see where that carried him.
'Proceed, my lord,' he said to Lord Fari. 'Enlighten us all with your magic.'
Fari bowed low, then quickly assumed command of the shapely maids tending Vister. Naked, except for modesty patches at their loins, gleaming with a faint film of perspiration from the overheated room, giving off the scent of the most remarkable perfumes, the female humans and demons made exotic magical assistants for the old master wizard.
Taking a lesson in magic as entertainment from Timura, the Lord Fari made the most of the maids'
presence-drawing out and changing his spell so that it showed off their jiggling forms to the best advantage.
When he reached the penultimate moment he glanced at Protarus and was sorely disappointed when he saw how unaffected the king was. Instead of being flushed with excitement from all this mystery and magical erotica, Protarus sat boredly in his throne, fingernails tapping impatiently.
Fari hurled a handful of votive powders into the brazier and there was a flash of smoke, a swirl of colors.
Despite himself, Iraj's pose of unconcern dissolved and he bent closer to see. Timura was right, Fari thought. The King can't resist magic, especially when accompanied by a little showmanship.
As Iraj stared into the brazier the smoke began to shape itself into a deep canyon with high walls. He heard Vister groan in his sleep and suddenly the throne room vanished and Iraj found himself sitting on a nervous warhorse, those steep walls now towering over him on either side. He was in the lead group of a tightly-packed force of men and demons moving cautiously through the Caluzian Pass.
Iraj felt somehow diminished. Weaker-not just in muscle and bone, but weaker of spirit, of self, of … he fumbled for the word, then it came in a flash-Authority!
He glanced down and found filthy leather breeches covering his legs. He raised a hand and saw something strange and gnarled and quite unfamiliar rise up-the hand of another man! And then it came to him that he was in Vister's body, reliving the moments leading to the second battle in the pass.
'Easy, Majesty,' he heard Fari murmur. Voice close, but distant at the same time. 'We are with you!'
'Yes, Highness,' came another voice-Kalasariz'. 'I am here.'
'As am I, Majesty, as am I,' he heard Luka say.
He looked at the mounted soldiers on either side of him. All were grizzled and filthy. Of the lowest of the low-ranking, be they demon or human. Fari and the others were among them, but he couldn't tell which was which.
He heard a clatter of falling stone and Vister's body jerked in alarm. Eyes probing here and there, every nerve screaming ambush, but nothing real to place the feeling on no matter how hard he strained his senses.
Then he heard a steady, tromp, tromp of many marching men and he twisted in his saddle, steadying his skittish horse, looking for the source of the sound. All around him the other soldiers were doing the same and the air was filled with whispered curses and clanking armor.
A great trumpet sounded-blasting through the narrow canyon and resounding off the walls.
Iraj/Vister whirled to the front, shouting and clawing for his sword when he saw the ghastly army march into view.
They were huge men, so heavily mailed they turned the pass into a solid wall of armor. Their flesh was pale, corpselike, their lips the color of blood. They had huge hollow eyes that seemed like the darkest and deepest of caverns.
He heard his companions cry out and draw their weapons. Attack orders were shouted and Iraj/Vister raked his horse's flanks with his spurs and charged straight ahead. All his sensibilities were hurled aside.
His own life became insignificant as he joined the thundering cavalcade intent on slaughtering the enemy marching towards them.
He heard a hoarse voice shout: 'For the King!'
And the others took up the cry-'FOR THE KING!'
Iraj/Vister found himself shouting along with his brother warriors and for a few seconds he thought the greatest thing he could ever accomplish would be to die for his king.
And then he thought, But,
At that moment he smashed into the armored ranks of the enemy.
The expected shock of collision never came. To his amazement his horse swept through the densely packed enemy ranks as if they didn't exist. Helmed faces rose up to confront him. His horse, a veteran of many such attacks, lashed out with iron hooves, screaming in panic when it encountered nothing except insubstantial smoke and air.
A huge enemy warrior lunged at him with a spear. Iraj/Vister tried to knock it aside with his sword, but like the horse, his weapon encountered nothingness and he was nearly toppled from the saddle from the force of his own blow.
They're ghosts! his mind screamed as he clawed himself upright, losing his sword in the process. Ghosts!
He righted himself just as the ghost warrior's spear caught the edge of his chain vest. The spear skittered across the links and he felt the all too familiar white hot sear as a sharp point needled through the links and cut into flesh. Experience as much as fear dulled the pain and Iraj/Vister kicked through, mercilessly raking his horse's flanks.
His body was violated many times during the charge through that ghostly mass. By the time his horse was cut down he had suffered many small wounds and lacerations. He'd fought hard, yet not one of his enemies had been harmed. Every blow he struck met no resistance. The enemy soldiers seemed to dissolve as he thrust and slashed at them.
In the end he relied on his professional skill as a horseman, dodging this way and that, avoiding many of the blows aimed at him. All around him his companions were being slaughtered by the score.
Then a javelin took his horse and the poor beast squealed and folded under him. Iraj/Vister tried to roll free, but his wounds made him weak and the horse rolled on top of him. Amazingly, he found himself lying under the animal not only alive, but still mobile. Several corpses propped the dead horse up just enough so that Iraj/Vister was sheltered from the one-sided battle raging in the pass.
All desire to fight was gone. Now it was all he could do to keep from gibbering with fear and giving himself away to the enemy.
He peered through a small opening and saw the last of his mates dragged from his horse by the ghost warriors. They forced him to kneel and one giant grabbed the soldier by the hair, while another sliced off his head. The execution was so close that blood sprayed Iraj/Vister's face.
Then all became blackness.
Iraj's eyes blinked open. He felt strength flood back into his limbs and he realized he'd been returned to his own body.
He was back in the throne room, the Unholy Three standing before him, studying his reactions through conspiratorial eyes.
Iraj coughed and sat upright, squaring his shoulders. 'Very informative, my Lord,' he said to Fari, making his voice casual.
Fari bowed. 'Yes, Majesty,' he said. 'Quite informative indeed.'
Luka said, 'Give me the right spells to fight them, my Lord Fari, and I will clear the pass by tomorrow night.' Then, to Iraj, 'And it is my solemn vow, Highness, that not one drop of the blood of our soldiers will be shed without just cause.'
Kalasariz suddenly felt left out-vulnerable. He was a spy master, not a warrior or a wizard. He had nothing of value to offer at this most crucial moment. Then he glanced over at Vister and saw that the old soldier was no longer snoring in his chair. Instead he was quite still, his face yellow and waxen.
Just then one of the maids noticed something was amiss and placed a hand on Vister's chest. She was too well trained to cry out-possibly drawing the wrath of the moody King Protarus. Nevertheless, big tears welled up in her eyes and she began to weep.
Kalasariz saw his opportunity and took it. 'I fear, my Lord,' he said to Luka, 'that your promise to our king came too late for at least one of our most noble heroes.'
