It was a man, bearing his weight on his spear, dragging the remains of a shattered shield behind him. It made Iraj glad the sole survivor was human. One of his own, as a matter of fact, from the make of his costume- spurred boots and baggy breeches, short bow over his shoulders, scimitar at his waist. An old soldier from Iraj's homeland on the Plains of Jaspar.
Iraj was deeply affected by the sight of the battered soldier. Old emotions, human emotions, emotions that had been long absent in his heart, surged into the light. First pity welled up, then homesickness, then guilt for allowing one of his own to be so mistreated. Iraj bolted from his throne and went to his kinsman, guards and servants scampering to keep up.
When he reached the soldier the man stopped, wavering, confused at having his way blocked. His eyes were wild, his face a bloody mask and when he finally noticed Iraj he shrieked and threw up his ruined shield to protect himself, spear point rising to counterstrike. Iraj jerked back, easily avoiding the spear.
But then all his speed was called for as his guards leaped in to kill the man for daring to threaten the king.
Iraj sent two big demons sprawling from the force of his blow.
'Hold!' he shouted, freezing the others in place. His retinue goggled at him, desperately trying to decipher the king's intent. He ignored them, turning back to the old plainsman.
'Pardon, Cousin,' he said gently as he could, 'but you seem to be without horse.' Meaning, in the argot of Jaspar, that the man was in great difficulty.
'Monster!' the man shouted, stabbing at the air with his spear. 'You took my horse but you won't take me!'
Iraj brushed the spear aside and grabbed the man by the shoulders. 'What's wrong with you?' he barked. 'Have you gone mad?'
Then he saw his own reflection in the man's eyes-a great gray wolf rearing up-and he knew the reason for the man's fear-why, he'd called his own kinsman 'Monster!'
Iraj concentrated, making his form as human as possible, and the old soldier suddenly recognized him.
The man fell to his knees, babbling. 'So sorry, Majesty! Didn't mean to … I must've been mad to think …
But it was awful, Sire! Bloody, awful! Nothin' but ghosts in there, I tell you! Nothin' but ghosts. You can't get a hand on 'em, much less a good poke with your spear…'
The man broke down, tears making a bloody track on his face. He shook his head. 'I'm … I'm … I'm sorry, Majesty. I have failed you!'
Iraj was powerfully moved by the sight of one his most faithful and long-serving kinsmen brought so low.
Then the man drew himself up-turning from shambling wreck to a proud old soldier.
'Give me the knife, Cousin,' he demanded, plucking at Iraj's belt for the curved knife hanging there, 'so I can end my shame!'
Iraj let him take it, but as the soldier shifted his grip to plunge the knife into his heart he stayed his hand.
'This isn't necessary, my friend,' he said. 'You are not at fault this day! No failure can be laid at your feet.' Iraj thumped his chest. 'It is your king's doing, Cousin,' he said. 'Blame no other.'
The man sagged in relief and Iraj caught him, slipping the knife from his hands and returning it to its sheath. He steadied the soldier, turning him toward the great pavilion that housed his traveling court.
'Come,' he said. 'Let us eat and drink and boast of the deeds of our youth. And when you recover your horse, your strength, we can talk about what went on this day.'
The two of them-Iraj nearly carrying his charge-moved toward the pavilion. Without being ordered, servants ran ahead to prepare an impromptu banquet for the king and his new companion.
Iraj paused at the entrance to speak with his aides. 'Send for the Lords Fari and Luka,' he ordered.
'And that bastard Kalasariz, if you see him about. Probably hiding under some rock is my guess. Tell them their king wishes to speak to them immediately!'
The aides rushed off to do his bidding. Iraj looked down at the old soldier, who seemed to be recovering somewhat.
'What is your name, my friend?' he inquired. 'What do the other men of Jaspar call you?'
'Vister, Majesty,' the man replied. 'Sergeant Vister at yer service!' He tried to draw himself up in salute and nearly toppled over.
Iraj steadied him. 'Let's get a few drinks in you, Cousin Vister,' he said, 'before you try that again.'
As they strode into the pavilion the first few flakes of snow began to fall. Then the flakes became a flurry and the skies turned pewter gray. The snow fell harder-flakes the size of small pillows drawing a blanket of white across the stark terrain. Even the Demon Moon became diminished-an orange grin peering through the gray. Soon the entire encampment was buried in snow and the soldiers were turned out to dig paths to the tented barracks and clear the main road.
Fari and Luka arrived at Protarus' headquarters but were denied entrance while the King supped with Vister. Finally Kalasariz arrived, shivering in the cold despite the thick fur cloak he wore. He was surprised when he saw the two demons cursing and stomping about in the snow.
'What's the difficulty?' he asked. 'Is the King in one of his foul moods again?'
'Who can tell?' Luka grumbled, horned brow made pale green by frost. He snorted twin columns of steam in the frigid air. 'Foul or fair, all his moods seem for the worst these days.'
Fari gestured at the Caluzian Pass, where several of his demon wizards were huddled miserably by the entrance tending smoking pots of magical incense.
'From what I can gather,' the old demon said, 'all our efforts have been brought to a massive halt so our master could talk over old times with some lowly sergeant.' He shrugged, miniature avalanches of snow cascading from his shoulders. 'It's a pity, really. All this snow is a great help to us.'
Kalasariz frowned, then realized how much better he'd felt since the snow started. No more constant battering of wild Black Lands spells.
'I thought perhaps you had come up with some new shield,' he said to Fari.
The old demon snorted. 'Who has had the time for such experiments?' he said. 'No, it's the storm that's doing it. As near as I can tell the snow blocks-or possibly even blinds-the machine at Caluz.'
'Which means the devils inside that pass,' Luka broke in, 'ought to be ripe for the plucking. It's my guess that one more attack ought to knock them loose.'
Kalasariz cocked an eyebrow, amused. 'I assume you've told the King this,' he said.
Luka barked laughter. 'No, my Lord,' he said, making a mock bow. 'We were waiting for you to bless us with your esteemed presence. You seem to be in the greatest favor with our Lord and Master these days. We thought you could tell him for us.'
Kalasariz grinned. 'And wouldn't that make me the prince of fools,' he said. 'Especially when I know for a fact that neither of you are sure who exactly is opposing us in that pass.'
'I really must speak to you at length someday,' Fari said, 'on your spying methods. Not even the flies in the latrines escape your notice.'
'That's true,' Luka said. 'Sometimes I think you can see up our arses.'
'Now you've guessed my secret,' Kalasariz joked. 'The flies are in my employ.'
All three of them laughed-forming a temporary bond in this rare moment of shared humor.
Fari was old enough and wise enough to recognize opportunity first. 'Let's speak honestly for a change, my brothers,' he said. 'Or should I call us the Unholy Three.' He chuckled. 'I've heard that name for us bandied about in the ranks. Rumor has it that the King himself calls us that behind our backs. However, no matter the intent of the fellow who originally coined the term, I think it fits us all quite well.'
'The Unholy Three,' Kalasariz murmured. Then he smiled. 'I like that. I think we should keep it.'
Luka snorted. 'Forget the game playing, my Lord,' he said. 'Call us what you will. But please … get to the point.'
Fari was careful not to take offense. 'Very well,' he said. 'I'll dispense with pleasantries and reach down for the final sum of our woes. In a few minutes the King will call us before him. How shall we advise him?'
'How
