Allan Cole - Wolves of the Gods

He heard his companions cry out and draw their weapons. Attack orders were shouted and Iraj/Vister raked his horse's flanks with his spurs and charged straight ahead. All his sensibilities were hurled aside.

His own life became insignificant as he joined the thundering cavalcade intent on slaughtering the enemy marching towards them.

He heard a hoarse voice shout: "For the King!"

And the others took up the cry-"FOR THE KING!"

Iraj/Vister found himself shouting along with his brother warriors and for a few seconds he thought the greatest thing he could ever accomplish would be to die for his king.

And then he thought, But, I'm the King!

At that moment he smashed into the armored ranks of the enemy.

The expected shock of collision never came. To his amazement his horse swept through the densely packed enemy ranks as if they didn't exist. Helmed faces rose up to confront him. His horse, a veteran of many such attacks, lashed out with iron hooves, screaming in panic when it encountered nothing except insubstantial smoke and air.

A huge enemy warrior lunged at him with a spear. Iraj/Vister tried to knock it aside with his sword, but like the horse, his weapon encountered nothingness and he was nearly toppled from the saddle from the force of his own blow.

They're ghosts! his mind screamed as he clawed himself upright, losing his sword in the process. Ghosts!

He righted himself just as the ghost warrior's spear caught the edge of his chain vest. The spear skittered across the links and he felt the all too familiar white hot sear as a sharp point needled through the links and cut into flesh. Experience as much as fear dulled the pain and Iraj/Vister kicked through, mercilessly raking his horse's flanks.

His body was violated many times during the charge through that ghostly mass. By the time his horse was cut down he had suffered many small wounds and lacerations. He'd fought hard, yet not one of his enemies had been harmed. Every blow he struck met no resistance. The enemy soldiers seemed to dissolve as he thrust and slashed at them.

In the end he relied on his professional skill as a horseman, dodging this way and that, avoiding many of the blows aimed at him. All around him his companions were being slaughtered by the score.

Then a javelin took his horse and the poor beast squealed and folded under him. Iraj/Vister tried to roll free, but his wounds made him weak and the horse rolled on top of him. Amazingly, he found himself lying under the animal not only alive, but still mobile. Several corpses propped the dead horse up just enough so that Iraj/Vister was sheltered from the one-sided battle raging in the pass.

All desire to fight was gone. Now it was all he could do to keep from gibbering with fear and giving himself away to the enemy.

He peered through a small opening and saw the last of his mates dragged from his horse by the ghost warriors. They forced him to kneel and one giant grabbed the soldier by the hair, while another sliced off his head. The execution was so close that blood sprayed Iraj/Vister's face.

Then all became blackness.

Iraj's eyes blinked open. He felt strength flood back into his limbs and he realized he'd been returned to his own body.

He was back in the throne room, the Unholy Three standing before him, studying his reactions through conspiratorial eyes.

Iraj coughed and sat upright, squaring his shoulders. "Very informative, my Lord," he said to Fari, making his voice casual.

Fari bowed. "Yes, Majesty," he said. "Quite informative indeed."

Luka said, "Give me the right spells to fight them, my Lord Fari, and I will clear the pass by tomorrow night." Then, to Iraj, "And it is my solemn vow, Highness, that not one drop of the blood of our soldiers will be shed without just cause."

Kalasariz suddenly felt left out-vulnerable. He was a spy master, not a warrior or a wizard. He had nothing of value to offer at this most crucial moment. Then he glanced over at Vister and saw that the old soldier was no longer snoring in his chair. Instead he was quite still, his face yellow and waxen.

Just then one of the maids noticed something was amiss and placed a hand on Vister's chest. She was too well trained to cry out-possibly drawing the wrath of the moody King Protarus. Nevertheless, big tears welled up in her eyes and she began to weep.

Kalasariz saw his opportunity and took it. "I fear, my Lord," he said to Luka, "that your promise to our king came too late for at least one of our most noble heroes."

He gestured and everyone turned to see Vister slumped in his chair, the maid weeping over his body.

"Unless I am mistaken," Kalasariz continued, "the good Sergeant Vister is quite dead." He looked pointedly at Fari, who was fuming at this early betrayal of the truce. "Apparently your spell was too much for the poor fellow," he said. "Although you assured us otherwise."

"Look here, Kalasariz!" Luka snapped, "it's easy enough to criticize when one-"

Iraj cut him off. "It so happens, my Lord," he rasped, "that our brother, Kalasariz, happens to be echoing the criticisms of your king!"

He rose from the throne and went to Vister, pushing the maids away and hoisting the body up in his arms, cradling the big soldier as if he were a babe.

"This is your fault, Fari," he said to the old demon. "And yours as well, Luka," he said to the prince, "for the reasons I gave before."

Fari and Luka, reduced to the Unholy Two, bowed, spewing many fervent apologies.

"Know this," King Protarus said. "The man you see in my arms was my kinsman, my cousin. He had followed me faithfully for many years over many miles and suffered much in my service. I do not take his death lightly. Do you understand me?"

Fari and Luka assured the king they understood quite well. Kalasariz said nothing, edging to the side to separate himself from the others.

"Go then," the King ordered. "Win me my victory, but remember this man. Remember him well!"

Kalasariz added his own voice with others, saying, "Yes, Majesty! All will be as you command."

All three bowed, then crept away.

Iraj watched them go, relieved. First, that their unity had once again been shattered. Second, that for the moment his secret still seemed safe.

He looked down at Vister's dead face. "They don't know a blessed thing, do they cousin?" he said.

Then he dropped the body into the chair. "See to it that he has a proper burial," he said to his servants, then strode away.

"Steady!" Biner shouted. Then: "Launch!"

The ground crew let go the cables and the airship shot into the sky-furnaces roaring, the twin balloons taut till near bursting.

Leiria's stomach lurched at the unaccustomed feeling of weightlessness. She leaned over the side, fearing she was about to get sick, then saw the rapidly diminishing figures on the ground and felt sicker still. She closed her eyes, willing the sickness to be gone. She kept them closed for a long time, concentrating on the sounds around her-Biner's shouted orders, the aircrew's reply, the pumping bellows and roaring furnaces. And finally, the oddly melodic song of the wind strumming the great cables that held the ship to the balloons.

The sudden snowstorm had delayed the launch well past the chosen hour. Biner had held everyone at ready, ground crew poised at the cables, aircrew scrambling about knocking off ice. Meanwhile, teams of Kyranian volunteers shivered in the cold as they kept the area swept free of snow.

Then there'd been a brief respite as the sun broke through, revealing a small patch of blue sky and Biner had launched the ship.

Now Leiria was crouched on the steering deck, wishing for all the world that she could be somewhere else. Anything, even a charging horde of demon cavalry, would be better than this. At least she'd be on nice safe ground.