ask Lord Timura to send up a platoon now just in case.'
She rode back to the pass where Dario was stripping himself and his horse of all unnecessary weight.
She did the same, then they helped each other tie rags around their horse's hooves to muffle the sound.
When they were ready she nodded at Dario to proceed.
The sergeant grimaced a smile. 'If somethin' happens,' he said, 'tell my old woman to put a jug out for my ghost tonight. Way I hear it, dyin's damned thirsty work.'
And then he rode into the pass.
She waited until he reached the first bend. At his signal she moved slowly forward. Dario took up temporary position at the bend, keeping watch in both directions until she reached him. While she stood guard he moved to the next point, scanning the high walls of the canyon for any movement.
They leapfrogged like that, going deeper and deeper until the light became so dim that all was in shadow and they relied on hearing and instinct more than sight. The high canyon walls were old and rotting, showing dark wounds where they had given away to tumble down onto the road.
There was no wind and the air was hot and stale. Sound was intensified, almost unnatural; the horse's muffled hooves seemed like distant drums, their breathing harsh and gasping like a dying beast's, and once in awhile some far off landslide would break, sounding like slow rolling thunder.
Sweat trickled down Leiria's back, increasing the prickling sensation she'd experienced after passing the first bend. She felt as if she were being watched, a sensation she'd normally heed. But the atmosphere was so bleak she thought it might be her imagination. Adding to her wariness was the fact that there was simply nowhere for anyone to hide-no perches on the faces of the cliffs, no rubble so dense or high enough to provide cover. Each section of road they cleared should remain cleared. It was only common sense.
Then she saw Dario signal frantically. She halted the horse and swiftly fit an arrow into her bow.
Dario held his hand, keeping her in position. She saw him lean forward, as if listening.
Then she heard it-the heavy, measured tread of many boots. Dario reined his horse back, quickly slipping an ax from his belt. He came slowly, eyes forward, listening to the tromp, tromp, tromp of the approaching boots.
Suddenly, from behind her she heard the same measured tread. Leiria came about, heart hammering at this impossibility. She lifted her bow, staring at the bend, waiting for the first face to show.
The boots came closer, moving in from both sides as if closing some gigantic pincer with Dario and Leiria in between.
She sensed Dario at her side and they moved together, the noses of their horses pointing in opposite directions.
The sound of marching boots grew louder and louder until they were like kettle drums. Then a great horn blew, the boots went stamp … stamp … stamp … three times, hard on the last, and stopped.
Silence.
Then the air shimmered and out of all that nothingness appeared a long column of huge, mailed warriors.
Their skin was white as death, lips blood red, and their eyes were great empty sockets as black and deep as caves.
Leiria took a chance and glanced behind her. And her eyes confirmed what mind and heart knew.
The pincers had closed.
They were surrounded.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lord Fari watched with mild amusement as the soldiers tormented the two prisoners. A man and a woman, both stripped naked, were staggering between two ranks of cheering warriors. One side was human, the other demon, and they were hurling rocks and sticks at the couple, trying to drive them toward one group of soldiers or the other.
The game would go on like this, with some interesting variations, until the prisoners had been ripped to pieces. Then those pieces would be used in stirring games of fiendish polo, pitting mounted demon and human teams against one another as they whacked gory parts about the field with clubs made of bone.
It was all great innocent fun, Fari thought, and he was pleased to see the young soldiers engaged in such vigorous, morale-building activity.
The woman fell a few feet from the demon side and long talons reached for her. She screamed, dragging herself away, long trails of blood raking along one thigh where they'd caught her. The soldiers roared laughter, giving the woman time to stagger to the middle of the wide gap between the ranks of tormentors. They howled louder still when she fell next to the man and he embraced her with bleedings arms trying to comfort her.
'Oh, good show! Good show!' Fari cried, rapping his skull-topped cane against the ground. Beneath him, a husky demon slave shifted patiently under Fari's bulk, alert to his lord and master's every movement.
There was a lull in the game as wineskins were passed about to slake all that happy thirst and Fari sent a runner with a bag of gold to add to the stakes and the excitement.
The rough playing field was set up on the edge of the Black Lands where Iraj had camped his army while he considered his next move. Fari frowned, absently reaching out a taloned hand-instantly filled with a cup of wine by a demon maid who was as comely as she was attentive.
Actually, time for consideration had little to do with the king's planning. Protarus was in one of his moods again, so black no one dared come near him except his slaves and they had no choice in the matter. He'd already killed more than a dozen for infractions so small even Fari was startled. Lord Fari was known to have hard views about spoiling slaves. He even approved of the occasional act of casual violence to keep them anxious to please. Besides, a slave on a gibbet in front of your house was a good thing for an enemy to see when he came to visit.
There was no similar artifice in Iraj Protarus' actions, however. He didn't even kill them out of anger, Fari noticed. It was more like a fly had been buzzing about, interrupting his melancholia. It was a melancholy so deep and so dark the king seemed to find a strange comfort and escape in it, as if sorrow were a thick, warm coverlet he drew over him to blot out the world. Then came the buzz of the fly-a smile when he didn't want to see a smile, a solemn face when he wanted a smile-and he would flick it away. Claws erupting from his hands, snatching out a throat, then becoming hands again as the king returned to his thinking, eyes only blinking when the body struck the floor.
Protarus had been like that since the attempt on his life by the boy, Palimak. Fari scratched his horn with a long, contemplative talon. It had been a very good spell, he thought. One that even he, a master wizard, could admire. The only error the child had committed when he'd composed the spell was to leave a link between the giver of the amulet and the taker. So when the king spoke the word 'Palimak' aloud, triggering the spell, it was the witch who took most of the killing force, not the king.
The king had suffered enough physical harm to delay the march for several weeks while his wounds healed. He'd been left with only one scar no magical treatment could erase, even when applied to the self-healing body of a shape changer. It was a small scar that lifted one corner of his lip into a permanent smile. It wasn't a sneer or a grin, but a sly tilt that made you wonder if he knew some secret that did not bode well for you.
As time went by it soon became apparent the king had suffered a deeper wound. Without warning, he'd suddenly fall into a black mood and call the army to a halt, only to retire the into the depths of his harem.
When the mood ended he'd suddenly rise up and order the march to resume, cursing at the delay as if it were the fault of others.
The consequence was that they were far behind Safar Timura and his refugee caravan. So far the magical trail they were following was very weak and would soon fade out entirely. And Lord Timura would have eluded them once again-possibly for all time. The forced hunt could only go on for so long. Eventually, either all the supplies would be exhausted or the kingdom would become so neglected Protarus would have to pause to put things in order.
