Allan Cole - Wolves of the Gods

The boy was only mildly surprised. He was still young enough so it didn't seem so strange that they'd been transported hundreds of miles.

He studied the vast oceanic distances for a moment, then said, "And Syrapis is somewhere out there?"

"Yes. I believe so."

"But it must be very far. How do we get there?"

"The same way we got here, son," Safar answered. "Magic."

Although his manner was sanguine, Safar was just as surprised as the boy. From the very beginning, he hadn't been sure what to expect. Even if he had let his imagination run free, he would never have dreamed such a thing could happen. He peered ahead, studying the small peninsula they were heading toward. A powerful wave of sorcery was emanating from that direction, pulling at them-urging them onward.

Safar was certain that the Oracle was waiting for them there.

Then Khysmet perked up his ears. He whinnied and quickened his pace. Up ahead, riding off the land spit, was a sight that made Safar's heart jump-a glorious woman with long ebony limbs and flowing hair trotted toward them on a spirited black mare.

The woman waved at them. Her laughter was sweet music floating on the ocean breezes and Safar forgot all caution.

"Do you know her, father?" Palimak asked.

"Yes," he answered, voice husky. "I know her."

Khysmet broke into a gallop and they skimmed across the sandy beach toward the woman.

Palimak felt a scratching in his pocket. Then Gundara spoke up: "Little Master! There's something you should know. I hate to contradict Lord Timura, but everything he's said about this place is wrong!"

"None of this is real, Little Master." Gundaree added. "Can't you feel it? We're inside the machine! And Lord Timura doesn't know it!"

At that moment the light suddenly dimmed and a freezing wind blasted off the seas.

And it began to snow.

The first attempts on Caluz were a disaster.

Iraj sent one hundred hand-picked men and demons into the pass and not one returned. He sent a hundred more, setting up a throne post at the entrance-guarded by his toughest and most loyal troops-so he could closely observe everything that happened.

He saw nothing, but he heard more than enough to ice even his shape-changer's veins. There were trumpets and challenging shouts, the clash of weapons, screams from the wounded and a chorus of ghostly groans as his fighters breathed their last and shed their souls. Then all was silence.

There was movement at the mouth of the pass. Through narrowed eyes Iraj saw a lone figure stagger out.

It was a man, bearing his weight on his spear, dragging the remains of a shattered shield behind him. It made Iraj glad the sole survivor was human. One of his own, as a matter of fact, from the make of his costume-spurred boots and baggy breeches, short bow over his shoulders, scimitar at his waist. An old soldier from Iraj's homeland on the Plains of Jaspar.

Iraj was deeply affected by the sight of the battered soldier. Old emotions, human emotions, emotions that had been long absent in his heart, surged into the light. First pity welled up, then homesickness, then guilt for allowing one of his own to be so mistreated. Iraj bolted from his throne and went to his kinsman, guards and servants scampering to keep up.

When he reached the soldier the man stopped, wavering, confused at having his way blocked. His eyes were wild, his face a bloody mask and when he finally noticed Iraj he shrieked and threw up his ruined shield to protect himself, spear point rising to counterstrike. Iraj jerked back, easily avoiding the spear.

But then all his speed was called for as his guards leaped in to kill the man for daring to threaten the king.

Iraj sent two big demons sprawling from the force of his blow.

"Hold!" he shouted, freezing the others in place. His retinue goggled at him, desperately trying to decipher the king's intent. He ignored them, turning back to the old plainsman.

"Pardon, Cousin," he said gently as he could, "but you seem to be without horse." Meaning, in the argot of Jaspar, that the man was in great difficulty.

"Monster!" the man shouted, stabbing at the air with his spear. "You took my horse but you won't take me!"

Iraj brushed the spear aside and grabbed the man by the shoulders. "What's wrong with you?" he barked. "Have you gone mad?"

Then he saw his own reflection in the man's eyes-a great gray wolf rearing up-and he knew the reason for the man's fear-why, he'd called his own kinsman "Monster!"

Iraj concentrated, making his form as human as possible, and the old soldier suddenly recognized him.

The man fell to his knees, babbling. "So sorry, Majesty! Didn't mean to … I must've been mad to think …

But it was awful, Sire! Bloody, awful! Nothin' but ghosts in there, I tell you! Nothin' but ghosts. You can't get a hand on 'em, much less a good poke with your spear…"

The man broke down, tears making a bloody track on his face. He shook his head. "I'm … I'm … I'm sorry, Majesty. I have failed you!"

Iraj was powerfully moved by the sight of one his most faithful and long-serving kinsmen brought so low.

Then the man drew himself up-turning from shambling wreck to a proud old soldier.

"Give me the knife, Cousin," he demanded, plucking at Iraj's belt for the curved knife hanging there, "so I can end my shame!"

Iraj let him take it, but as the soldier shifted his grip to plunge the knife into his heart he stayed his hand.

"This isn't necessary, my friend," he said. "You are not at fault this day! No failure can be laid at your feet." Iraj thumped his chest. "It is your king's doing, Cousin," he said. "Blame no other."

The man sagged in relief and Iraj caught him, slipping the knife from his hands and returning it to its sheath. He steadied the soldier, turning him toward the great pavilion that housed his traveling court.

"Come," he said. "Let us eat and drink and boast of the deeds of our youth. And when you recover your horse, your strength, we can talk about what went on this day."

The two of them-Iraj nearly carrying his charge-moved toward the pavilion. Without being ordered, servants ran ahead to prepare an impromptu banquet for the king and his new companion.

Iraj paused at the entrance to speak with his aides. "Send for the Lords Fari and Luka," he ordered.

"And that bastard Kalasariz, if you see him about. Probably hiding under some rock is my guess. Tell them their king wishes to speak to them immediately!"

The aides rushed off to do his bidding. Iraj looked down at the old soldier, who seemed to be recovering somewhat.

"What is your name, my friend?" he inquired. "What do the other men of Jaspar call you?"

"Vister, Majesty," the man replied. "Sergeant Vister at yer service!" He tried to draw himself up in salute and nearly toppled over.

Iraj steadied him. "Let's get a few drinks in you, Cousin Vister," he said, "before you try that again."

As they strode into the pavilion the first few flakes of snow began to fall. Then the flakes became a flurry and the skies turned pewter gray. The snow fell harder-flakes the size of small pillows drawing a blanket of white across the stark terrain. Even the Demon Moon became diminished-an orange grin peering through the gray. Soon the entire encampment was buried in snow and the soldiers were turned out to dig paths to the tented barracks and clear the main road.

Fari and Luka arrived at Protarus' headquarters but were denied entrance while the King supped with Vister. Finally Kalasariz arrived, shivering in the cold despite the thick fur cloak he wore. He was surprised when he saw the two demons cursing and stomping about in the snow.