Allan COLE - Wizard of the winds

"You've done yourself proud, lad, the old veteran said. Now put your sword down and we'll spare you."

Safar grinned. He was covered with the gore of other men and made an awful sight.

Then, instead of tossing his sword down, he pushed it point first into the ground and leaned on it.

"Tell Iraj Protarus, he said loudly, that a friend awaits him. And begs the pleasure of his company."

The veteran reacted, surprised. And who might that friend be, lad?"

"Safar Timura of Kyrania, he replied. The man he once called his blood oath brother.

"The man who once saved his life."

It was well past dawn when Iraj finally came.

The smoke and soot from the burning city was so thick it made the day more like night. The air was filled with the stench of death and the loud weeping of Sampitay's survivors as they were led out to meet their fates.

Safar was pacing within the same circle of bowmen. Although they'd lowered their weapons, he noted they were ready to lift them again and fire if he made a wrong move. They were all fierce plainsmen, small in stature, muscular in build, with misshapen legs from so many years on horseback. They wore flowing robes, cinched by wide leather belts bearing scimitars on one side, long daggers on the other. Their boots were felt, with sharp spurs strapped to them. They had turbans for head coverings, with steel caps beneath and most sported long, drooping mustaches, giving their dark faces a grim, determined look.

A small part of Safarthe child that weeps for its mother even at a great agequaked at the sight of them. The rest was armed with a cold, tightly-gripped rage he was ready to release at the slightest pretense.

The soldiers didn't know what to make of Safar. He was either the mightiest of liars or truly the king's blood oath brother. The only thing certain was Safar had more than proven himself as a warrior. It was for this reason, almost more than his claim of friendship with the king, that had stayed their hands. Safar had leaned heavily on their respect to rescue most of the members of the troupe and he'd bullied the old sergeant into letting them join him.

He used the circle like a shield, pacing the perimeter to keep it intact, pointing the tip of his sword accusingly at any soldier who dared stray closer. In the center the troupe was silently tending the unconscious Methydia. Safar feared for hershe'd been badly trampled by the warhorsebut he didn't dare show his concern in front of the bowmen. He knew it would be taken as a sign of weakness.

Then he heard a great horn blare and war drums beat a tattoo. Orders were shouted and the ring of bowmen suddenly parted.

A tall warrior mounted on a fiery black steed cantered down the path they made. He wore the pure white robes of a plains fighter. His head was wrapped in a white turban, with the tail pulled about his face like a mask.

The warrior pulled the horse up a few paces away. He studied Safar for a long moment, taking in the gore stained costume, bloody sword and soot-streaked face. Safar stared back, making as insolent a grin as he could manage. Finally the warrior's gaze came to Safar's eyes and there was a sudden jolt of recognition.

"Safar Timura, you blue-eyed devil, Iraj cried, sweeping away the mask, it is you!"

"In the flesh, Safar said, although as you can see that flesh is a little worse for wear and definitely in need of a bath."

Safar, remembering the first time he and Iraj had met, pointed at the soldiers and said, I think I could use a little help here. It seems I'm completely surrounded by the Ubekian brothers."

Iraj roared laughter. The Ubekian brothers! he shouted. What a sorry lot they were!"

Then, to the amazement of his soldiers, the king leaped off his horse and threw his arms around Safar, gore and all.

"By the gods I have missed you, Safar Timura, he shouted, pounding his old friend on the back. By the gods I have missed you!"

Iraj called for a mount and personally escorted Safar back to his command tentset on a hill overlooking Sampitay. When Safar indicated the unconscious Methydia and the others members of the troupe Iraj asked no questions about Safar's odd company, or even acted surprised. He immediately issued orders all were to be well cared for and the best healers summoned to tend to Methydia.

"And I want hourly reports on her progress, Iraj demanded. I don't want my good friend, Lord Timura, to worry unnecessarily."

Lord? Safar thought. How did a potter's son suddenly become a lord? He glanced at Iraj, saw the look of warning in his eyes and realized it wouldn't do for a king to have a blood oath brother who less than noble born.

During the ride back to his command post Iraj kept the conversation light, loudly regaling his aides and guard with exaggerated tales of his youthful adventures with Lord Timura."

"Why, if it weren't for Safar, he said, I wouldn't be here today. And you'd all be serving some other king, a weak-kneed, inbred bastard, no doubt. Someday I'll tell you the story of how he saved my life. You've already witnessed how bravely he fought here, so you can all rest assured it is a stirring tale that will take a long winter's evening to give it proper justice.

"But I will tell you this. After the battle the people of Kyrania were so grateful to us for saving them from that gang of bandits that they trotted out fifteen of their prettiest virgins for us to deflower."

He laughed. I gave up after five."

He turned to Safar. Or was it six?"

"Actually, it was seven, Safar answered.

Iraj's grin told him that he'd lied correctly.

"Seven it was, Iraj said. But that was nothing compared to my friend here. He deflowered the remaining eight, then strolled out of his tent, easy as you please, and announced he was still feeling peckish and wouldn't mind a few more."

The aides and guardsmen roared laughter and crowded in close to slap Safar on the back and praise his prowess as a fighter and lover.

"Mind you, Iraj said, he wasn't playing fair. Even as a boy Lord Timura was a mighty wizard. He confessed to me later that he had a secret potion for such occasions."

Again, Iraj turned to Safara frown of mock accusation on his face. If I recall, my friend, he said, you promised to supply me with some. A promise you never kept."

Safar held out a hand, palm up. I was hoping you had forgotten that, Your Highness, he said, adding the royal honorific for the first time and pleasing Iraj immensely. You see, there were only five virgins left in all Kyrania. And I didn't want us to quarrel over them."

More bawdy laughterled by the kinggreeted his clever reply. The royal party continued on and there were many manly jests and many manly boasts to mark the journey.

They wended their jocular way past scenes of incredible brutality. Sampitay's dead and wounded littered the battlefield. Captives, working under the stern direction of Iraj's fierce soldiers, piled the dead in mounds. Oil was poured on the corpses and they were set on fire; greasy black fumes, smelling like sacrificial sheep, rose to mix with the smoke of the burning city. Other soldiers moved across the field, slitting the throats of the groaning wounded. Thousands of civilians were being separated into groups of young and old, men and women. Construction crews were hammering together execution blocks for the aged and infirm. Sharp-eyed slavers were moving through the rest, drawing up estimates of the price each would bring and whether it would be worth the care and feeding they'd require.

Safar felt as if he were trapped in the worst kind of nightmareone that required him to wear a mask of light-hearted unconcern amid all that horror. And soaring above that was the dark raven of his fear for Methydia.