Yet inside his tight pale fist, back on the blood-splattered plain, lay the hilt of the sword that bore the Sun God’s sigil. And that same sigil was marked on his pallid forehead in black ash by the hand of that God’s High Priest. D’zan had prayed over that sigil when he lived, asked the Bright God for his blessing and the protection of the ward that had come to him across the ages.
Something dark and ethereal tugged at his lifeless bones, seeking entry into that house of drained flesh. At the words of Elhathym, this dark spirit struggled to invade the young corpse… but could not enter it. D’zan felt this as a living man might feel a mosquito crawling across his forehead. It nagged at him, it sliced him with memories, stabbed him with anger that refused to subside. He turned away from the celestial lights and swam back toward the cold flesh that belonged to him and him alone. He had lost a kingdom, lost a father, lost a throne, lost his very life… but he would not lose his own bones to some foul thing that obeyed the whims of Elhathym. His rage blossomed, and the blackness of eternity became a universe of blood and flame. He would have cried out, but he was a disembodied soul and had no throat with which to scream. So he merely claimed what was his… the last vestige of his existence.
D’zan’s corpse rose to stand before the outstretched hand of Elhathym, whose mouth was a hideous smile. D’zan glared at him with glazed eyes swiveling inside their sockets.
I am dead.
Yet here I stand with my enemy before me.
“Go now!” said Elhathym. “Take this steed and ride among your living troops! Lead them to victory in my name.”
I exist under the power of his will, thought D’zan. He wants me to conquer in his name, the last threat to his rule now turned into an asset. His final stroke of victory.
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Dead, I must serve him.
The Stone’s blade was still in his hand. He lifted it, and it seemed light as a reed.
“Yes!” said Elhathym. “Take up your ancestral weapon and fight!”
I must serve him.
D’zan, dead and yet beyond death, raised the greatsword high. The sun-sigil on his forehead, like the one on his sword, gleamed bright as a torch.
Elhathym laughed at the greatness of his new slave.
No.
He brought the sword down upon Elhathym’s helm with all the terrible might of a dead man.
The helm cracked and the skull beneath it split wide. Elhathym’s face slackened, and a black fluid that was more shadow than blood gushed from between his lips. He no longer laughed. His eyes bulged on either side of the iron blade. Astonishment gleamed in those bloodshot orbs.
D’zan pulled the blade free of Elhathym’s skull and swept it with uncanny grace in a sideways arc, cleaving the sorcerer’s body at the waist. His two halves fell into the muck where D’zan had lain. Neither half twitched, and there was no blood. Galloping horses trampled them to dusty fragments.
D’zan raised his free hand to his chest. He felt the jagged hole, the wound that had killed him. There was no heartbeat. He stared in awe at his milk-white hand. He stood in a pool of blood that was mostly his own. There was no more of the stuff in his body, or very little.
I am dead, yes.
But I serve myself.
I serve Yaskatha.
He climbed upon Elhathym’s warhorse and raised his blade toward the sky. From his dry throat came a battle cry that froze mens’ hearts even in the midst of killing and savagery. He saw their faces turn upon him with fear, wonder, and terror. Then he laid about him with the sword, slicing a path through the Yaskathans. The battle was in full swing, and there was no stopping it now. He must fight for Mumbaza and hope that his own people would surrender once they realized their Tyrant-King was dead.
Someone shoved a spear through his belly. He killed the man with a swipe of his blade, then pulled the spear free and tossed it aside. He felt no pain. His strength seemed limitless, and his blood was already spilled. Swords bit at him, and he brushed them aside. Arrows peppered him through the mail shirt, and he plucked them out like thorns.
Everywhere he rode, slashing and stabbing his foes (his countrymen) to death, and he sent up the cry in his hoarse, rasping voice: “Elhathym is dead! Long live the true King of Yaskatha! The tyrant is dead! King D’zan has come! Elhathym is dead!”
The news spread, and some Yaskathans began to surrender. When the Mumbazans called in their reserves, ar reserv general retreat was sounded. Tyro cut down a Yaskathan Adjutant who refused to let his troop surrender. D’zan laughed, but it sounded like coughing. The battle became a rout. Yaskathans either gave themselves to the mercy of the Mumbazans or fled across the plain toward their city. Most of those fleeing were cavalrymen. The foot soldiers were faced with the options of accepting quarter or trying to outrun Mumbazan arrows and horses.
D’zan took a fallen Yaskathan flag and raised it high. He ordered a prisoner to sound the horn of Yaskathan assembly. He galloped about the field, trampling or leaping over dead bodies, weaving through forests of spears planted in flesh and earth. His banner waved high as the assembly horn sounded. Many of the cavalry had ridden too far south to see or hear him, but the captured men and those who ceased retreating took up a cheer now.
“King D’zan!” shouted the captives. Tyro and his cohort joined them. The Mumbazans added their voices, and three retreating divisions rode back to the middle of the plain, where D’zan flew their flag from the back of his leaping stallion. It bucked beneath him and snorted like a bull, stamping the earth. Its eyes were flames, and it howled like a wolf as the cheering men gathered closer.
Now D’zan realized that the horse of Elhathym was not a horse at all, but some demon given a horse’s shape. Still it served him, and he accepted its fealty without question. As he accepted his own dead existence.
The Yaskathans rallied about their rightful King and shouted his name. They were mostly glad to be alive, but also that the tyrant’s rule was done.
“Long live D’zan!” they shouted, and a sadness fell upon him.
Tyro rode near to congratulate him. His green-and-gold mail was showered in the purple of drying blood. He carried a deep gash on one arm, and his face was blackened by dirt and sweat. Yet he smiled and hoisted the flag of Uurz next to that of Yaskatha.
Tsoti and Lyrilan rode down from the ridge to join the triumph. The banners of Shar Dni and Udurum rose alongside those of Uurz and Yaskatha. Soon D’zan would ride into the city and reclaim it in the name of peace.
He calmed his demon-steed and looked into the face of Lyrilan. The scholar’s face fell from joy into deep worry.
“He is wounded!” Lyrilan shouted. He turned to the battle-maddened Tyro. “Can you not see D’zan is wounded? He has lost too much blood! We must get him to the tents!”
General Tsoti looked at him with a grave face and ordered men to bring a litter.
“No, I will ride,” said D’zan. “I am… fine.”
Lyrilan looked at him in horror. “You are delirious. You are white as death. You must rest! You have won, but you must rest!”
“I have won,” said D’zan. He looked about him at the elated faces of the Yaskathans in their smeared silver mail and torn cloaks, some wounded and barely standing.
“I have won,” he said again, bringing his horse close to that of Lyrilan. He reachlan. He ed out a hand and pulled his friend close to him. Close enough to whisper in his ear. “I have won, Lyrilan. But he has killed me.”
Lyrilan looked into his eyes and understanding dawned on his lean face. The Scholar-Prince pulled his horse away, his eyes still staring at D’zan, speechless.
Now Tyro saw the mortal wound in D’zan’s chest and turned to Tsoti, who also saw it. His friends stared at him with a strange aspect now. Their joy had turned to sympathy and worry. And now to something else entirely.
It was fear.
“Assemble a vanguard to take the city,” said D’zan in his croaking voice. “I will not rest until I sit the throne again. Let the wounded stay and be tended. All who can ride, come with me. My own legions will aid us.”
He swirled away from them on his demon mount and guided it into the midst of the Yaskathans, who knew
