Allan Cole: Wolves of the Gods

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'!"