Allan COLE - Wizard of the winds

The crowd gathered to witness the event was the largest in Walaria's history. It spilled out of the stands onto the floor of the arena. Hundreds were packed within twenty feet of the execution platform itself and more were squeezing in every minute, crowing over their good fortune and clutching prized tickets Didima's soldiers were selling at premium prices.

Safar's guards had to push people out of the way as he and his companions in misery shambled toward the platform. People shouted at him, snaking hands past the guards to try to touch him. For luck, he supposed. If so, it was a sorry sort of fortune. Some cursed him. Some cheered him. Some cried courage, my lad."

Hawkers mingled with the crowd, selling food and souvenirs. One enterprising young man had fistfuls of candied figs mounted on pointed sticks. The figs were painted with food dye to make them look like human heads. Blood-colored food dye streaked sticks to mimic the sharpened stakes Safar and the others would soon have their heads mounted upon.

Safar was too numb to know fear. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. If he had any feeling at all it was to wish it would be over quick.

All eight were led onto the platform, slipping on the bloody planks. Men with buckets and mops were cleaning up the gore from the previous executions. Others sprinkled sand around the cutting block to give Tulaz decent footing. The condemned were lined up at the edge of the platform, where guards doused them with cold water and gave them wine-soaked sponges to suck so they wouldn't faint and spoil the show.

Then Tulaz himself mounted the platform and the crowd thundered its approval. The Master Executioner was dressed in his finest white silk pantaloons. His immense torso glistened with expensive oil allowing the bright sun to pick out the definition of his mighty muscles picked out by the bright sun. His white silk hood was spotless, without a crease or stray thread to spoil its symmetry. Thick bands of gold encircled his wrists and biceps.

Tulaz went right to work, paying no attention to the crowd. First he checked the steps where the condemned would kneel, then the hollowed-out chopping block where each man would stretch his neck to receive the blade. When he was satisfied he shouted for his sword case. While he waited he drew on special gloves created just for him by the best glove-maker in Walaria. The palm surface was pebbled and the fingers were cut out to improve his grip. The crowd was hushed as an assistant presented the open case and Tulaz bowed before it, muttering a short prayer of greeting. The hush turned to a deafening roar when he removed the gleaming scimitar and held it up high for the gods to see.

Tulaz lowered the blade, caressing it and whispering endearments as if it were his child. Then he removed his favorite whetstone from a slot in his wide, leather belt and he began to hone the edge. Each slow practiced movement drew cries of admiration from the crowd, but Tulaz kept his eyes averted, his attention fully on the sword.

After a few moments Tulaz walked over to the condemned, still stropping his blade. He paused in front of Safar, who looked up and found himself peering into the darkest, saddest eyes he'd ever seen.

"It'll be over soon, lad, Tulaz said, his voice remarkably soothing. There's nothin personal, you know. Law says what it says and I just do me job. So don't fight it, son. And don't jerk about. I'm your friend. Last friend you'll ever know. And I promise I'll make her nice and clean and send you to your rest quick as I can."

Safar didn't answerwhat was there to say? Nonetheless, Tulaz seemed satisfied and he turned away, stone whisk-whisking along the steel edge.

The executioner had mounted the platform still feeling edgy, unsettled. But after talking to Safar he found his nerves steadying. He thought, That's good. Al'ays nice to talk to your first head. Let's the gods know you're serious about your work.

He turned to the soldiers guarding the condemned. Get those chains off'n my heads, he said. And rub em down good afore the bodies stiffen up."

Safar suddenly felt lighter as the chains fell away. Strong hands massaged him, bringing life back to his numb limbs. Then he was guided forward and he heard Olari call to him, but the words were lost in the crowd noises.

"Steady, lad, he heard Tulaz say as he was pushed into a kneeling position before the block.

Safar raised up to take one last look at the world. He saw a sea of faces screaming for his death. Some snapped out at him with remarkable clarity. There was an old man, howling through toothless gums. There was a matron, babe at breast, watching the proceedings with a look of remarkable serenity. Then, just below him, he saw a young facea girl's face.

It was Nerisa!

She charged out of the crowd and rushed the platform. Soldiers grabbed at her, but she ducked under their outstretched hands. The nails of those grasping hands raked blood streaks on her arms. Fingers tightened on her tunic, but she pulled away with such force that all they captured was torn cloth.

"Here Safar! she shouted. Here!"

She threw something at the platform. It sailed through the air and landed next to the cutting block with a heavy thud. Safar didn't look to see what it was. Instead, he watched in horror as the soldiers reached Nerisa.

A mace crashed down on her headblood spraying everywhere.

Then she was buried under a dozen soldiers.

The crowd roar diminished to puzzled shouts and then a low buzz as people asked each other what had happened.

Tulaz voice rose above the buzz"That's it! I can't work like this. The whole thing's off!"

Safar heard another man speak most urgently"You can't quit now, Tulaz! Think of all the money riding on this, man! They'll skin you alive! It was the trainer, who'd evidently found enough coin to copper his bet.

Then a great voice thundered, Citizens! Friends!"

It was King Didima, who'd come to his feet to address the crowd, his voice magically amplified by Umurhan.

"Today is a great day in Walaria's history, Didima said. It would be wrong of us and an insult to the gods who favor our fair city to allow a malcontent to spoil these holy ceremonies. We have all had a marvelous time this morning. And we owe a debt of gratitude to Lord Kalasariz for his thoughtful efforts to present us with such marvelous entertainment, while at the same time striking a blow for all law-abiding citizens.

"Now, let us resume our entertainment, my good friends and fellow Walarians. Our great executioner, Tulaz, was about to astound us with a feat never before attempted."

The king turned toward Tulaz, shouting, Let the executions resume!"

Someone grabbed Safar by the hair and forced his head on the block. Under royal command Tulaz stepped forward, slashing the air with his sword to warm up.

"Hold him steady, he shouted.

The hand tightened its grip in Safar's hair.

Just then a small, familiar voice hissed from beside him, Shut up, Gundaree! I don't need your help."

Tulaz froze, his nightmare coming back to haunt him. Who said that? Who said shut up?"

And Gundara said, Shut up! I'm not listening, Gundaree. Uh, uh. No, no. Don't care what you say. Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

The fingers loosened and Safar jerked free. He glanced down and saw the object Nerisa had thrownit was the turtle idol. He up and saw Tulaz towering over him, scimitar raised high to strike. But the executioner was motionless, stricken with fear.

"The dream! he said. It's coming true!"

"Forget the dream, the trainer cried, pushing at the brawny executioner. Quick! Cut off his head!"

Safar grabbed up the idol. Appear, Favorite! he commanded.

There was a boil of smoke and Gundara leaped out onto the platform.

Tulaz goggled at the little figure. No! he shouted. Get away from me!"