Wolves of the Gods

CHAPTER THIRTY

Luka was a fighting prince. Born of rape and murder, teethed on steel, he had carried his father's royal banner into scores of crucial encounters. Under Iraj, he had seen warfare on an even greater scale. When it came to the shedding of blood and the taking of life, Luka firmly believed he had seen it all. But when he led his shock troops into the Caluzian Pass all his previous experiences seemed like nothing.

The road through the pass was treacherous. The storm had left a thick blanket of snow in its wake, hiding the pits and broken rubble, turning them into traps for the unwary. Overhead, a threatening sky boiled with clouds that cast everything into intermittent shadows, making travel harder still. Even the demon steeds with their fierce natures and huge cat claws were sorely tested. Several suffered broken limbs and had to be destroyed before they'd progressed beyond the second bend.

Luka thought he knew what to expect. Fari's vision had given him a good look at the enemy he would face. Powerful spells had been cast to sheath their weapons so they would cut through ghostly flesh and parry ghostly thrusts. Even so, he was not prepared when the horde of warriors rose up to confront him.

The battle for the Caluzian Pass was to consist of three waves, of which Luka's was easily the most dangerous. He was to lead a shock force composed of his best cavalryfiends. His mission was to charge through and break the enemy formation. Under no circumstances was he to engage in fixed fighting or worry about what was happening behind his back. He was to charge and keep charging, leaving the next two waves of troops to deal with whatever was happening behind him. Not only that, but he must maintain his demon form to inspire his soldiers, thereby abandoning the extra magical powers and strength of a shape changer. In short, if the slightest thing went wrong he would be the first to fall.

Skilled as he was, brave as he was, Luka had no love of battle. As a prince his death was always ardently sought-on both sides. The enemy wanted his head as a trophy of their prowess. And in his own court so many would gain from his assassination that he had to be constantly on lookout for a knife in his back from one of his own soldiers. So he despised battles. Distrusted the motives of those who sent him to fight.

Killing, he firmly believed, was a dish to be enjoyed in private. It was like torturing an animal bound for the table-the greater the entree's agony, the tastier the dish. In other words, the fear and pain should be confined to the victim with no danger to the chef.

Luka was thinking of such things when he entered the pass and so he shouldn't have been surprised when he was stricken by a sudden feeling that he'd entered a kitchen where he was set to be the main course.

Never mind that Fari had warned him-and armed him-against the spells of fear and hopelessness the enemy was sure to employ against him. A vision leaped into his mind's eye of a demon bound to a spit slowly rotating over a slow fire-twisting and screaming and begging his tormentors to end the agony with a swift and merciful death. The demon was Luka.

The prince might have been overcome there, the battle lost before it had even begun. But the moans and wails of his brother warriors jolted him to his senses. Cursing himself as a fool and a coward, he cast Fari's spell. There was nothing to mark one moment from the next. No fiery blast, no sorcerous smoke, only an immediate feeling of heavy shackles falling away-and then he was free.

His demon brothers shouted gleefully, as if they'd already won a great victory. Jokes and laughter ran through the ranks, punctuated by loud boasts from young warriors about what they'd do to the enemy when they found him. Luka was too experienced to be drawn in. He had no doubt this would be only the first of many spells hurled against them. And if his opponent was wily he would be saving the worst for last.

A dedicated survivor, Luka granted extreme cunning to his enemy. But he couldn't pause or turn back to study the extent of his enemy's perfidy. In such circumstances a prudent soldier, a soldier loath to have his fangs plucked from his lifeless jaws to make a necklace for some tavern wench, knows he has only one recourse-madness.

Luka signaled his buglers to sound the attack, unsheathed his sword, and raised it high-desperately driving away the memory of the human, Vister, in identical circumstances. Digging deep for all the courage, all the blind battle lust he could muster.

"For the King!" he shouted over the blare of the horns.

"For the King!" his brothers roared in return.

And with no enemy in sight they charged.

In the end, it was this act of madness that saved him.

As Luka came around the bend, honor guard lagging several paces behind him, his mount's claws broke through the snow's crust into a hidden pit. The beast stumbled, nearly foundering, Luka sawing on its reins and raking its sides with his spurs to bring it up. Hissing in catlike fury, the animal's head snaked around, long fangs bared to punish him. He leaned forward, whacking its sensitive nose with the flat of his blade to remind it who was master and who was slave.

At that moment the air was suddenly filled with the deadly song of the arrow and something passed over his head. He heard meaty thunks of arrows striking their targets, cries of the wounded, surprised coughs of those who would never breathe again.

He came up, raising his shield in time to deflect a second swarm, cursing Iraj for putting him in such a place. Shouting orders to rally his warriors out of the shock of ambush.

It was then that he saw the enemy. Time was knocked from its course and Luka's whole world became a long and frozen moment. Hundreds upon hundreds of ghostly warriors were marching toward him. There were no challenging roars, no shouted insults, no loud chorus of what would be done to them. He heard none of the words that give a normal army its voice. Curses that warriors are encouraged to shout when they advance on their foes. Shouts of bloody purpose crafted by bullying sergeants long ago and passed down from one generation of soldiers to the next. All calculated to shrink the enemy's courage and enlarge the imagined prowess of the aggressor.

Luka, who would have ignored such things like a fishing hawk ignores water when it dives for its prey, was unnerved by their absence. His entire existence was suddenly filled with the image of silent men, deadly men, marching in measured steps to crush his life away. The thud of their boots, the clank of their armor, hammering their purpose against his.

Fari's final words of warning crawled to the fore. "There is no single heart to this enemy," he'd said.

"No single head we can lop off to defeat them. Each one will fight until the end. The only way to defeat them is to kill them all."

Luka forced himself to ignore the mass of advancing warriors. He fixed on one man-a huge ghost with hollow eyes and bloody lips-one step ahead of the others.

The demon prince spurred his mount forward, shouting for his soldiers to follow.

He had time for one long breath, then he was on them. The large ghost he'd aimed for hurled his spear with such force that it broke Luka's shield in two. He threw the shield away, slashing with his spell-charged sword. He had a moment's satisfaction of feeling his blade bite through ghostly flesh, seeing the man fall, mouth coming open to spew blood-red smoke, then he felt the shock of collision as his mount crashed into the advancing soldiers. That shock followed another and then another as his fiends waded into battle, cutting and jabbing, forcing their way through by the sheer weight of their massed charge.

Made vulnerable by Fari's spells, the ghosts no longer had the protection of shadowy afterlife. When they were struck they died, bloody smoke spurting from their mouths. Even so, they did not die easily. They fought with wild but still silent purpose. Luka killed many of them, but he saw just as many of his own soldiers die as well.

For what seemed like an eternity the struggle was stalled at the point of first collision. It seemed that every ghost who died was immediately replaced by another. Luka felt as if he were pressing against a huge wall. And no matter how hard he fought, the wall would not give.

Just when he thought all was hopeless, he sensed a sudden weakening. He pressed harder, driving his mount against the armored mass, crying out for others to join him.

Then the line broke and Luka burst through the first formation. A moment later he was surrounded by his own soldiers who were streaming through the gap.

Luka had enough time to see a second force-mighty as the first-coming toward him.

He charged, once again bracing for the shock of collision.

Then blood lust overcame him and he knew no more.

Biner turned away from the scene below, sickened by the slaughter.

"I can't watch anymore," he said to Arlain. "Got nothin' left in me guts to heave."

Hidden by the magical cloud cover, the balloon was hovering over the Caluzian Pass spying on Iraj's fight to take it.

"Poor devils," Biner said. "Dyin' once seems hard enough. But twice!" He shuddered. "Makes me skin crawl even thinkin' about it, much less havin' to watch! It's more'n a sensitive showman like meself can take."

Arlain stood well away from the railing, trembling, tears streaming down her face. She hadn't been able to watch at all.

"Ith it over yet?" she asked.

Biner nodded. "Almost," he said. "For awhile I was hopin' them Guardians wouldn't break. But they did. And then old Protarus hit 'em twice more. Mos' awful thing I ever did see-or ever hope to see.

Protarus' fiends are down there now finishin' off what's left."

"Pleath!" Arlain protested. "Don't tell me anymore. All I think of ith what'th going to happen if thoth awful tholdierth catch uth."

Biner squared his massive shoulders. "They won't!" he vowed. "Not if old Biner can help it."

"If only Thafar would get back," Arlain said.

"Never mind Safar," Biner said. "He's either gonna make it or he ain't. We have to be ready either way."

"Maybe they won't find the gate into the valley," Arlain said hopefully. "Maybe they'll mith it and jutht keep on going."

Biner snorted. "Sure," he said. "And smoke don't rise, the wind don't change, and if you dump the balloons the airship'll just keep on flyin'!"

King Protarus was agitated as he approached the group gathered around Lord Fari. From the angry tone of the voices he heard echoing across the gory snow, the king was riding into the middle of a debate. It was an argument so heated the participants didn't notice the imminent arrival of the royal party.

Iraj pulled up his horse, raising a hand to bring his aides and guards to a halt. Pushing aside the reason for his agitation, he leaned forward, listening.

"This is insanity, Fari!" Luka was raging. "You're holding up the entire godsdamned army with all your second-guessing."

"I must agree with Prince Luka," Kalasariz said. "There's a time for caution and a time to strike onward."

Then their voices dropped to more normal levels and Iraj couldn't hear what was said. He let the shape-changer's side of him come to the fore, snout erupting, bones cracking and shifting horribly, forming the head of a giant wolf sitting on a human body. There were involuntary gasps of terror from his men and he snarled for silence.

With his heightened senses he could hear their words with startling clarity.

"How many times must I repeat myself," Fari was raging, "before you two fools understand what I am trying to tell you. Lord Timura's trail ends here. It does not continue on through the pass."

"Something must be wrong with your sniffers, Fari," Luka said. "And as always you are too stuffed with pride to admit it when your magic fails you. I'm the one who is most at risk here. I'm the one who nearly died I don't know how many times today. I am the one most likely to die as a result of your pride.

But never mind that. The point is, this halt you ordered is not only likely to result in many unnecessary casualties, but also endangers the entire expedition. The longer we wait to clear the rest of the pass, the more time we give the enemy to regroup."

"And for Safar Timura to escape," Kalasariz put in. "Which is far more important. I guarantee you that if we bring him to ground, Protarus won't care how many of our soldiers' lives were wasted."

"I warn you both," Fari said. "If you prevail over me with the king Lord Timura has an extremely good chance of prevailing over us."

Kalasariz sneered. "You've underestimated this man all along, Fari. As have you, Luka. I have more experience with him than either of you. I first tried to kill him when he was nothing more than a ragged-cloaked student in Walaria with barely enough funds to pay for the crusts he ate. I even had him on the executioner's block. On his knees, mind you. His neck bent for the sword. He escaped despite what any rational fellow would judge as impossible odds against him. Just as he has escaped us countless times ever since."

Fari rasped laughter. "What's this?" he mocked. "You tried to kill Timura before? During a time when it was known to all he was the king's dearest friend. Why, it was my impression that you told the king you were Timura's secret ally in Walaria. You repeated that tale when we went to the king with charges that Timura was conspiring against him. A tale you told in the manner of a man who was shocked to learn of Timura's perfidy."

Kalasariz started to answer, but just then the three sensed Iraj's presence. They turned, gaping when they saw him, burying their reactions as quickly as they could.

Iraj kept his wolf's head intact for a long moment, making sure they'd worry about how much he'd overhead. The spy master, whose remarks gave him reason to have the most to fear, was the first to recover.

"Hail, O King!" Kalasariz cried. "Once again you have inspired us to win a great victory!"

Fari and Luka shouted similar bold words of praise.

Iraj resumed his human shape, flicking the reins for his horse to amble forward. He sat easily in the saddle as if he hadn't a care in the world, letting a sarcastic smile play across his face to heighten their tension.

Inside, his emotions were boiling to a froth. There were two more battles he had to win before the day was done. First, Safar. Next, his spell brothers. To build confidence and bring his emotions under control he imagined Safar's corpse under his boot while he confronted these three-his final enemies. From this moment on he had to view everything as a sport. A sport in which Iraj Protarus, king of kings, had no master. With one hand he would display a whip of fear, with the other, a broad palm heaped with the gift of the king's favor.

As Iraj closed the distance between them Fari caught a whiff of the king's intent-plus … something else.

Something he couldn't quite put a talon on, except that it did not bode well for him or his companions in conspiracy. In his long life Lord Fari had advised and survived many kings. It was his ambition that Iraj Protarus would be the last royal fool he had to suffer. A master wizard, a demon of incredible cunning, Fari knew every mask a king could present to his royal advisers. And in Iraj's face he read his demise.

His old heart bumped over the rocky road of logic. It was the Spell of Four that chained Protarus to them. A spell that he had created and cast. A bond that could be rearranged-with Fari as the ultimate mechanic-but not broken. Then suspicion, his most faithful friend, crept into his bosom. The king has a secret, he thought. A secret that did not bode well for any of them.

Before Iraj came within hearing distance, Fari whispered, "Beware, brothers! If you want to live, be with me!"

"Bugger you!" Luka whispered. "We're in the right. You are most grievously wrong."

"Who cares?" Kalasariz hissed. The spy master didn't have to reflect on Fari's warning. He too, sensed danger. "New truce. Quick!"

"And let you be the first to stab me in the back?" Luka replied. "Bugger you as well!"

"Trust me!" Fari urged. "Or all is lost!"

"Truce, dammit! Truce!" Kalasariz said.

Iraj rode up before Luka had a chance to answer. On horseback Iraj towered over them, his crown sparkling with jewels and rare metals. Shoulders squared, head uplifted, that knowing, scar-twisted smile playing across his lips, making his face unreadable.

The king raised his sword to Luka in salute. "It is you who should be congratulated for this victory, my good and loyal friend," he said. "Your bravery is an example to us all."

As the demon prince bowed in humble thanks the sense of peril became so strong his skin pebbled and began to itch as if he were about to molt.

"I am not worthy, Your Majesty," he murmured.

"Don't be so modest," Iraj said. "It is you and you alone who deserves full credit. And to reward your great deeds I will give you the honor of leading my army onward to even greater glories."

Not far away Kalasariz' assassins were roaming the battlefield cutting the throats of the enemy fallen with magical knives. Making certain no Guardian would never rise again. Luka heard the tell-tale hiss of ghostly life fleeing the temporal world and reconsidered.

"Modesty has nothing to do with it, Your Majesty," he said. "The fact is, at this time it would be imprudent of me to assume such an honor."

Iraj let his eyebrows rise as if he were surprised at this statement. "Is there some problem?"

"Only one of indecision, Your Majesty," Luka said. He gestured at his companions. "At this moment we were debating the merits of what to do next."

Out of the corner of his eye Luka saw Fari and Kalasariz visibly relax. The truce was on.

"What's this?" Iraj said. "A disagreement? At such a crucial moment for us all?"

"Only a small one, Majesty," Fari said, wringing claws of humility. "My brothers think we should continue on until we reach the end of this pass. And, presumably, come upon Lord Timura waiting for us in Caluz. I, on the other hand, believe that some sort of trick has been played on us."

Further down the pass they heard a chorus of frustrated howls from a pack of sniffers. Fari nodded toward the sound. "Safar Timura doesn't wait for us there, Majesty," he said. "At least that is my opinion. I think we will only find the machine that has been bedeviling us since we entered the Black Lands. If I am right, many of us will die before we have time to turn back. And once again Lord Timura will most certainly be laughing up his sleeve at us as he makes his escape."

Iraj peered down at Kalasariz. Although he was smiling, his eyes were deadly. "And you, my lord?"

he asked. "Where do you stand?"

"With Prince Luka, Majesty," Kalasariz said. He nodded at Fari. "No disrespect intended, of course.

Only an honest disagreement among brothers who wish to serve you well."

Iraj already knew the substance of their disagreement. But he didn't know the reason. He brought himself up short. There were many perils in the double-think necessary to this game he played. Above all things, Iraj reminded himself, you have to remember that Safar must come first. Once that game was won, the end of these traitorous bastards would quickly follow. Before he shifted his attention, however, he made special note that once again his three opponents had overcome their personal animosities to oppose him as one.

Then he had another thought and his belly crawled. But what of his dream? The one that had been bedeviling him when he came upon these deadly conspirators. He gritted his teeth, remembering his terror. Yes, the dream. A dream within a dream so complicated it defied rational interpretation. And yet it was the sort of dream a man could relive in its entirety in the blink of an eye.

Iraj blinked.

And relived the dream…

He was only a boy, too young to be alone in the mountains. His name was Tio and he had spent a sleepless night guarding the goat herd against imagined horrors. Now he slept the sleep of the exhausted, the gentle dawn rising over the peaceful Kyranian mountains.

Iraj was a wolf, a great gray wolf, slipping across the meadow, leading his ravenous spell brothers to the kill. His plan was to slay the boy but leave the herd untouched. A coldly calculated murder intended to strike terror in the hearts of the Kyranians and undermine their faith in their vaunted hero, Safar Timura.

During Iraj's time with these people, who in his youth had shielded him against his enemies, he'd learned that wolves killed goats, not people. So poor little Tio, defenseless Tio, a child who whose death would wring pity from the hardest of hearts, would be his meat that day. He and his spell brothers would gut him, ravage him, and when the villagers came to investigate they'd find the goats bleating over the child's remains.

Then Kalasariz howled a warning, "Interlopers!" and Iraj spotted Graymuzzle and her starving pack descending on the goats. His rage was immediate and uncontrollable. How dare these wizened creatures plot to spoil his carefully wrought plan? His pent up shape changer's fury exploded and he charged into the pack, scattering them. All he could think of was "kill, kill," and so he killed and kept killing until there was nothing left alive on the meadow except Graymuzzle, trapped against a rock outcropping.

But as he went for her, instead of cowering and meekly accepting death, she suddenly roared in a fury as wild as his own. She leaped at him, slavering jaws snapping to do whatever damage she could before she died. Iraj caught an image of pups whining in a cave and knew the reason for her blind, suicidal attack. It made her death all the more delicious and his spell brothers crowded in close beside him to lap up her torment.

Ordering the others back, Iraj went to the little stone shelter alone, eager to feed on the child who waited there asleep. He rushed into the shelter, every nerve firing in delightful anticipation. Tio bolted up, screaming in terror, raising his puny goatherder's staff to protect himself.

Iraj bit the staff in two, then killed the boy.

Suddenly the child was sitting up again, but this time instead of screaming, he was smiling, and it wasn't Tio's face he was looking at. It was Safar's! A young Safar, the Safar he'd known long ago with those gentle blue eyes that could see the good in him.

Shocked and frightened to his core, Iraj reeled back.

Safar said, "So tell me, brother. How do you like being king?" And then he laughed.

Iraj recovered, more furious than ever, hysterically so, thinking how can this be, how can this be? Safar smiled the whole time he was killing him.

But he wouldn't stay dead. He kept rising, calling Iraj brother, his laughter becoming more mocking each time he died.

Finally, it was over and the corpse lay still under his paws and Iraj knew it would rise no more.

Exhausted, emptied of all emotion, Iraj stared down at the body.

But when he saw the youthful face staring up at him the horror came full circle.

For the face was his own!

"Majesty?" Fari was murmuring. "Is something wrong?"

Iraj blinked and he was back in the Caluzian Pass, his spell brothers looking at him anxiously.

"No," he said, shaking off the dream. "There's nothing wrong. I was only considering our problem." He turned to Fari. "I've heard all sides of the dispute," he said. "Save one thing."

"Yes, Majesty?" Fari asked.

Iraj said, "What do you propose we do? Luka and Kalasariz say we should continue on through the pass. You say we shouldn't. But you haven't said what we ought to do instead. We can't just sit here scratching our heads forever in dumb amazement at Safar's latest trick. If, as you say, it is a trick."

Fari drew himself up, confidence restored. He said, "Majesty, if you we allow me two hours-three at the most-I think I can solve the riddle of the vanished Lord Timura." He pointed at a rock outcropping bulging from a nearby canyon wall. "His trail ends there. Our sniffers have searched and double-searched the area in all directions. But they keep coming back to this point."

"Go on," Iraj said.

"I suggest," Fari said, "that I be allowed to gather my wizards together and make a casting to find out exactly what happened."

Iraj looked at Luka and Kalasariz, then back at Fari, thinking. There was good logic on both sides. It was Iraj's nature to favor quick action. But on the other hand-Iraj chopped off further speculation and made his decision. And he said to Fari:

"Call your wizards!"