Allan Cole - Wolves of the Gods

When the Unholy Three were announced, Vister's head wobbled up to blear at them through half-closed eyes. He was drunk, he was exhausted, he was wounded in body and soul. The maids had to keep at him constantly, bathing away blood and sweat, changing the bowls of scented water frequently as they became discolored and fouled.

At first he didn't recognize them and waved a drunken hand. "Come and join us, friends," he shouted.

"Me and my cousin, the King here, are havin' a party!"

Under Protarus' glare, the Unholy Three chuckled kindly, covering their reaction at being addressed so rudely. In normal circumstances Vister would have been beheaded before he finished the first sentence of his greeting.

Then the old plainsman's eyes cleared and he realized who they all truly were. He choked on a mouthful of meat, the wine he'd just taken to wash it down dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

He pushed weakly at the maids and tried to come to his feet, sputtering apologies.

"Please, my dear fellow," Kalasariz said smoothly. "Don't trouble yourself." As much as this foul peasant's manners turned his stomach, under the circumstances he had to be treated with the utmost respect.

"Yes, yes," Fari came in. "Don't interrupt your meal, my friend. You must replenish your strength after such a trying day."

"We salute you, brother," was Luka's skillful addition, touching ringed talons to royal brow, "for all you have suffered in our service."

Still, Vister was clearly overcome. He fell to his knees, babbling, "Please, Masters. I am not worthy!"

His words snapped Iraj's crossbow trigger. The King leaped from his throne, roaring, "Never say master to ones such as these! You are a soldier from the Plains of Jaspar! Worthy of any company!"

He helped Vister back into his seat, casting foul looks at the Unholy Three as if they had tried to humiliate the old soldier. Making much of the gesture, Iraj personally fetched up the flask that had fallen from Vister's hands, feeding the wine to him as if he were a child.

"There, there," he said. "Rest easy, Cousin. Your brave toil is done. Only honors await you."

Vister gurgled down the wine, eyes glazing over. Finally he pushed the flask away, wiping his lips and belching. A bold, drunken grin spreading over his features. Iraj patted him and sat back, coldly observing the Unholy Three.

"Speak to them, kinsman mine," he said to Vister. "Tell them everything you told me. Explain to them in the simple, common logic of a plainsman what they have been doing wrong."

Vister belched loudly. Then he said, "They're killin' too many of us, that's what!"

Iraj sneered at Fari and the others. "Do you hear, my brothers?" he growled. "The answer is as plain as the frowns on your ugly faces-which I have grown to despise more with each passing day. By the gods, you're killing too many of my soldiers! And I won't stand for it. Everyone knows how much I love my soldiers. Demons as well as humans, they are more brother to me than any of you. And be damned to your Spell of Four!"

He gestured at Vister, whose attention was now totally fixed on human needs. He was staring at either hand, trying to decide what to do next-bite another hunk off the sandwich or slobber down more wine.

In the end he did both, biting and drinking, biting and drinking. Crumbs and dribbles of wine splattered his lap-the maids giggling and fussing over the mess as if it were all a marvelous jest.

Iraj turned his full attention on the Unholy Three. "I told Sergeant Vister that I -Iraj Protarus, his kinsman, his king, was to blame," he said. "And this is true. I am not only king, but king of all kings in Esmir, so it is only right that final responsibility must rest on my shoulders."

He paused dramatically, throwing an arm around Vister's shoulder. "However … This …" Aand he dabbed at one of Vister's wounds with a napkin. " … This was never my intent! I have made it plain from the very beginning that I dislike having the lives of my soldiers shed needlessly."

"I assume you are speaking of the pass currently in dispute, Majesty?a€ Luka said.

"Of course I'm speaking of the pass!a€ Iraj roared, eyes turning to red coals. "What else what would I be talking about? We've lost two hundred of our best so far. And not an inch of gained ground to show for it!"

He patted Vister. "Instead we have won only pain and torment for those I value most."

Luka wanted to laugh. Protarus thought nothing of hurling a thousand demons and men to their doom-if it won him what he wanted. But now he was presenting the face of an innocent. Posing as a king who wished only the best for his subjects and required little for himself-except for their kind opinion of him.

Fari rapped his cane and Kalasariz coughed, bringing Luka back to reality. Just in time he realized his wolf's snout was about to break through.

To cover, Luka bowed low and thumped his breast abjectly, murmuring, "…a misunderstanding, Majesty.

The fault is entirely my own."

When he'd regained control over his shape-changer's body, he straightened, saying, "Your words have given expression to the confusion of all our most worthy ideas, Majesty.a€ He gestured at Fari and Kalasariz. "The three of us were only just discussing this most terrible of affairs. And we all agreed that we have failed you, Sire."

Fari broke in. "Except, perhaps I am more to blame then the others, Highness,a€ he said. "After all, this is sorcery we are fighting in that pass. And things involving sorcery are my responsibility and no other."

"I beg to differ, my great and good king,a€ Kalasariz said. "Lord Fari and his wizards have done their utmost. It is I who is most at fault for not discovering what we were up against before we sent men such as this…" he nodded respectfully at Vister, who grinned like a baby and burped-" … correction, heroes such as this … into battle."

"Some of what you say is true, my brothers," Luka said to Kalasariz and Fari. "But in the end, it is I who direct all special missions. I should have been at the forefront … leading both attacks. But I listened to my cowardly aides who claimed the King would be badly served if I were killed." The Prince shook his head. "I'll dismiss them from my service the moment I return to my headquarters."

Vister croaked laughter and everyone swiveled to see him hoist himself upright on his elbow. "Sounds like we're gonna have a nice day o' executions tomorrow, lads," he said. "There's nothin' like a couple of whacked necks to fix a soldier's mind on his job, I always say." He leaned closer, elbow nearly slipping out from under him. Grinning at Luka. "Course, you'd be talkin' about officers and such, wouldn't you, Sire? Maybe that's not such a good idea. Neck whackin' don't come so easy with the officer class.

Might not have the same affect it does down in the ranks. Maybe it wouldn't be so good for morale."

Then he lifted his haunches and farted.

Iraj slapped his thigh, howling laughter. "That's telling them, Cousin!" he said. "The truth-and from deep, deep within you, by the gods!"

Vister chuckled drunkenly, lifting the flask to his lips. Then he frowned, turning the flask upside down.

Nothing came out. He shook it, frown growing deeper.

"It's empty," he said in a voice so mournful you'd have thought he was announcing the death of his dear mother. One of the maids traded it for a full one and he was happy again.

He drank, then thumped his chest. "I was the only one!" he said. "Me! Vister! The rest are dead and rottin' in that pass. We all went in. Like so." He wriggled his fingers, making walking motions. "Then along comes the ghosts and whack!" He chopped at the air. "Ever'body's dead … 'cept Sergeant Vister." He settled back in his chair, chuckling and drawing a maid onto his lap. "Now I'm guest o' the King! Ain't that a tale to tell!" He tapped just beneath his right eye. "And these are the eyes what seen it!"