarmed when I don't know what it means myself. I'm sure Palimak had a vision. And in that vision he definitely saw me playing my little game with Iraj's scouts. But I don't know what to make of him seeing Iraj as well. Hells, that might not even have been part of the vision. Perhaps it was a dream attached to the vision. It happens sometimes. It's the magical equivalent of the tail on a kite."

"We'd be safer assuming the worst," Leiria said. "Although only you know what that could be."

Safar thought a moment, jumping from worst case logic point to the next and so on, face growing grimmer with each leap. The moment he'd proposed that Ulan give the amulet to Iraj, he'd known that he was making Iraj's task easier. Still, with so many lives at stake he had no other choice. He considered the gloating witch in the arena who had torn off a piece of his cloak. That, too, might help Iraj. On the other hand, the magic of human witches was weak. It would take an extraordinary sorceress to make any use of it. And those were very rare, indeed. Still … still…

"The safest thing," he said finally, "would be to run as far and as fast as we can."

"You think he'll track us here?"

"Taking the bleakest view, yes."

"Then that's what we should do," Leiria said. "Run." She sighed. "At least we're ready for it," she said.

"We're supposed to move out at first light."

"True," Safar said, "but we just might want to change which way we go and how." He unsnapped the map case from his belt. "We'd better get the route plotted before the meeting. Otherwise our beloved Elders will want to debate the issue for a week."

"Honestly, Safar," Leiria said, "I don't know why you put up with them. I know the Council of Elders is a proud Kyranian tradition and all that. But they aren't organized for this kind of life. They've rarely had to decide on anything more important than when to let out the pigs and geese to keep the streets clean.

"This is war and they're just not suited for it. You need to organize some kind of military leadership.

People who can think quickly, argue when its time to argue, and no matter what they think to shut up and fall in to march with the rest of us when the final decision is made."

"You don't understand, Leiria," Safar said, unrolling the maps and picking through them. "This is the system we've always had. I'm loathe to interfere with it, much less change it. We're nomads now. But I hope that doesn't last much longer than a couple of years. In Syrapis, with luck, we can start a new life.

A new Kyrania. If we set up some sort of military command it might be hard to change things back to the way they were."

He grimaced. "From what I've seen of most places, with all the kings and generals, it's nearly impossible to get rid of them once they're installed."

Leiria pointed at the maps. "Even so, the Elders don't get to choose now, do they?" she said. "I mean, we're going to work the whole thing out in advance, right? Then you'll convince them they thought of it themselves. Why, you're already leading them by the nose. So what's the difference?"

"Simple," Safar said, "I don't like doing it."

Leiria thought a minute, then smiled. "To split a hair like that, Safar Timura," she said, "your conscience must own a damned sharp sword."

In the tent with the Elders, Safar spread out the map and placed a stone on each corner. He moved casually, although inside his anxiety was mounting. After studying the maps he knew exactly where they had to go next. He didn't like it, but it was the only thing to do. The moment he'd been dreading for months had arrived.

"It seems to me," Safar said to the Elders, "that Naadan was very lucky for us. For the first time since we left Kyrania we have enough supplies to last us for several months."

"Only if we live off the land," the always argumentative Masura replied.

Khadji growled. "I suspect that's what Safar meant and you know it, Masura," he said. "The supplies we have on hand, plus living off the land. That's how we've been doing things for close on to a year!"

Masura grumbled. "I just want to make sure things are clear to everyone," he said.

"Actually," Safar said smoothly, "I did mean that, my friend. And I'm glad you brought it up. We don't want to miss anything and the supply situation is just the sort of crucial mistake we want to avoid."

Satisfied, Masura gave Safar's father a dirty look as if to say, see, I was right to ask. Your own son says so.

The headman, Foron, peered at the map. He put one finger on the ink blot that marked their current position and another on Kyrania. There wasn't much distance between them.

"I don't like that," he said.

Then he measured the distance to Syrapis. He grunted with effort as he made the stretch. It was two thousand miles away. "I like that even less," he said.

Foron scratched his head. "What if we took advantage of our luck to really cover some ground?" he said.

"Instead of dodging and ducking and hiding out all the time, we could make one long dash for it."

Masura coughed. "We'd never make it all the way to Syrapis," he said.

Safar gave his father a signal and Khadji groaned. "For the gods sake, Masura," he said. "Foron wasn't saying anything of the kind. He meant we should try to get as far as the supplies will take us."

Khadji moved to the map, just as he and Safar had planned, and studied it. He pretended to search for a moment then put his finger on the prearranged spot.

"My guess is we wouldn't need new supplies until we reached here."

Everyone craned to see, including Safar who acted as curious as the rest.

"It's the Kingdom of Caluz," said the headman. Then, to Safar, "Have you heard of that place, Lord Timura?"

"Only that they have a famous temple there," he lied. "I once approved funds for a temple restoration project in Caluz. For the life of me I don't remember anything more about it. However, it must have been a rich area to possess such a temple."

Safar thought, if they only knew! He hadn't even told his father why Caluz had to be the choice. After finding Khysmet in Naadan, Safar had greater reason than before to heed the words of Lord Asper's ghost: "Come to me through Caluz!"

"If Caluz is that rich," he heard his father say, "then we can get new supplies without much trouble."

Everyone murmured agreement and the decision was made. There would no ducking and dodging and hiding in the months ahead. Instead they would strike straight for Caluz and resupply there.

"Actually," Safar observed, "Caluz might be the last place we have to raid." He indicated the map. "A short run from Caluz should put us at the Port of Caspan. On the shores of the Great Sea."

The headman smacked fist into hand. "Then it's on to Syrapis!" he exclaimed.

"Well, there's a sea to cross first," grumbled Masura. "Don't forget that!"

The men roared laughter and teased Masura-which had been Safar's intent all along.

Then wine was passed around and everyone drank to the journey ahead.

Two weeks later Iraj's army entered the wooded ravine where the Kyranians had camped. It was night and the sky was alight with the thousands of torches they carried to show the way.

The Kyranians had gone to great pains to wipe out all signs of their presence, but an advance party of Iraj's scouts had found an iron horseshoe nail, which led to the uncovering of the thrown shoe itself. From there it was only a matter of more detailed searching and enough other small signs were discovered to give the Kyranians away.

Now the army was coming, led by Prince Luka and his demon cavalry of mailed warriors astride the great cat-like horrors they used for mounts. Behind them was a huge armored elephant bearing King Protarus' royal howdah, all gold and bejeweled and with blood red curtains drawn tight so the king could not be seen. The king's army sprawled back from there, starting with his royal guard of crack troops, both human and demon. There were archers and slingmen, demons who fought with giant battle axes and short spears, fierce human tribesmen who fought on horseback with crossbows they could fire at the gallop, and long curving blades so sharp they'd slice through chain mail as if it were paper.

The army stretched for miles, torches and lanterns all gleaming in the night, back to the farthest reaches where the big supply wagons groaned like captive giants put to the rack.

In the howdah Iraj sniffed the air with excitement, wolf's snout bristling. Old Sheesan cackled in the corner, waving a scrap of cloth about like a tattered flag. "I paid her handsomely fer this," she said. "But it's right off Lord Timura's cloak, so it's worth ev'r bit a gold I could scrape together."

Iraj licked his chops and tossed her a purse of gold. "I'll give you another," he said, "if you can sniff out his spoor."

If the old witch only knew, he thought, she could get a cartload of gold from him as a reward. In all these months this was the closest he'd ever come to finding Safar. First he'd retraced the route he'd taken in the vision, finally coming to the desert spring where he'd seen Safar's reflection. His plan had been to have his scouts follow Safar's trail to the main Kyranian encampment. But his old nemesis had been too canny, using both physical and magical tricks to obscure his passage. Several times his hopes were raised when he'd caught the scent of the great dream horse he'd ridden in the vision. It was the amulet that made this possible, heightening his powers to pick up the stallion's musk. Then some spell of Safar's would interfere and the scent would be gone, his hopes dashed.

It was then that Kalasariz had showed up with Old Sheesan in tow and the witch had presented him with the scrap of cloth she said would put him on the trail again. Iraj had his doubts-the dirty old hag was hardly a figure to inspire confidence-but he'd given her the chance and now he was vastly pleased with himself for doing so. Using the cloth and her witchy powers-which even Fari had grudgingly admitted were "most remarkable … for a human!" — she'd picked up Safar's trail and carried it many miles forward until Safar confounded them again with another trick.

The trick, however, proved to be flawed. Iraj had merely scoured the area in a twenty mile radius and this time luck was with him, not Safar, and his scouts had stumbled on the ravine.

Yes, Old Sheesan had proved her value. In his wolfen state it was difficult for Iraj to think deeply. Even so, he felt an sense of affection for her and even … trust? That was strange! Iraj had only trusted one man in his life-Safar. And look what that had gotten him! Still, every once in awhile, when the witch was in repose, he caught a glimpse of that remarkable creature he'd seen for an instant when they'd first met.

Who was this woman who called herself Old Sheesan? Was she a beautiful woman hiding behind an ugly facade? Or a filthy old hag through and through … and the glimpsed visions of beauty a product of his imagination?

Just then he heard a voice whisper in his ear, low, and musical and full of seductive promise: "Together

… together … we can achieve all … together…"

He jolted around, but only saw the witch sniffing at the scrap from Safar's tunic, beaked nose twitching.

She lifted her head, cackling triumphantly. "This is his place, yes it be, Majesty," she chortled in voice totally unlike the whisper he'd heard. "Lord Timura slept here, ate here and he left it not long ago. The scent's that strong, it is. Not more'n two weeks gone, is Old Sheesan's guess, Majesty."

Iraj concentrated, transforming fully into his wolfen state. He strained to catch Safar's spoor, but he didn't have the witch's powerful magic nose, with a long lifetime of experience to separate and interpret what she sniffed.

Suddenly the amulet glowed, so hot it nearly scorched his chest and he growled with delight at the pain, pressing it tighter against his wolfish hide to feel all the more.

Then Iraj caught the spoor of the great dream horse and he lifted his head and howled with delight.