Ashlan had been the first to seat Ayrn on his own riding stag and show him the use of the reins. Ayrn beamed with pride as he rode unassisted for the first time. He was brave, strong and the best of any of Lyrell’s issue.
Finally, when Ashlan could stand uncertainty no longer, he crept back into the Tower. Immediately, he noticed the place was not as warm as before. The Icewitch and her final offering lay sprawled side by side on the bed.
Her true form had not been much different from his own, or even the one she’d assumed to seduce him. Covering them both, Ashlan folded their hands and closed their eyes. Then, he cast his mage-fire to set the interior of the tower ablaze.
She had needed killing, Ashlan tried to assure himself as he rode away refusing to look back at the tower brightened by his fire. He could not permit her to continue living as she was.
Still, he would not forget the time he spent with her. It was not the bedding, although that was unlike any pleasure he had ever experienced. She had told him tales of his true homeland far to the South.
It never snowed; she had said. Not even for a short time. The sky was light for half the day. Brown fertile earth produced a variety of plants, not like the determined little snowflowers that fought their way through the cold, gray ground. Blackwood from that land was hard as his sword. Waters flowed providing transportation throughout the year. Like someone stores firewood to warm themselves on a cold night, Ashlan saved every word she'd said to him.
Possibly what she said was strictly fantasy, bedtime tales devised for her own amusement as much as his own. So much of what she said seemed too fantastic to be true. Worse, she could have been lying for her own entertainment. He still found that hard to believe. She'd told the truth when she said she would not kill him.
He had only two wishes, he wished he had asked her the name of the land where he came from.
Last, he wished she had given him her name.
The Leopard Walks Alone
By
Melvin Carter
The city was in high celebration. The wedding of the young daughter of the caid, Malik Battur and the hill country wolf known as the Silver Panther, Muamir Ashad's son by his Frankish concubine, the red-haired Abu Shama, promised a peace between the rivals and an alliance against both the Franks to the northeast and the tottering Almohad ruler to their south. Many were the songs and poems presented to the appreciative crowds and in certain spots, many were the toasts made in the rich dark wine the region had been famous for, since before the first legionnaire cast his shadow on the land. In one such supplied spot, the festivities included the sauce of ample hipped harlots, thieves and sharp eyed and nimble-fingered gamblers.
Moslem, Christian, and Jew were gathered here in this one cross street inn and the blood of the races flowed freely in the veins of most there. Shirkuh Hammerhand, a long-time marauder of Ashad's retinue sat at table with three of his fellows along with two of the garrison troopers of the town.
" More wine girl! Two pitchers if you please,” he shouted out over the din at a serving woman passing.
" Aye my honey! And some cheese, bread, and olives for us also," said a lithe serpent in human form.
Hassan Ibn Jubayr was a mustachioed narrow faced devil. He and Shirkuh had met on the field of battle against each other on more than one occasion in the past five years. Now over wine and whores they had made their truce with one another and hoped their fallen comrades found a place somewhere near the fringes of paradise. Just as they were about to burst into song with the crowd, a sudden silence fell on the inn's denizens, as if a strict mullah had found them all out of a sudden. Standing in the doorway at the top step, was a tall, bearded Black man dressed similar but not quite the same as a Berber from the lands of the Maghrib. Nine clan scars in total decorated his forehead and cheeks. His right forearm as he closed the door was bull buster thick adding to the hint of musculature his figure gave off beneath his clothes. He scanned the room, his dark eyes peering into any that so dared to meet his.
Strapped about him in a well-made but worn exotic leather baldric was a cross- guarded longsword and a knife tucked into a beast skin scabbard the mane a decorative fringe. He sauntered leopard easy across the clearing room to the heretofore crowded bar, ample space being made for him.
"Somebody's eunuch's out on the town, eh?" growled Shirkuh.
"He's not of us," the guardsman with Hassan, Daud said testily. "We get them after a generation or two away from the land of the Sudd. That one acts like we're beneath him."
"The double damn you say! I can't have one of them dawgs forgettin' his place around me!”, one of Shirkuh's companions, a big bravo named Yusef said, rising from the table dramatically.
One of the others, not so awash in wine, rose with him to watch the expected show closer. Yusef steadied himself with a deep breath, then walked up to the Black. Before he was close enough to repeat aloud the hastily contrived statement he had thought up while approaching, the warrior turned towards him.
" Puppy," he rumbled in a deep accented voice, “ Don't waste what little time you have left in the sweet world by yapping at your betters."
Yusef gulped and looked back to the others. He then turned towards the object of his disrupted lesson and reached to turn the Black back towards him, when quicker than a viper’s strike, the Black man grasped the intruder's
