K B Forrest [Fire Chronicles 03] Burned Dreams [eXtasy MM] (pdf)

Atar is now the Firestarter, but his only wish is to escape to
the land of his dreams. It is the fabled “Land of the Water
Dogs,” where white mares graze by a crystalline lake. Atar
and Bulliwuf are making their way there, but as the rightful
heir to the throne of the Persian Empire, Atar is thrown into
responsibilities he does not wish to face. Zohak is waiting to
pounce on the throne. He is also an heir, but his rule will
bring disaster to the fair land. When forced to compete for
the throne, Zohak loses until he cuts a deal with a demon.
Zohak was once the evil brother of Atar. Now he is a demon.

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Burned Dreams

ISBN: 978-1-77111-136-2

Cover art by Martine Jardin

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Burned Dreams

Fire Chronicles Part Three

KB Forrest

Prologue

lang, clang, clang.

The ringing noise of iron on iron shivered in the early

morning air. The sparks that sprayed up illuminated the
hulking blacksmith. The bright specks sizzled for an instant
on his leather apron.

Clang, clang, clang.
As the rest of the world slept, the blacksmith worked. He

placed his finished glowing piece into a pail of water. Steam
hissed off the object and swirled around his face. The
blacksmith pulled it out of the water and examined it with a
fond smile. It was a cunning miniature sword for his little
girl. His little darling.

Setting the toy aside, he turned to his other work.

Clang, clang, clang.

KB Forrest

Chapter One

he waning moon had almost set in the night sky above
the castle. Down in the courtyard the peace was about to

be shattered by the dark, scurrying figure mounted on a
wheezing horse.

With a groan, the figure’s horse slid to the ground, dead,

and the messenger bounded off the beast, the silver in his
uniform gleaming against the dark blue fabric. The watery
light of the moon hid the bloodstains and grime the
messenger had accumulated during his trip.

“The Horde has come! The Horde has broken the

defenses! To arms! They will kill us all! To arms!”

Guards came running, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.
“Who is there? Whoa, what’s this?”
“Move it! Move, move, move!” the captain on guard

shouted.

Soon the sprawling courtyard was flooded with the

scarlet uniforms of the guards dashing to and fro, shouting
and cursing. High Lords and Ladies peered down at the
chaos, already chattering. One man was running about at the
gates, sword in hand, looking for the matted heads of the
Horde. Some dashed into the dark passageways of the castle,
waking more of the nobility and spreading the news.

It was not long before Queen Cunaxa the Pure rushed

down, heedless of her disheveled person. “Give me a report,
someone! You there.”

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Her calm imperative voice cut through the insipient

hysteria of some of the guards. The man with the sword had
ascended the battlements and was pelting along, only his
sword tip visible.

“It-it’s the Horde, Your Majesty,” the guard said,

dropping to one knee. “The Northern Savages have
attacked!” Cunaxa’s eyes flashed to the messenger in the
blue and silver of the neighboring kingdom. Her heart sank
to her frayed slippers. She knelt by the messenger,
remembering the time not so long ago when she had done
the same thing to another messenger. Impotent rage filled
her.

“Can you hear me?” she asked in a clear voice, pleased to

hear none of the fear she was feeling.

The messenger opened his eyes and parted his wind-

chapped lips. “Majesty—need to speak with the Emperor—
the Horde is at the gates, sacking the city. Please, please send
enforcements. King Mena begs you. He will promise the
Princess Sophene the Sharp to his Honored Prince Sugreeva
if you only…” The man broke off in a fit of coughing, but the
queen had heard enough.

“Take him to the medical mages,” the Queen ordered as

she rose majestically. The Guards scurried to obey. Cunaxa
swept down the corridor, her nightgown flying out white in
the pale moonlight. She mounted the stone stairs to the
Emperor’s apartment, determination firing her step.

Darkness shrouded the Emperor’s door, making it look

sinister. The maid that was supposed to be on attendance
outside the Emperor’s door was hovering at the window on
the opposite end of the hall, watching the scene in the
courtyard, whispering with another maid. The lamp in her
hands bobbed as she gestured to her friend.

Cunaxa seized the latch. It did not budge.
“Curses!”
The maid squealed and scuttled back to her post. Cunaxa

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pounded her fists on the massive, incredibly stout door,
cursing Hergor’s fear of assassins as the maid came toward
her.

“Open up, damn you! Face your responsibilities for once!

The Horde is at the Massagetae’s gates, and our people are
starving because of the drought! Open up!”

Dead silence.
Cunaxa whirled on the servant girl. “Do you have the

key?”

The girl squeaked again and fumbled in her dress, her

nervous fingers shaking. Cunaxa grabbed at the keys herself
and put the most ornate one in the lock. It took a minute for
the tumblers to fall. Then she threw the door open,
slamming it hard into the wall. Immediately the smell of
alcohol and stale sweat assailed her. A steady unnerving
noise like a roar of a very large beast reverberated in the still
air of the dark chamber. She stepped boldly into the despot’s
lair, recognizing the snores for what they were. The light
from the lamp of the candle shone on the rhythmic rise and
fall of the snoring tyrant’s enormous gut.

A blonde head rose from the bed covers, and a face with

smeared makeup turned toward the queen, blinking blearily.
The woman’s head then fell back down again with a meaty
plop on the Emperor’s chest, making the rolls of fat ripple
and jiggle like possessed slugs. Cunaxa grimaced at the sight
of the emperor’s recumbent form. He really was hideous
naked, as she had good cause to know.

She crossed the room and slapped his face.
He snorted then resumed the steady roaring snores. The

stench of liquor was perceptible from a distance.

Cunaxa turned away shaking with rage and filled with

disgust. “Fetch the prince. This lump of shit is useless.”

“O-of course, Your Majesty, at once, Your Majesty.”
The maid disappeared and Cunaxa slammed the door,

cursing every god that ever walked for the cruel twist of fate

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that had robbed her of her power fifteen years ago. She still
remembered the day when Hergor the Traitor, with inside
information from Dahaka the Sly, her former husband, had
stormed her poorly defended castle with his army. She had
used her wits and preserved her life, unlike the other two
monarchs Hergor had time to dispose of before the armies of
the Seven returned from fighting the Horde.

Now the Horde was attacking again. The people were on

the brink of starvation from the awful drought, and Hergor
had his head in the sand. He ignored every warning, every
pleading message, and now a crisis had befallen them. Now
they would have no choice but to enter the War.

* * * *

The light from the maid’s lantern flickered on the stricken
face of Prince Sugreeva the Fair, son of Queen Rutvana,
Emperor Hergor’s second wife. His hair settings trembled as
he shook his head in denial.

“What are you saying, servant? Are they at the gates?

Quickly, get my jewelry case!” Sugreeva swung his skinny
legs out of bed and slipped into lavender rabbit fur slippers.
His eyes were wild and panicky. He threw his hands around
in a weak gesture of defeat, and grabbed at a golden statue
that graced the table next to him.

“No, no, Your Grace, they are in the neighboring

kingdom, but the matter is urgent. The queen, Her Grace
Cunaxa wishes to speak with you at once, Your Majesty!”

Sugreeva blinked and set the statue down. Why does she

want to speak with me? A chill ran down his back as a hideous
possibility occurred to him. Would he be obliged to lead the
armies himself? It was very common for princes to lead the
armies to gain fame before their reign, and to allow their
fathers to stay at home to rule. The more he thought about it,
the more likely it seemed.

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He slid back onto his soft, lushly appointed bed, and

covered his face with his hands in an attempt to quell the
rising panic in his breast. This was not happening. He would
not let it. He needed to consult his advisor.

He rose and took the lamp from the girl. Then he scurried

out, hoping no one would see him in his nightgown and hair
settings. His soft-soled lavender slippers made no sound as
he hurried along the dark corridors.

Hearing a murmured conversation, he pressed himself

against the cool stone wall, hiding the light from the lamp. A
moment later, the voices died, and Sugreeva took a ragged
breath.

He was off again, scuttling toward the stairs. He began

the long descent, the flickering golden light of the lamp
illuminating the worn stone stairs. Patches of moonlight
filtered in through the occasional window. Following a
meandering hall, he crossed the council chamber, the
treasure room, and a few others he did not even take the
time to notice. His feet began to ache, and his tired eyes
swam in the meager light.

He reached the grand staircase and surreptitiously looked

down at the great hall, marveling at how the gloom and the
dead quiet changed the enormous ballroom. Feeling naked,
he descended the wide stairs, remembering countless formal
occasions when he had done the same. It gave him an eerie
feeling to see the empty chairs that lined the main banquet
table.

His mind was whirling as he trotted across the great hall

and followed the winding corridors toward his destination.
He needed to couch his speech carefully. He descended a
dark staircase and felt gooseflesh rise all over him as the cool
of the subterranean passage cut through his flimsy robe.
These were the old dungeons. His friend lived in the old
captain’s quarters, although why he chose such hideous
accommodations eluded Sugreeva.

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Finally, he reached the dark doorway of Zohak’s

apartments. He raised his hand to knock, when suddenly the
door was thrown open. Sugreeva was taken aback, and
unable to suppress a startled cry that echoed eerily down the
empty corridors.

“Eek! Oh! Zohak! I had no idea you would be awake! Oh,

there are things we need to discuss—chaos reigns above! We
need to talk!”

* * * *

Zohak swallowed the angry snarl that was on his lips.
“What is it, my dear friend?” Zohak asked, his tone liquid
smooth. Zohak had been about to search the castle for his
promiscuous wife, Jahi the Lovely, but now that would be
delayed. Zohak was above average in height, and his frame
was powerful from fifteen years in the Outlands of Scythia.
He ushered the prince into his private chamber. The dark
stone walls of the study were well lit by dozens of candles,
yet the impression of darkness was not banished. A
doorway leading to the bedroom was partly ajar. Sugreeva
threw himself into one of the couches by the bookcase that
took up one wall.

“The Horde! I was asleep, and then she told me, but they

were not really there so it was okay, I can pack the jewelry
later…”

Zohak closed his eyes as the temptation to silence the

babbling idiot before him almost overwhelmed him.

“Okay, shut up—uh err that is, let’s take stock of the

situation,” Zohak said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“By Mithra, they are sacking the neighboring kingdom!

What to do? What to do?” Sugreeva wailed, wringing his
hands. “And now that bitch wants to talk to me. I don’t want
to go! They can’t make me! I am the prince! I will marry
Princess Sophene the Sharp anyway. Just because I will not

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lead the army doesn’t mean she can get away with not
marrying me!”

“Right. Here drink this, and sit down while I think.”

Zohak paced and the gentle tinkling of the fountain filled the
chamber with its soothing music. The water came from an
underground stream high in the wall. It trickled down the
wall, settling into a wide, waist high basin, and overflowing
to follow a neat path to a drain somewhere out of sight.
Zohak placed his hands on the craggy black rocks and
peered into the dark water.

When he felt his temper was under control, he walked to

his low table and sat down.

“You do not want to lead the armies, I presume? We shall

have to find another way around this then, won’t we?”

“Oh! What to do?”
“Perhaps the prince would like someone to lead them for

him,” Zohak said, leaning forward, his little black eyes
glittering. He could almost taste the power. He’d been
waiting for this opportunity. He would now begin to act as
the proxy for the weak prince. Suddenly his mood
brightened.

“Oooh…”
“Someone strong, decisive, and unquestionably loyal,”

Zohak suggested.

“Hmm. Maybe…”
“Someone removed from the politics, so he could lead

impartially for your glory.”

“Why yes!” Sugreeva said, taking his hands away from

his eyes. “Yes, he could not be poisoned by politics.”

“Someone to fight for your glory! I am just the man to…”
“Yes! You are on the right track! We shall make the

Firestarter do it! Atar the Firestarter! He is just a barbarian,
but he is as strong as Mithra. A little gold bauble dangled in
front of him will have him as passive as a kitten! Good
thinking! Zohak, I knew you’d make a good assistant. Now

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go after him at once. His trail is a few weeks old I imagine,
but I know with the skill you gathered in the outlands, you
could track him. What a genius I am!” Sugreeva leapt to his
feet with a smile. “Now mind me, you must hurry! Take as
many men as you need to overtake him. Just make sure you
do not harm him or incapacitate him. He will do an excellent
job. Very good thinking.”

Sugreeva swept out of the room, leaving Zohak gaping

with shock. He snapped his teeth as he shut his mouth.
Going over to the basin, he dunked his head under the dark
water and screamed, frustrated beyond belief. Will I ever be

free from the damn idiot? Will he ever stop darkening my every

moment? He took away my rightful inheritance. I was to be the
Firestarter. Now such immense power is in the hands of a

simpleton who has no idea how to use it. An evil idiot indeed! And

as if that weren’t bad enough, now I have to work with this
imbecile prince! How did he ever think I’d suggest such a thing?
Blasted! He beat his fists against the wall until they bled.

KB Forrest

Chapter Two

tar the Firestarter groaned, the rich snuffling snorts at
his ear breaking into his dream of the red haired girl he

had seen at the banquet held in his honor. A wet wolf
tongue smacked across his peaceful face.

“Stop it, Bulliwuf! Do you know how early it is?” the

young man murmured, opening up his blue eyes a crack. He
drew the fur blanket closer around him and attempted to
curl out of sight.

Bulliwuf’s deep human voice came to him now, and Atar

was enveloped in the arms of his dear lover and comrade.
“Now there, for a werewolf, it is quite late. I am too excited
to just sit here and watch as you sleep. I want you!”

Atar snuggled into him. It was so warm. He looked up at

the silvery, alert eyes, and ran his hands through the thick,
silver hair. He could never quite get used to seeing Bulliwuf
like this. And he never wore clothing, nor could he stay in
the human form for very long—except for when he was
horny. And he was very horny now.

Bulliwuf kissed him until he felt breathless. His body

must have a higher temperature, Atar had realized. He was
always so hot. Bulliwuf liked to rub his hot body against him
until he thought he would ignite. Life was so sweet for him.
He wished they could enjoy life like this forever. Just Atar,
Bulliwuf, and Ishria the warhorse.

Atar got up finally, groaned, stretched, and donned the

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tiger skin that was one of his few garments. The skull of the
tiger had been left intact, and the fierce fangs had been
tipped with gold. Atar looked like a wild man when he
pulled the hood over his curly black hair. The other items he
wore were a black loincloth, black boots, and a dagger on a
black belt. All of these last items had been given to him
before the great banquet that had turned out to be such a
fiasco.

He began to move around the camp, packing his meager

possessions for the day of travel ahead. “What should we do
now?” Atar asked, sinking to his knees. Ishria the Stormy,
Atar’s blue roan destrier, raised his head from the tender
grass he had been grazing on. “The last town wasn’t worth a
shit, and we are only going deeper and deeper into to wild
lands. Bulliwuf, you can manage the winters well, but Ishria
and I need supplies if I even hope to have a chance of
surviving.”

The thought of striking out on his own in the wild lands

scared Atar as much as it thrilled him. Who knew what
untold dangers he would face in the lands beyond? Who
knew what glorious and beautiful sights awaited him? The
trouble was, he did need supplies, and he had no money,
thanks to the little escapade at the banquet. He heaved
himself to his feet and finished packing as they reviewed
their options.

Bulliwuf was snacking on a huge leg of deer they had

killed. “Well, we can either go to the next town and try our
luck, or double back and see if we can hit one of the larger
cities to the south.”

Atar listened as he packed. “The trouble with that plan is

that in any city we will stand out. People will suspect us,
and there is always the chance someone will recognize us.”

“Indeed,” Bulliwuf agreed. “Rumors about you, the new

barbarian Firestarter, have flown to all Seven Kingdoms, and
we can do without more attention.”

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“I don’t get it,” Atar said. “Why did they make such a big

deal about me being the new Firestarter? I don’t even know
what the hell I’m supposed to do. I don’t feel any different
now. It’s crazy.”

“Well what we do know is that we have to get out of the

public eye,” Bulliwuf said.

“Yeah. Besides, all I know is the wilderness. Growing up

with the Paralatae Scythians only gave me that advantage.
Cities scare me. People live in things called houses. They are
built like tombs. I’d rather wait until I die to be in a tomb,
but better yet, I’d rather be eaten by wild animals. That way
I could always be under the sky.”

Bulliwuf laughed.
“What?”
“Oh, I just imagined you as a bear turd.”
Atar smacked him across his broad back, but he was

happy. “What bothers me is that we might waste the rest of
the summer roaming, and then be delayed until the next
season. I’ll go mad if that happens.”

“The best thing is to forge ahead. We might find what we

need in the next town,” Bulliwuf said.

Mounting Ishria the Stormy in one graceful leap, they

continued along the deer path they had been following the
day before. Bulliwuf took his wolf form. He could converse
with Atar by mind-speak, but he always seemed lost in
thought lately.

The slanting pink light of dawn bathed the path ahead in

a heavenly glow. Early birds hailed the morning, and Atar
breathed in the scent of fresh earth, reveling in his freedom
and his very existence. In one hand, he carried the great
mace of Colaxais. Its gleaming metal points caught the
morning light as Atar shifted it in his hands. Although it was
morning, it was hot. Midsummer cicadas whirred insistently
in the trees above as Ishria traveled easily over the land.
Ishria, like Atar, had come from the Paralatae Tribe, the

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fiercest barbarians ever to roam the grassy plains of Scythia.
They were renowned for their horses, but the rest of their
lifestyle was shrouded in mystery to outsiders.

The miles passed, and Atar could feel his excitement for

his new life mounting. The beauty and tranquility were
unmarred by any sign of worry. In fact, he had even ceased
to cover his trail, should anyone wish to follow him. He
didn’t think the risk was a big one, particularly since he was
a Scythian. His trail would nearly be impossible to follow.
Hell, one would have to be a Scythian himself to track him!

Atar sighed and pulled Ishria to a stop by a little stream.

Life was going to be great, particularly since he had planned
it. He was going to be the master of his own destiny, and live
out the simple life he desired. He would fish all day, and
spend nights hunting the big, virtually untouched stock of
game in the wild lands with Bulliwuf. What a life! He
dunked his head in the water for a drink.

* * * *

Unseen, the great boar steadily watched the laughing young
man. His golden feet sank deeply into the soft leafy ground.
The man began to move again, and the boar followed after a
moment. The tracks the beast left behind him were easily the
size of a dinner plate.

* * * *

But that was not the only being watching the young man. In
the Realm of Fire, she watched him through a luminescent
square of color. Around her, the soft flames licked the floor.
She was a creature of ancient magic, of infinite age. A
goddess. She watched her favorite, no longer bored.

KB Forrest

Chapter Three

he light of the day was dimming into gray dusk. The
shadowy forms that raced along the deer path would

soon be almost invisible. The leader pulled his dark horse to
a stop, and dismounted with fluid, Scythian grace. He
walked over to the spot under the tree that had caught his
eye. Pushing back the deep cowl that partially obscured his
features, Zohak stooped to study the ground carefully. He
reached out a hand and picked up one white feather,
holding it out. He let it fall from his hands. It floated gently
to the grass, spinning gracefully.

Zohak felt his face twitch with disgust as he heard Ezad

the Insane wheeze with excitement. The assassin spy was
probably one of the most talented of his kind, but Zohak
could not help but be disgusted by him. Seeing those glazed
eyes and those unnatural three fingered hands invariably
turned Zohak’s stomach. Dahaka the Sly had employed
Ezad the Insane for many years, but for some reason Zohak
had never been able to ascertain, the strange little man had
turned on his master. Zohak had found him wandering the
castle by night like a thief and had put him to work.

Zohak glanced at Ezad and his other men and remounted,

spurring his swift Paralatae horse down the path now in
deep shadow. The sooner they caught him, the sooner he
could get back to the castle. He hated leaving his

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promiscuous wife alone, but that was an old problem to
which he had gotten quite accustomed. The thing that irked
him the most was the fact that all the time he spent away
from the castle was time he could have spent monitoring
secret deals between high lords, planning blackmail, and all
the other things he needed to do before he seized the throne.
It was his by birth, but that was still a secret.

He would bide his time. He spurred his horse as the

purpose of his mission slapped him in the face again. He
was tracking the blasted Idiot, to haul him back for a
position he could have used! He could have choked on his
anger when he realized what the prince intended him to do.
Would he never be rid of the cursed idiot? It seemed that
their lives were somehow inextricably bound. But when the
Prince Sugreeva made up his mind, there was no changing
it. His only other option would be to defy his order, and
upon further deliberation, Zohak had decided to keep the
Prince’s good faith. He would use this turn of events to his
favor, and kill the Firestarter after he was done.

KB Forrest

Chapter Four

he shepherd boy called out to the stray goat again.

“God damn it!” he muttered as he scrambled over the

steep stony ground. He had fallen asleep again, and the
damn he-goat had driven the young male off again. His
mother had absolutely forbidden him to go anywhere near
the Dragon Caves, no matter what, but what did she know?
He wasn’t about to suffer a beating from his father just
because of his mother’s superstitions.

Dragons! Right, talk about an old wives’ tale. Besides, he

would face a hundred dragons to get his goat back. The
drought had gone on for too long, making grazing poor. He
had suffered through too many hungry nights to let precious
meat get away from him.

His heart leapt as he saw the pale shape of the young goat

ahead. He called to it, and then banged his stick against the
rocks. The clatter he created bounced off the rocks and
echoed into silence. The boy snarled with irritation that the
goat refused to come. It didn’t even turn to face him, but at
least he had found it. He was glad of that. He kept his eyes
on the ground for a while, avoiding rocks so as to travel
more swiftly. He glanced up, out of breath, but exhilarated.
He stopped, uncertain. The white shape of the goat had not
moved. All the boy could see was the goat’s back. It was
unnatural for it to be so still. He hadn’t noticed that from the
distance he was at before. It was almost a little scary.

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Don’t be a chicken shit, he told himself, scorning his

momentary cowardice. He darted forward again, watching
his feet to avoid the sharp rocks. He glanced up from time to
time. When he was a few yards away from the goat, he
stopped. The unmistakable coppery odor of blood filled the
air, but there was also a reek of something else.

“Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!” the boy said. “Now I’ll get a

beating like I’ve never imagined!”

The boy was so engrossed in regret that he did not hear

the shuffle behind him. An enormous exhalation of breath
warmed his back, blowing his hair over his shoulders. The
boy froze, utterly paralyzed. The chilling stories his mother
had told him all through his childhood came back to him.
Her admonition to stay away from these caves no longer
seemed shrewish to him.

He turned around. He screamed wordlessly, voicing the

terror that the enormous creature before him evoked.

The scream was cut off abruptly. The boy’s blood

splashed down onto the stones, mixing with the goat’s
blood, and pooling around the lad’s lifeless body.

A contented rumble vibrated in the air for a moment.

* * * *

The richly dressed royal council was silent. The usual
rustling of fans and low murmurs had ceased altogether.
Two hundred eyes watched in utter stillness as the high
general delivered his report. Even Rutvana the Loud,
Hergor’s second wife, the mother of Prince Sugreeva, did
not stir.

“We have reports that the Horde is at the very gates of the

city, and have been there for quite some time now.” General
Tavos, High General of the Three Armies announced. “And,
Your Majesty, the next country in the Horde’s immediate
path is ours. If we do not send reinforcements, we can expect

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attacks on our frontier towns within about two months.”

“Can you give us some idea of how many are attacking

the city? Did you take any kind of inventory of the supplies
we will need?” Queen Cunaxa asked, glowering at the
general.

Tavos’ answers seemed to be lost on Emperor Hergor. He

gave his high general a bleary-eyed stare and held his head
as if he were nursing a terrible hangover. “Why did I
appoint such a coward as my general?” Hergor asked the
general assembly, his great gut expanding with a sigh. They
laughed obediently, but the sound was painfully contrived.
Tavos turned a shade paler. Hergor sighed gustily. He had
appointed Tavos, after all, because he was such a coward. It
was said that a thief knows the ways of a thief best. A thief
would know how to protect his goods from another thief. In
that way, Hergor knew that Tavos the Coward would sense
how to protect him from assassins, his constant bane. Hergor
was a despot, but more importantly, he had also betrayed
the one who had put him in power, Dahaka the Sly.
Although some said that Dahaka was dead, Hergor knew
better. The sly wizard could not be killed.

Meruzanes the Trickster, the Emperor’s Vizier, leaned

close to the Emperor and whispered for some time. Hergor’s
brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the Vizier’s
words. The council watched in tense silence as this took
place. The hissing sound of the Vizier’s oily voice licked into
the stillness.

“Where is that worthless son of mine?” Hergor asked at

last, looking around as if he hadn’t known Sugreeva was
seated on the dais next to Rutvana the Loud, the prince’s
mother. The Prince froze and hunkered down in his chair.
Rutvana looked at her son with scorn, and turned her head
away from him.

“Sugreeva!” Hergor growled.
The prince stood, smoothing his frilly aqua shirt, and

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patting his stiff blonde curls into place. He walked to stand
next to General Tavos and faced his father.

“I appoint you High General, do you understand? Let’s

see that expensive education of yours put to work!”

Tears welled in Sugreeva’s eyes. “Uh…but Father!”
“Oh shut up! You whine like a puppy with a gut full of

shit.”

The council laughed again, and a crystalline tear fell from

Sugreeva’s eye. Sugreeva raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Hergor imagined that his son was caught up in thinking
about how noble he looked, with a tear streaking his
handsome face. The great prince facing his horrible father, all

alone, but determined. His clean-cut features just barely showing
the pain. Ah, what a fop, Hergor thought. The milksop was
probably going to call the court poet to compose a song
about this day.

Sugreeva cleared his throat. “Dearest Father, I am not

going. It is disrespectful to the crown that people should
expect me to personally do such trivial work. It is not a
matter of whether or not I will wed Princess Sophene of the
Massagetae. That is a given. And yes, putting my expensive
education to work, I have thought of a better plan. I have
summoned a man to lead the armies for me. As prince, I
have the power to delegate authority, and I have done just
that.” Sugreeva straightened and appeared more confident.

Hergor’s scowl deepened as his son blathered on. The

Vizier leaned in closer to Hergor and whispered.

“What a coward you are!” Hergor said with obvious

disgust. “So who is it that you presume to appoint?”

Sugreeva huffed. “I am going to make the Firestarter do

it!”

Shocked exclamations bounced off the high ceiling of the

chamber. Cunaxa the Pure sat up straighter in her seat.
Hergor watched her with suspicion.

The fact that the mysterious Scythian was known

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throughout the Seven and even in the outlying provinces
helped Sugreeva’s argument somewhat, but Hergor was not
convinced.

Meruzanes’ oily whisper preceded Hergor’s next

question. “Are you just being cowardly? No matter, we shall
give your little plan some consideration.”

Burned Dreams

Chapter Five

tar rode into the town at dawn. As usual, he attracted a
great many stares, but he was certain that the news of

his being the Firestarter could not have possibly reached this
far.

“I should have taken off my tiger skin before I reached

town,” he said miserably. There was no help for that now.
“Bulliwuf, you must look very strange to them as well.
Damn!”

He rode down the wide main street of the town while the

people gawked shamelessly. His massive mace threw back
the morning sunlight. Atar slowed Ishria and stopped before
a line of tethered horses. He tied Ishria and walked along the
string of shops. He was very disconcerted by the way the
people stared. It made him self-conscious. Walking along the
street became a difficult task.

Trying not to hunch his shoulders, Atar stopped in front

of a fur shop. He walked inside, Bulliwuf close on his heels.
An odd smell, like something three days dead, hit him as he
entered. It overpowered the smell of the animal skins. The
owner of the fur shop looked up from his desk.

He opened his mouth, and then kept it open as he took in

his unusual customer. His eyes fell to Bulliwuf.

“There are no dogs allowed in my store,” the man

sneered. The filth caked on his teeth glinted in the
candlelight for a moment. The store owner’s hair was stringy

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with head grease, and Atar realized that the powerful body
odor that filled the room was issuing from the owner.

Atar smiled at the man, not understanding. The man rose

from his chair and shouted. “There are no dogs allowed! Get
the filthy creature out of my store!”

He glared at Bulliwuf, whose silver fur shone with

moonlight luster. The great wolf’s massive frame was
packed with iron hard muscles, well defined even under his
luxuriant fur. Bulliwuf made a wolf-grin at the man and sat
down. Atar gave the shopkeeper an odd look, wondering
what the man was shouting about.

He turned his back to the man and began to paw through

the merchandise enthusiastically. He wasn’t skilled at
tanning hides, a task that fell to the Paralatae women, but he
now wished he had watched. He would need something
really warm for the winter, and although he killed many
animals for food, the hides he saved were always too stiff.
Perhaps he could watch to see how it was done. He had seen
the women use ashes from the fire, mixing them with water.

* * * *

On the edge of town, a woman turned her head sharply,
pausing in her garden work to stare at the second group of
riders. The figures were shrouded in deep cloaks, and they
moved with the grace and intensity of hunters.

Zohak turned onto the wide main street. From under his

hood, he scanned the people watching him. His gaze flicked
to a line of horses tethered before the shops.

He tensed as he saw the distinctive blue roan tied at the

end of the line. He held up a hand to halt his men. The
townspeople watched with interest as Zohak turned to them.

“He’s here. This may be our only chance. We will

surround the first shop. I will go in, and see if he’s there. If
he’s not, we move on to the next shop. Understand?”

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The hunters nodded, silent.

* * * *

Atar held up a large sheepskin. The fleece was yellow, and it
still smelled strongly of sheep. He put this one aside, and
continued to dig, shoving a pile of rabbit skins to the floor
without noticing. The owner roared. Atar looked over at
him, concerned.

“Out! Out! Out of my shop, you filthy outlander! Look!

Your giant dog just raised his leg and peed on my shoes!”
The owner screamed at the top of his voice, gesturing at
Bulliwuf’s present to the man. “I say out!” The owner
shoved his door open.

Atar glanced at Bulliwuf, and shrugged. “I guess we

should leave. I wonder what’s wrong with the poor fellow.”
Atar sauntered past the shopkeeper.

Phew! Bulliwuf exclaimed as he forcefully shoved his nose

into the man’s crotch and snuffled deeply.

The shopkeeper screamed, and Bulliwuf darted out,

smiling wolfishly.

“What an unusual specimen! Such a ripe odor! Like a

twelve-day dead cow!”

Atar glanced over to see why the man had screamed, but

all he saw was the door slam. Atar frowned and looked
around. The townspeople had gathered outside their houses
to watch. Atar frowned harder.

A horse stamped near him. He froze as he saw the

mounted black-clad figures clustered around the store next
to the one he was outside of. Another hooded figure
emerged from the shop as he watched. The head turned
slowly, but from beneath the hood, Atar detected the glint of
eyes. They held each other’s gaze for an instant, and the
hairs rose on the back of Atar’s neck. The creature let out an
unearthly howl and ran at Atar. The other hunters turned to

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see him.

Atar debated for a fraction of a second, swinging his mace

down from his shoulder. He howled his own chilling cry
and ran at them. His attackers were so surprised that they
fell back a step. Atar ran past the horsemen, hearing
Bulliwuf snarl. His path was blocked by the hooded figure
on foot. Atar’s mace locked with the figure’s sword. The
clash of weapons and the screams of the hunters filled the
air. The townspeople dove for cover.

“My leg! My leg is gone!” one of the hunters screamed in

a voice made inhuman by pain.

Bulliwuf launched himself at one of the horsemen, his

powerful muscles hurling him into the air. The man’s throat
was torn open before he had time to raise his weapon.
Bulliwuf brought him down as the life gurgled out of him
and turned on the hunter behind him, baring his bloody
fangs. He launched himself at the man’s sword arm,
severing it with a vicious snap of his teeth.

Atar bared his own teeth, amazed by the strength of his

opponent. The man kicked Atar’s shins, sending keen pain
through him and knocking him off balance. Atar rolled
desperately away in the dusty ground. A sword came down
toward his head, and his opponent was on him again. Atar
only had enough time to block the blow. He broke away and
leapt to his feet, eyes wild with battle fury. He snarled and
attacked again, heaving his heavy mace in a blow that would
have decapitated the man, if the hunter hadn’t dropped to
his knees. Atar felt more than heard the attacker behind him.

“Stop,” someone screamed.
Atar darted aside, realizing as he did so, that there were

too many to fight. And they were all mounted. Atar dashed
through the horsemen until they gathered their wits.

“After him!” Zohak bellowed, picking himself off the

ground.

Something hit Atar from behind. He stumbled to his

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knees as they descended upon him. Hands seized him. With
foolhardy bravery and unbelievable strength, he wrested his
limbs out of their grasp and scrambled under and around
the legs of the horses surrounding him. His move was so
sudden and quick that the hunters spent an awful moment
of confusion before Zohak screamed.

“You fucking idiots!”
Atar saw Ishria standing not too far away. The horsemen

were just barely turning around, trying to make their
mounts obey them, but Zohak was upon him. He darted out
after Atar, and raced after him down the main street. His
fingers grazed Atar’s shoulder as he reached out, but Atar
shot ahead of him. Atar had always been faster than Zohak.
Zohak quickened his pace, but Atar pulled ahead, hearing
the horsemen thunder down the street behind him, gaining
with every second.

Atar stumbled as he reached Ishria, and fumbled as he

tried to untie him. His shaking hands slipped, and slipped
again. The hunters were a few feet away. Atar leapt onto
Ishria’s back and turned him easily. His mace locked with
another man’s sword, and he tore himself away as Ishria
bolted. As the hunter attacked again, the world was blurring
by with the speed of the horses. Atar disengaged and swung
his mace with all the force he could muster. The hunter was
unseated and Atar was sprayed with his blood. Atar heard
his screams as his comrades mercilessly rode their horses
over him. Atar urged Ishria faster as the forest around them
thickened, branches slapping at his face.

Atar narrowed his eyes and hunched over Ishria’s

whipping mane. Bulliwuf’s flitting silver form guided them
through the forest. Suddenly Atar felt himself rising up in
his saddle. He glanced down for a fraction of a second, and
saw a stream rushing by twelve feet beneath him. Ishria’s
hooves hit the bank on the opposite side, and dug into the
soft mud, propelling them onward. Atar caught his breath.

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Screams rent the air behind them, as the pursuers fell into

the trap Bulliwuf had set for them.

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Chapter Six

ire!” Captain Vermais shouted. The screams of agony,
the moans of the wounded, and the insistent pounding

of the battering ram mingled together in the nightmarish
reality the Massagetae were facing. Their arrows rained
down on the Horde, but even before the piercing screams
had died, the next wave of attackers came, swarming over
the bodies of their fallen comrades with all the sensitivity of
ants.

King Mena closed his eyes and wiped the perspiration

from his brow, leaving a sooty trail. His weariness was
beyond anything he had ever experienced. Never before had
the weight of responsibility lain so heavily on his shoulders.
He opened his eyes again and looked out at the endless sea
of barbarians surrounding his beautiful city. He felt fear
clutch at his bowels. The certain knowledge of imminent
death made a wave of nausea rise up within him.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Vermais was talking to him.
King Mena turned, his brow furrowed, the cut on his

cheek stinging as sweat trickled into it.

“Your Majesty, we—Mithra save us, we are running out

of arrows,” the captain said in an urgent undertone. His
voice shook, and the king knew he was imagining what the
ruthless barbarians would do to his young daughter if they
failed to protect the city. The king was also afraid for his
own dear daughter. The pounding of the battering ram

“F

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boomed insistently over his words. “And the food, my
men—how can we fight if we are weak from hunger?”

The king said nothing. He turned away from Captain

Vermais’ bloodshot, desperate eyes, and watched a
procession of children carrying water to the boilers. A
soldier lay dying quietly with his back propped against the
wall. A pool of his blood stretched out into one of the
children’s path, and King Mena watched as tiny bloody
footprints were formed.

He took in a great shuddering breath, wishing the

terrifying pounding would stop. They would give up after more

boiling water was thrown at them, surely they would give up soon.

“Your Majesty! The princess! We must get Sophene to

safety.” The captain shook his king’s shoulder in
desperation. “Listen, Your Majesty…”

King Mena shook off Captain Vermais’ hands and held

up his own, shaking his head. He could not, despite decades
of training, keep the fear out of his voice. “What exactly do
you suggest we do? We are surrounded, and even if we
could get her safely out, what would there be for her? She
has been raised to be a queen. She would never abandon her
people.”

“But there must be something we can do!” Vermais said.
King Mena turned his back, so Vermais would not see the

tears of vexation that poured over his cheeks. If only the
boom of the battering ram would stop, he could collect his
thoughts. A volley of flaming arrows arced over the wall.

* * * *

Princess Sophene the Sharp rushed over to put out the fire
that was beginning to catch on the side of a wooden
building. She pulled the flaming arrow out of the side of the
wall with hands bruised and blistered from unaccustomed
manual labor. She stomped the flames out, and turned back

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to the task at hand.

Strands of Sophene’s red hair had escaped from her coif

to brush the back of the Himalayan cat that was draped over
her shoulders with its claws dug into the fabric of her gown.
Kartir sniffed his mistress’ ear, laying his own tiny ears back
in fury, his claws digging deeper into the fabric of Sophene’s
gown. Kartir was a true Persian cat, with a pedigree to rival
Sophene’s. His flat face, brilliant blue eyes, and long cloudy
hair were a miracle of the breeding with which the Persian
mages amused themselves. He was a cat with magic and he
communicated through mind-speak.

Kartir rumbled a warning as he felt his mistress sway on

her feet. Sophene ignored the imperious command, as she
wove around the wounded, but knew she would drop in her
tracks soon enough.

“I would stop, but who could rest with such a noise!”

Sophene said to her cat. She conveyed her fear of the
booming battering ram. “You, begin giving water to these
wounded. Can someone get clean bandages? You there,
fetch the newly wounded.” Sophene’s throat was sore by the
time she was done giving orders. She represented order and
sanity to her people, and for this reason she stood tall and
walked with sureness in her step. As the sun rose in the sky,
Sophene finally decided to get some rest.

As she walked toward the barracks, she passed by a

mother and her children. The three were clustered around a
man who lay dying.

She turned away from the plea in their eyes, knowing full

well the fate that awaited them all, if reinforcements did not
come soon. She felt her own tears well in her green eyes as a
foreshadowing of pain crossed her thoughts. If only
someone could help them. If only Emperor Hergor would
send his army…

* * * *

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Atar threw himself down on the soft grassy floor of the
glade, and Bulliwuf settled in close beside him. The sky still
held the light of the sun, but it had set, casting the shapes of
the trees in silhouette. The billowy clouds reflected the
golden brightness of the sun, and their beauty was
emphasized by the darkness below.

“That was one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever

seen!” Atar said, lacing his fingers together behind his head
to watch the stars come out.

Ishria nickered a few feet away.
“Did you hear that?” Atar asked sitting up.
Atar tried to see into the dark trees, but his night vision

was shot from looking at the bright sky. Atar was confident
that they had lost their pursuers, but now he second-guessed
his judgment. But that was absurd, of course. No one could
follow the trail he had left. Only a Scythian…

The hairs rose on the back of Atar’s neck, and Bulliwuf’s

muscles tightened as they realized that the creatures of the
night had fallen silent.

There was no battle cry to warn them. The dark figures

hurtled out of the foliage, racing toward them soundlessly.
Atar felt a weight thrown over him, and struggled violently
against it, wondering where the hell he had put his mace.
Ishria’s terrified whinny rang in his ears. Panic seized Atar.
Bulliwuf snarled and attacked one of the men, ripping his
throat out with his deadly fangs. He soon saw however, that
they were overwhelmed. “Go, Bulliwuf, go now!” Atar
screamed and the great wolf darted off into the trees. Atar
flailed until he was so tangled he could barely move.

He screamed in impotent fury, then felt a blinding pain

on the back of his head that made bright sparks dance in the
blackness behind his lids. He slid into unconsciousness
soundlessly.

Burned Dreams

Chapter Seven

tar came to a consciousness of sorts as his head banged
forcefully against Ishria’s flank. He moaned. His whole

body ached and he was suddenly aware that he had been
slung over Ishria’s back like a sack of potatoes. How the
attackers had accomplished such a feat was beyond Atar, as
Ishria was violently aggressive with people other than
himself. Perhaps it was that the horse knew of his master’s
peril. His arms and legs were bound painfully tight, and a
foul tasting length of leather secured his mouth. Atar
moaned again, fighting the nauseating pain in the back of his
head. He tried to turn his head to see who had captured him.

He saw nothing but the swiftly trotting legs of horses,

illuminated by the soft glow of morning. The motion of the
ground swiftly passing by made him sick to his stomach. He
closed his eyes. He could hear his attackers murmuring in a
foreign language. Fear drained his strength.

He woke suddenly as he was thrown off his horse

roughly. He howled with pain. What possible purpose could
these people have? Atar could not see their faces, but
suddenly he heard a voice that chilled him to the bone and
caused a shudder of fear to run up his spine. The figure
dismounted with the grace of a Scythian, and suddenly
Atar’s fears were confirmed. The figure drew back his hood
as he strode toward Atar, and the young man scrambled
backward, eyes wide. In his hands, Zohak carried Atar’s

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tiger skin cape, his dagger, and his mace.

The other men were preparing camp, and all but one was

engaged in setting up tents. This odd little man timidly
approached Zohak. “Master?” the creature mewled
stretching out a three-fingered hand.

Zohak snarled and swung Atar’s mace at the little man.

Ezad the Insane danced out of the way with the quickness of
the wind. He moaned and wheezed pitifully, but Zohak
ignored him. He tossed Atar’s prized possessions down
carelessly and crossed his burly arms over his chest. For a
full minute, he just stared malevolently at Atar. His glorious
brown hair shone in the fire that was now lit, but his
handsome features were set in a mask of pure hatred.

“I just can’t seem to get rid of you, idiot,” Zohak said.

Then his lips curved in a chilling smile. “But that’s a
condition I will remedy soon enough.”

Atar stared wordlessly at Zohak. He seemed to be larger

than a god, standing there in the flickering firelight. Atar
was unnerved by Zohak’s intense scrutiny. Zohak took a
step closer and stared into Atar’s face searching for
something. Finally, he turned, and Atar let out the breath he
had been holding unconsciously.

What the hell is going on? It seems that this party of men came

out here hunting for me. But why? What could I have to do with

anything? Perhaps Zohak has come after me for revenge. But it
seems more likely that Zohak would have wanted to see the last of

me.

After all, heading for the Wild Lands, he might as well be

dead for all that he would affect Zohak’s life. That thought
gave him a pang. How his heart yearned to be out there,
riding free toward the beautiful lake that he knew must exist
somewhere. He remembered with chagrin the way he had
carelessly left his trail, believing that he was perfectly safe.
How wrong he had been. He hoped Bulliwuf was uninjured,
and thanked the god Ahuramazda that his dear mentor had

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the good sense to run. He’s my only hope now.

Atar watched the men settle in around the fire and saw

with hunger in his eyes the food they pulled out of their
packs. One man came at Atar with his dagger in his hand,
and for a second or two, Atar thought it was all over. But the
man just cut Atar’s gag and tossed him a few strips of jerky
and a canteen. Realizing that they intended on keeping him
alive, at least for a while, Atar devoured the food. He took a
long drink and scanned the trees for any sign of Bulliwuf. Of
course, he would hang well back.

After he swallowed the last of his jerky, he watched the

men around the flickering fire. There was almost no
conversation among them. Atar almost wished they would
talk, if only to banish the surreal atmosphere. He wondered
if there was any way to escape. The bonds that held him
were stout and painful. But if he didn’t get out, what then?
What horrors did Zohak have planned? Indeed, there must
have been a compelling reason for Zohak to trail after him
this far. Atar’s fears darted around in his mind ceaselessly,
turning over and over until they became dreams.

* * * *

The light of the flames danced in the small black eyes of the
great boar as he watched the young man fall into an
exhausted sleep. The boar was conscious of the wolf, but the
carnivore was well back from where he was, and posed no
threat. The massive creature stood perfectly still, waiting.

* * * *

Soon the other men turned in to sleep, all except Zohak, who
took the first watch. Zohak sat cross-legged, staring into the
fire, remembering his father. An expression that was
halfway between bitter victory and grief passed over his

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face. Dahaka the Sly was ancient history as far as Zohak was
concerned. His eyes wandered over to the Idiot. A horse
stamped the ground nearby, nickering softly. He wondered
what it was that had made Anacharsis choose the idiot as his
successor. The kid was a halfwit, certainly no fit Firestarter.
He was hopping off into the wilderness like a wild animal.
Hell, the Idiot hadn’t even tried to use his exalted position
and power to free himself. But there must have been
something he wanted. What secret depths did the Idiot hide
behind those eyes?

A loud crack interrupted Zohak’s reverie. He sat perfectly

still. The thundering silence belied the noise that had most
definitely reached Zohak’s ears. He waited with his heart
pounding. Perhaps he had merely heard the fire crackle, and
had mistaken it for something else. The horse that had
stamped the ground now whinnied. Zohak took a long
breath. He was too jumpy.

A deep, very deep, grunt cut through the silence of the

night.

Zohak silently gathered his feet beneath him. He had not

imagined that. But as the silence stretched out, Zohak began
to wonder if he should wake the others. He was their leader.
He did not want to seem foolish.

His eyes scanned the darkness, and the hair on the back of

his neck rose. Whatever the hell the creature was, it had to
be just beyond the circle of firelight. And it was definitely
there. With a shaking hand, he reached out to wake his
comrades. He gasped as brush crackled alarmingly, and
deeper grunts issued from the darkness. The creature was
moving around just outside the circle of light.

The others were now all awake, swords drawn and at the

ready. They faced the night crouching with their backs to the
fire. The only one who still slept was the Firestarter. The
men looked at each other, terror writ clear across their
features. Silence reigned. Sweat trickled down Zohak’s shirt.

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The creature moved again, and the men could see the bushes
tremble as whatever it was brushed past them.

The sound of the heavy breathing and occasional grunts

let the men know just how big this creature was. Ezad the
Insane began a high keening wail of fear.

“Shut him up! Shut him up!” Zohak whispered fiercely.
The man nearest Ezad clapped a hand over his mouth.

They were wondering what the hell the creature was waiting
for. Hours passed in this fashion.

* * * *

The next morning, Zohak kicked Atar awake in the gray
predawn hours. Atar looked around. He felt the fear flood
back into his being. He still felt sore, but he was no longer
exhausted. The men looked haggard and wild eyed. Atar
wondered why. He could not help noticing the way the men
kept glancing back into the foliage. He ate the jerky that was
thrown at him with relish. The men were so anxious to be off
that they did not make a fire, nor spend any time at all
lingering.

The bonds securing Atar’s feet were cut, and he was

unceremoniously hoisted onto Ishria. His feet were tied
together with a length of rope, securely strapping Atar to his
horse. As they bounced along, Atar tried to work the bonds
holding his wrists free, moving with the single-minded
determination of someone desperate to save his life. The
terrain began to change from mossy woodland to green
pastures. He felt his stomach rumble painfully and guessed
that it must be well after noon. Distantly he heard the
mournful bleating of sheep, and made out their white forms
dotting the land. The sun was warm on his back, but he was
no closer to freeing himself than when he began. He fought
the desperation in his heart.

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* * * *

Up on a distant hill, five sheepherders were lounging after
lunch under one of the few trees that dotted the landscape.

“Wonder what they’re up to?” one casually said.
“No tellin’,” another replied.
There was a silence as the shepherds regarded the men on

horseback.

One of the shepherds scratched his dog’s ears. “I wonder

if they come from the capital. Did you hear that the
Massagetae are down to their last supplies?”

“Really? I heard they’ve been eating rats for a while.”
They laughed, and then one said, “I know the army is

supplied with weapons, at any rate. Kava the Blacksmith has
been working night and day. General Tavos is the coward
holding the whole thing up.”

“Yes, my friend! What cowards the lot of them are.

Honestly, who could let such a beautiful city fall to the
Horde? And fuck it if my kids aren’t starving from those
taxes. I simply refuse to pay nowadays. Imagine raising the
taxes after they take our young men! When will enough be
enough? I mean what the hell do they expect us to eat,
rocks?”

“Yeah, it would serve them right if those hootin’

barbarians come swarming down on Hergor’s kingdom.
What the hell is Prince Sugreeva waiting for? An engraved
invitation? Queen Cunaxa has been pushing the armies to
act for months, ever since Terhool, but that despot doesn’t
pay attention. Honestly, what we need is an assassin and a
new leader.”

The words of the shepherds were drastic, but the

grumblings of the populace had turned to a roar of late. Such
inflammatory talk was commonplace. In the cities, it bred
riots and strikes. In the country, it bred complete
disobedience.

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“We need a good leader. One without a paunch.”
“What the hell does that have to do with jack shit?”
“Hey,” another shepherd cut in, “did you hear about

Reedor’s brat?”

“No, what’s wrong with him, did he get drafted?”
“No,” the man said, with a funny expression, “he was too

young for that. He was killed. Or, at least that’s what they
supposed. His daddy found his goat herd all unguarded,
and the kid was nowhere in sight.”

“Shit, could he have run away?”
“Not a chance,” the man said. “You know, they were

grazing at the base of the Dragon Caves. The boy could have
wandered up there, you know.”

There was a general laugh of contempt until one man

said, “Come, now, you don’t think a dragon killed him? My
wife loves those old tales.”

“Well…we have been having a drought haven’t we? Do

you think such a drought is natural? Dragons cause drought.
Everyone knows that.”

The others were silent at this.
“Hey look! Mithra be praised!” one said suddenly.
There was an awed, breathless silence. “No,” one of the

shepherds said, “more like the God Verethragna the Boar be
praised!”

“Look! Look! Do you see the tusks?”
“The feet! Look at the monstrous hooves!”
The great boar was quite a distance away, but close

enough to chill the hearts of the shepherds. It was obviously
following the mounted men. The shepherds looked at each
other as this sank in. They all knew the legends. Could this
mean what they thought it meant? Was this the great Farr,
the Royal Boar apparition? But it only followed an emperor!
The hulking shape disappeared over the hill, and the
shepherds rushed to examine the massive hoof prints. For
the next two hours, the shepherds discussed animatedly

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what they could remember about the band of men. That
night, they all talked to their wives, who then talked to their
friends, who talked to their husbands in turn.

* * * *

Zohak’s breath came out in a whoosh as he dismounted. He
looked exhausted, but the other men looked worse. They
were camped out in the open. The pastureland rolled out in
all its comforting vastness around them. The men set up
camp quickly in the light of the dying sun, and wasted no
time in starting a fire and handing out the rations. The only
delay came when the decision of who would take first watch
arose. They were all so tired that they nearly came to blows
over the decision. Finally, Zohak sternly ordered a villainous
looking man to take the first watch. Atar watched silently.

The man sat down with a thump, brows furrowed in

anger. The rest of the men settled in and were asleep in
moments. The gentle sound of the breeze whistling over the
land lulled the man on watch until his eyes became heavy
and it took every ounce of strength he had to stay awake.
His eyes drifted toward the dark land. The circle of firelight
stretched out quite a distance without trees to obscure it, but
eventually it too, was swallowed up by the infinite darkness
of the country night.

The man on watch spat on the ground and scratched his

balls, still sneering. Suddenly he turned his head, his eye
attracted by movement just barely perceived out of the
corner of his eye. He yawned, still searching, but not yet
alarmed. He reached for his pack and quietly brought out a
small flask of whiskey. An hour passed, and the whiskey
began to press insistently on his bladder. He heaved himself
to his feet, and walked out of camp and into the night to
relieve himself.

As he undid his belt, he heard a noise behind him. It was

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a deep exhalation of air. Suddenly, his sleepiness was gone
as adrenaline pumped into his system. The remembered fear
of last night came hurtling at the man with the force of a
lightning bolt. He felt his mouth go dry. Slowly he turned to
face whatever horror awaited him.

Standing still, outlined against the light of the distant fire,

was the form of a monster. The razor sharp guard hairs
bristling on the creature’s back were haloed from the warm
light beyond. The massive, deadly tusks threw back the
firelight from their golden tips. The man felt hot urine soak
into his pants as shaking overtook him.

He let out a small, squeaking groan that did not penetrate

through the stillness of the night. He could not scream, he
could not move. His flask of whiskey fell to the ground out
of nerveless fingers.

The great boar lunged, and then he thundered off. A

moment later, the form of a great wolf stood over the body,
and then his moonlit, silver head lowered as he tore into the
still-warm flesh.

* * * *

Atar woke suddenly.

“What the fuck is going on? Eh?” Zohak roared. Dawn

was breaking gloriously over the land. Zohak was violently
kicking his men awake, fairly frothing at the mouth. “Which
one of you incompetent idiots fell asleep? Eh? Bastards!
Answer me! Now!”

The men blinked, and stared around. Zohak saw the

empty bed at the same time the others did. Nobody moved
for a second. Zohak tossed a nervous glance over his
shoulder.

“Listen, if Bayor wanted to desert us, he would have

taken his horse and his pack. And why would he leave after
we captured the Idiot and he had the promise of a great

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reward from Prince Sugreeva almost in his hands?
Something must have happened.” Zohak started to shout
orders.

“You, Ezad, search the outlying area,” Zohak said, with

an expansive gesture that took in all the land in sight. “You
others get ready, there will be no breaks today. We’ll eat in
the saddle.”

“But, Sir…”
Zohak quelled the man with a fierce stare. The men

hurried to obey.

Atar did not understand what was going on, but he was

almost finished eating his jerky when Ezad returned. In his
three fingered hand he carried the missing man’s whiskey
flask. It was splattered with blood.

Zohak paled.
“Let’s go, come on. Move damn it!” Zohak yelled at his

men in his nervousness.

The party rode hard for three more days, covering a huge

amount of land. The men, except for Atar, got very little
sleep. They rose before dawn and didn’t stop until the
darkness was so complete the horses refused to move. On
the evening of the fourth day, they caught the first sight of a
Persian town. Atar looked around him with interest,
wondering if he could solicit help from any of the villagers.

The people came out of their houses to stare at the group

of riders with their strange prisoner, but no one made a
move to help Atar. For all they knew, he could be a killer
being brought to justice. They rode through town without
catching sight of an inn of any kind. Finally, they bedded
down in someone’s barn, grateful to have four stout walls
around them to protect them against the horrors of the night.

A day later, they reached the outskirts of the great city

itself. From their vantage point, they had a magnificent view
of the city that stretched out into the distance. Atar took in a
long breath. He had been raised among the Paralatae

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Scythians, the fierce barbarians who knew no city. Seeing the
graceful onion towers shrouded in morning mist among the
thousands of houses and buildings filled him with an
indescribable feeling. As they approached the city, Atar
began to get really worried. How could Bulliwuf follow him
if they took him into such a vast place? He would be lost
forever.

He yanked violently at his bonds, heedless of stealth.

Zohak turned to see, and gave the young man a hard punch
in the jaw.

“Settle down, ass-wipe,” Zohak said in Scythian.
Atar began to sweat. He took in a deep breath and

gagged. What was that awful smell? They were passing
buildings and quickly entering into the crowded city.

Atar’s eyes darted around taking it all in, trying to

remember landmarks for when he would make his escape.

Now people pressed together in throngs in the streets,

only barely making way for the party of horses that was now
forced to travel in single file. The noise of screaming
hawkers, haggling citizens, donkeys braying in complaint,
and everyone chattering almost overwhelmed Atar. They
passed a smith’s shop, and Atar gawked at sparks spraying
from his hammer. The yeasty smell of fresh bread made Atar
salivate, but they passed the bakers without pausing. A
group of uniformed watchmen at a street intersection
nodded and saluted to Zohak. Atar gaped at a wagonload of
fruits. As he watched, two young boys darted out from an
alleyway and snatched up armfuls of goods before the poor
farmer noticed. Atar took note of the direction they were
going, but he couldn’t seem to remember if they had turned
right or left the last time they had changed direction.

As they progressed into a merchant and residential area,

the buildings looked more respectable. The cobbled streets
made loud clacking sounds as the horses trotted along. Atar
was totally disoriented. The streets grew wider, and they

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passed by walled courtyards with the heady scent of flowers
drifting over. They turned another corner, and suddenly
Atar’s vision was filled with a gorgeous building. The
sunlight shone on the ornate onion dome that crowned the
structure. Two turrets flanked the great structure. It
appeared to be a temple of some kind, with people
constantly going in and out. The huge doors were thrown
open revealing an interior lit by buttery sunlight.

Atar tried to turn around in his saddle to look some more,

but Zohak cuffed him again.

“Stop gawking, moron,” Zohak said in Scythian.
They wound their way through more streets, into an

increasingly wealthy section of the city. They passed another
temple, and several huge buildings. The people they passed
were richly dressed in fine silks and jewels. Atar was trying
to see inside one of the buildings, but then he turned to face
front again. That’s when his jaw dropped. Looming above
him like a mountain was the most enormous building he had
ever seen. A stout stone wall, manned by a small army of
palace guards stationed about every one hundred yards,
surrounded the building. Atar realized that he had seen the
top of it from his first overview of the city, but who would
have thought that it could be so large! Every available
surface was richly decorated. A gold tip that glowed in the
sun topped the onion dome that was the central point of the
castle. The towers branching off the main building added to
the sheer majesty of the edifice.

Atar stared with the unbridled awe of someone totally

unfamiliar with civilization. Except for his few days at the
Great Fair at the base of the Caucasus Mountains, he had
never been out of Scythia. He was a barbarian, a member of
the Paralatae, the most bloodthirsty and self-sufficient
people ever to make their stand here on earth. Seeing the
glory of the Persian Empire, really seeing civilization for the
first time, he was struck dumb.

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* * * *

From a window above, a lovely dark haired woman stared
down idly at the courtyard. Jahi the Lovely, the wife of
Zohak, frowned with displeasure as she saw her husband
returning. She couldn’t make out his face from this distance,
but she recognized his horse. She glanced seductively at the
man occupying her bed.

“I’m afraid the fun is over for now, my love,” Jahi said in

heavily accented Pahlavi. She had learned a smattering of
the language in the weeks she’d been living at the castle with
her husband. The young man’s smile faded. He cursed softly
and got out of the bed. She turned to frown at the window,
lazily drawing on some clothes. She stopped. The gates
below were opening, and the sunlight caught the rich, long,
hair of the captive. Her lips parted. Could it be him? The last
time she had seen him, he was fighting in the boxing ring at
the Great Fair. How she had wanted him! How she still
wanted him! Hastily, she pinned her hair up, and rushed
toward the council chamber.

* * * *

Atar watched the castle until he could crane his neck no
longer. They stopped before one of the massive gateways
and Zohak called up to the guards.

Atar gaped in shameless wonder. His awe overshadowed

his fear for the moment, but it was never far from his mind.
The gates swung open, and the party cantered in. Atar was
pulled off his horse roughly, and pushed forward. He
stumbled gracelessly, but was caught by the two men
holding his arms. Zohak regarded him for a moment, and
then he turned to lead the party into the depths of the castle.
Atar was pulled along, and he suddenly realized that he

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couldn’t possibly hope to escape such a formidable structure
as the castle. He snarled at the hunters holding him and set
his feet, using every ounce of upper body strength he had to
resist them. He struggled like the wild creature he was.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Zohak asked. “You

there, push the little asshole from behind.”

Atar was thrown off balance by the violent shove that

nearly knocked the wind out of him. He was dragged a few
more feet before he began to struggle again.

“Oh Mithra’s nuts! Don’t be difficult, Idiot,” Zohak

sighed.

By the time they made it to the council chamber, Atar and

the hunters struggling to keep hold of him were covered
with sweat. Atar’s head snapped up when they entered into
a vast chamber filled with light and color. His wild eyes
swept the room, taking in the large number of richly dressed
nobles, and the king seated in all his pomp and gluttony on
the raised dais.

He struggled with renewed ferocity, raising shocked

exclamations, as he was dragged forth ruthlessly. Cunaxa’s
eyes widened with surprise. Prince Sugreeva rose from his
seat on the dais, flushing a deep shade of red. Queen
Rutvana the Loud, his mother, rose with him, disgust
twisting her mouth into an ugly shape.

Zohak bowed. “I have found him, Lord Sugreeva. I have

brought the Firestarter here as you requested, but as you can
see, he is a useless savage.”

Murmurs rippled through the high ceiling of the chamber.

Zohak scanned the crowd with narrow eyes. Sugreeva’s
mouth pulled into a grimace as he took in the hunters’ dusty
clothes.

Hergor laughed heartily and Atar glanced up at him,

amazed by his girth. Heslin, the most powerful Speaker
Mage in the Seven, tripped forward and began to stutter.

“Du…I…uh…”

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Atar glanced at him, still straining at his captors. He

recognized the nervous man from the Banquet.

“Is this who you plan to use as you general, Your

Highness?” Meruzanes, the Vizier inquired in his oily voice.

Sugreeva opened his mouth, “Uh…”
“I can’t believe this!” Rutvana the Loud shrieked,

cracking her fan in two.

Sugreeva knit his brows and turned to her. “But, Mother,

he is the son of the Great Anacharsis! He killed the dragon
on the top of the mountain, he…”

“I don’t care if he is the son of Anacharsis. That doesn’t

make him royal, or even noble. I had no idea you planned on
using this…this…filthy barbarian as your general! It is an
abomination! A disgrace! Get him out of my castle at once! I
will not associate with such trash!”

Rutvana was very red in the face by the time she was

done. Atar noticed the way Meruzanes had turned away
from the emperor.

Sugreeva tossed the stiff curls out of his eyes and hooked

his hair behind his ear. “Mother, you forget yourself, I will
be king one day. I take orders from no one!”

Hergor bellowed out a raucous laugh. Atar was

mesmerized by the awful sound and by the rippling layers
of fat that jiggled with his laughter. Sugreeva turned to his
father, as if offended that this crass man had marred the
effect of his manly speech.

“Father!” Sugreeva hissed, but Meruzanes was already

whispering into Hergor’s ear.

Atar watched with interest. Heslin rolled his eyes in fear

and shifted around. As Heslin listened, Atar heard and
understood what they were saying through the mind of the
powerful Speaker Mage.

Queen Rutvana dislikes you, Firestarter, Heslin finally said

in his quavering mental voice. As before, Atar had to strain
to hear his faint words.

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Then tell her to let me go! I don’t want to be here either! Atar

roared mentally.

Heslin screamed and all heads turned to him. He was

clutching his ears and a small trail of blood snaked down
from one of them, and into his starched, white collar. Please,

most honored Firestarter, please speak quietly or I will not be able
to sustain my sanity.

Atar did not respond. He was glaring at the people on the

dais. He recognized the slight man with the pale blonde
curls. He was the one who started the fight at the banquet by
threatening the beautiful redhead. Atar’s eyes suddenly
locked with Cunaxa’s. He stared, puzzled by the hope and
unmistakable kindness in her eyes.

“I don’t believe this!” Rutvana the Loud shrieked.

“Sugreeva, my son, do you know nothing after all the years I
taught you? You would be mad to let such a fool as this lead
the armies. You must put yourself in the forefront of the
public eye and take the glory of leading the armies. You
propose to let this filthy barbarian head your armies? You
are more of a coward than even your father! At least he led
his army.”

She stormed out of the council chamber. There was a brief

silence as Rutvana and her entourage filed out.

“I think you choose wisely, my son,” Hergor said,

nodding importantly. Sugreeva looked hopeful as he wrung
a silken handkerchief in his pale hands.

What do they want with me? Atar demanded of Heslin.
“What does he say?” Sugreeva asked in a shaky voice. “I

hope the barbarian stops making a fuss.”

“Um…well…he…that is…he wants to know what we

want of him.”

Cunaxa leaned forward.
“Tell him,” Sugreeva cleared his throat, and continued,

“That he has the honor of leading the armies of this empire
to battle the Horde.”

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Atar glared at the washed out, pompous little man.

Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. The rich
sound of it filled the chamber.

“Smack him,” Sugreeva ordered in a voice shrill with

insulted pride.

One of the hunters punched Atar in the face. Atar

struggled wildly, murder in his eyes. Blood poured out of
his nose, making him look even more frightful.

“Enough of this!” Cunaxa ordered. She rose from her seat

and advanced on the struggling figures.

When Atar saw her coming, he stopped moving. He did

not want her to get hurt, and he felt an odd something as she
approached. She carried herself with more grace and dignity
than any of the others on the dais. It inspired in him a
profound respect. He wondered how such a woman could
be mixed up with such people as the fat man and the loud
woman. She looked born for the crown.

“Young man,” she said, in a quiet, authoritative voice, “no

one can force you to lead the armies.”

She raised a hand to cut off Sugreeva’s sputtering.
Heslin translated the words mentally, and the queen went

on. “But please, please, you must let me explain the
situation. The Horde is attacking the Massagetae. They are at
the city’s gates on the verge of plundering the city! Next,
they will come here. Now, I know that you have nothing to
do with this, but for the sake of your honor, please help us.”

“As if he could possibly understand the noble concept of

honor!” Sugreeva snorted. Cunaxa turned to glare at him.

Atar stared at the queen as Heslin nervously translated

her words.

“Think of the innocent people who will be killed if you do

not assist us! In leading the armies, you would be a hero to
them all!”

“Not really, it’s my glory that he’s fighting for,

remember?” Sugreeva whined petulantly.

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Atar regarded the queen steadily. I am most moved by your

plea, honored lady, but I want nothing to do with these troubles.

There is nothing in this world that could make me do as you ask.
Or so he thought.

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Chapter Eight

unlight glinted off the swords and armor of the soldiers.
The city gates swung open and Atar, at the head of the

army, winced at the roar of the crowd. People hung from
windows, and packed the street to watch the great armies
ride out gloriously under their new general. Atar’s head was
swimming. What had he done? He swallowed nervously as
the crowd showered his path with flower petals and
screamed their approval. His nerves didn’t show to the
appreciative crowd. They saw a golden savage, clad in a
fierce tiger skin, carrying an enormous mace. He rode his
famous blue stallion, the one that had won the race at the
Great Fair despite Zohak’s treachery. The people disliked
Zohak as they disliked the entire royal house with the
exception of Cunaxa. The Firestarter, being unpolluted by
politics, struck a chord with the crowd. The rumor of the
Great Royal Boar that had reached them from the provinces
also had an effect.

They gaped at the enormous silver wolf that loped by his

side, his mouth open in a pant, showing his wickedly sharp
teeth. Atar rode Ishria with the easy grace of a Paralatae
warrior while his mind reeled with the folly he had just
committed. What did he think he was doing? Around him
the crowd cheered. As the city fell behind them, Atar was
overcome with amazement at his own stupidity.

But what else could he have done? The lovely Queen

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Cunaxa had pleaded with him. She was convincing. More
convincing was that she trusted him, ordering that he be
freed from his bonds and fed. He hadn’t liked the part where
a bunch of young women had stripped him naked and
bathed him. Well, maybe he liked it a little. But the food had
been incredible. The queen had allowed him to sleep under
the stars in her courtyard, where she’d watched him all
night. When he demanded to see Bulliwuf, she’d told him to
call out with his mind. It had worked. Bulliwuf had come as
if by magic, and he also loved the queen, who pet him and
scratched his ears until he would fall to the ground in a fit of
groaning pleasure. He knew then that he’d been truly
captured, but only by Cunaxa’s beauty and grace.

Beside him, General Tavos and Heslin the Speaker Mage

rode. Heslin was blushing and bouncing awkwardly in the
saddle. His fine green robes were bunched up around his
knees, and he was smiling idiotically at the crowd. General
Tavos the Coward was frowning with envy, but he was
relieved to have someone else to blame in case of failure, and
he was certainly not anxious to face the Horde as the head of
the army.

* * * *

The two figures watched the procession winding through
the streets. Sugreeva turned away and walked to a low
couch, pouring himself some fine wine. Zohak continued to
stare out the window.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sugreeva demanded. “We

should be celebrating! Come. Let us make arrangements for
my marriage to Princess Sophene the Sharp. She will have to
come to me now, I…”

“I think you are missing something, Your Highness,”

Zohak cut in. “You must have figured out what this means.”

“Oh, what are you talking about? You can be such a wet

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blanket! Come and have some wine.”

Zohak turned to look at the indolent prince relining on

the couch. “I think this is dangerous. I had no idea the crowd
would react this way,” Zohak said quietly. Of course he had
known, and he had planned for it. He proceeded cautiously.

“I agree with your brilliant decision to have the barbarian

lead the armies, but I think we need to plan things out a little
further.”

Sugreeva sat up, wrinkling his smooth brow. “Why?”
“It is just too dangerous. Can you hear that crowd? They

hail him like they hail your royal self. If he is successful, as I
think he will be with the war, then how much more will they
love him?”

Zohak paused to let the threat sink in. “Can you imagine

their reaction if they saw him riding through the streets
victorious?”

“But…my God!”
“Yes, now you see.”
“No! No, you must…This cannot be allowed! What to

do?”

“Do not worry, Your Majesty, think about this. If we used

him to fight, but arranged things so that he never returned,
you would gain all the glory of the victory. The mob would
have no one but you to shower with praise. In fact, since he
will be dead, you can take his place, and ride gloriously
through the streets when the army has returned! Think of
the songs they would sing about you!”

“Yes! Yes! That’s right! I am so glad I thought of it!

Arrange for it at once!” Sugreeva said, smiling as if he were
imagining himself mounted on his grey destrier with the
adoring crowd screaming their admiration. “I will wear my
golden breastplate to bring out the gold in my hair. But then
again, if I wear black, my hair would stand out nicely. The
only problem with the black outfit is that it makes my eyes
look too grey. Which do you think is better, Zohak?”

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“Of course, Your Excellency, the black is the best for your

hair. You can use a blue helmet to bring out the color of your
eyes, but back to the business of the Idiot, I mean the
Firestarter…General Tavos and I can most certainly come to
an agreement. He has been most amiable in the past, and he
is the type of man who would be on the lookout for his best
interests. I will arrange things at once.”

“So the black…hmm. Save the blue horse. The

Firestarter’s horse. His blue will surely bring out my eyes,
don’t you think?”

Zohak left the room in disgust as Sugreeva began pawing

through his wardrobe. The first part of his plan had been set
into motion. Now all he would have to do was steps two and
three. Step two would be taking care of Hergor, and step
three would be taking care of this milksop, Sugreeva. He
would then declare his secret. The secret he’d been
suppressing—that he was the true heir to the throne. Zohak
began to hum cheerfully as he walked down to his dungeon
chamber to prepare.

Burned Dreams

Chapter Nine

tar put his head in his hands. He was seated behind a
low table in his tent. The sounds of the soldiers outside

beginning to retire for the night filtered in through the thin
canvas of the tent. He could clearly hear Heslin the Speaker
Mage complaining in a quavering voice. It grated on Atar’s
nerves.

Atar groaned and sat up in his seat, blocking out the

noise. He glanced down at the scrolls scattered over his
desk. He shoved the meaningless things aside and riffled
through the mess until he found the map he sought. In his
head, he reviewed what he knew.

The Horde, by Tavos’ account, was at the gates of the city,

surrounding it. Even with reinforcements, the attackers
outnumbered them at least two to one, possibly more. Atar
chewed on his lip and regarded the sky. To the consternation
of the soldiers setting up his tent, he had ordered them to
leave the roof off. He hated to be deprived of the stars.

On his map was a small diagram of the city, illustrating

the situation. Clustered around the main gate on the north
side was most of the Horde. He had to draw them away
from there, and then he would attack from the south. This
would give the Massagetae a chance to catch their breaths
and tend to the wounded. Hastily, Atar began to outline his
plan of attack. The moon rose higher, and he finally decided
he was done. When he closed his eyes that night, his mind

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kept working until he felt Bulliwuf’s strong arm pull him
close. The stars twinkled above them as Atar slid into
Bulliwuf’s kiss. Soundlessly they passed eager hands over
each other’s bodies, their desire building as they held back,
savoring the few hours they had alone. Bulliwuf was hungry
for Atar’s body. He could feel it as the werewolf’s breath
caught when he began to lick his neck. Unable to contain
himself, Bulliwuf pushed hard into him, and he had to
suppress a cry of pleasure. The stars above exploded into
comets as their pleasure crested.

The dawn light woke him and Bulliwuf stirred beside

him. Atar stared up at the sky, trying to remember where he
was. It all came crashing back suddenly, and he leapt out of
bed.

Atar shook his head in agitation. Outside he heard Heslin

whining. Hastily, almost frantically, he began to pack up.
Bulliwuf left the tent with his tail and nose in the air, deeply
insulted at being shoved off the bed after he had pleasured
Atar for most of the night.

Atar shoved the scrolls on the table into a box, all save the

map. When he was done, he strode out of the tent with his
map. Outside, he spotted General Tavos, Heslin the Speaker,
and two other lower ranking Generals by the names of
Monases and Tiridates. They were seated around a fire
watching some evil looking mush bubble in a pot over the
fire. They looked up when he came.

Heslin, translate my words exactly to the generals. Here is my

plan. We attack the moment we arrive. As I estimate it, that will be
mid-morning, so our troops will be rested and fed. I have the

strategy outlined here. You see the path we will take. Notice that

we are attacking from the south to distract them from the main
gate.

Atar stopped abruptly as Heslin made an awful gurgling

sound in his throat. What the hell is wrong with you? Atar
asked in concern.

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Heslin shook his head in consternation. My Lord, most

respected honored Firestarter…I…uh…it’s just that, I don’t think

we can make those kinds of plans. I’ll have to send a messenger to

his Highness Sugreeva to get clearance for that. You can’t just go
and make plans without permission.

Atar blinked. Suddenly, he was filled with disgust as

Heslin’s true cowardly nature dawned upon him. Just
translate, Atar said, trying not to let his annoyance bleed into
his mental tone, but maintaining the air of authority.

By the time Heslin had finished translating, the three

generals were pouring over the map and nodding. General
Tavos kept saying, “A direct attack is very unwise, very,
very unwise. I have experience in such things, but I suppose
the campaign is out of my capable hands.”

A wheezing made the men around the fire turn. Atar saw

a slight figure totter toward them. His three fingered hands
were clutched tightly around a scroll. He rolled his eyes for a
moment, and then fixed them with blinding clarity on
General Tavos. In an almost sane voice, Ezad the Insane
said, “A message from Zohak to you, General Tavos my
Lord.” He wheezed at the end of his speech, ruining the
effect. Tavos’ eyes darted around guiltily. General Monases
and Tiridates looked at Tavos narrowly, but Atar continued
to eat the jerky he had pulled from a bag near the fire. Tavos
left the circle of firelight and withdrew to his own tent. Atar
regarded the three-fingered man with interest.

Mage, tell him to eat. Atar said in his mental voice.
As always, Heslin was startled, but he bit his nails and

did what he was told.

Ezad the Insane cocked his head at Atar.

“You…would…feed Ezad? Feed him with food? Ezad?”

Atar did not understand the question, but he nodded and

smiled. Ask him what he does. Is he just a messenger?

Ezad twitched when the question was translated. He

drooled for a minute, gazing into the fire. Finally he said,

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“Ezad look for things. Many things that the shadows only
know. The shadow…Ezad’s shadow. Ezad…talks with the
shadows for the secrets of…secrets….”

Heslin looked nervous. Lord Firestarter, I do not think you

should talk with him. He’s just plain mad. Would you listen to the
ravings of an idiot?

Atar gave Heslin a heated glare. I was once considered an

idiot. Just shut up and translate.

Fine. He says he talks with the shadows for secrets. I can’t make

out the rest of his babble.

Atar looked more closely at Ezad. As he watched, a vivid

clarity came into his eyes again and was gone. The memory
was tantalizing his brain. Suddenly he remembered. After he
had fought the undead King Colaxais, the specter had told
him to trust the friend of his enemy. Was this lackey of
Zohak the man the first High King of Scythia had spoken of?
He felt certain it was.

Ask him if he will help me. Ask him to talk to the shadows that

are in the Horde.

But, Sir, I can’t just…I mean you should ask for clearance from

Prince Sugreeva before…

If you repeat that idiotic litany one more time, I’ll tear your

balls off and feed them to my wolf.

Bulliwuf smacked his lips in approval.
Heslin did as he was told, biting his nails as he talked.
Ezad was gone when Atar looked up again.

As the sun broke over the mountains, Atar turned in his

saddle. The soldiers stretched out into the distance, all
marching in even regiments. The famous Persian Calvary
rode with grace under the ancient, still bright banner. The
marching drums throbbed into the atmosphere, making
gooseflesh rise on his arms. In that moment, he felt the
power of the force he led. He felt the power that he alone
commanded in this bright sunshine. The glittering uniforms

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and sword handles, the polished Persian long bows, the
scent of horses all added to a fever in the air.

In the distance, barely discernible, a hulking shape trotted

forward. Its great golden tusks shone in the sun as it sped
along with its head held high. The soldiers noticed the prints
it left behind. Had that rumor that reached their ears been
true? Well, apparently, the evidence was clearly visible to
them. They walked behind their barbarian general with a
stronger, surer step, the rumor circulating like mad, the
cloven footprints ever marching forward.

They marched on for several days without incident. The

days began to blur together for Atar, as his mind was utterly
occupied with the upcoming battle. Heslin taught him a few
words of the Mongol dialect as they traveled over the vast
land. Phrases of the dialect, possible tactics, possible
repercussions, and different backup plans kept swirling
through his mind.

The grey light of dawn was just touching the sky as the

soldiers scurried about the camp. There was tension in the
air as they wolfed down their breakfasts. They all knew that
they might die today. They were willing to make the
ultimate sacrifice for their countries, and this nobility of
character was what kept them going even in face of mind-
numbing fear.

As the sky grew light, they drew ever closer to the great

city of the Massagetae. The thunder of the hooves and feet
sent an ominous rumble through the land. Shivers shook the
mush in the cook pots of the Horde. Several of the
barbarians raised their matted heads to look around. The
rumble grew louder and louder, causing consternation in the
camp of the Horde. The Massagetae rushed to the south
gate, scarcely daring to hope. The Horde began to stir, and
nervously mount their horses. They too gathered at the
south side of the city, feeling cold fear.

For an instant, outlined in the sun, an enormous boar

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appeared on the crest of a hill. It lowered its massive tusks
and charged, just as the bright banner rose up above the
same rise in the land. The great armies of Persia rode in their
fierce thundering glory straight at the Horde, howling like
demons. One cry in particular, one piercing ululating
Paralatae cry, shot above the rest and drove fear into their
hearts. The Massagetae cheered from atop the gates of the
city, throwing hats into the air as the swords clashed
together with terrible force. Screams of agony twisted out of
the cacophony of sound.

Atar beheaded a Mongol with a mighty swipe of his

mace. Blood spattered his tiger skin and naked chest as he
roared and attacked again. His eyes were glazed with the
red haze of battle fury. His movements were the quick
darting strikes of a predatory wild animal. Years of practice
had honed his skill to deadly precision. Iron muscles pulled
the great mace of Colaxais, whistling through the air.
Bulliwuf attacked two Mongols, ripping their throats out
with savage snarls, blood glistening from his teeth. The
superstitious Mongols began to scream at the sight of the
great wolf. They knew well the tales of the wolf-men of the
Black Forest. The battle raged with the consuming fury of a
roaring fire. A great beast among them eviscerated a group
of Mongols with one swipe of his tusks. Blood glistened on
the golden surface for a moment, and then the apparition
was gone.

The soldiers of Persia were brave and honorable men, but

something about the savage fury of their barbarian leader
brought them to new heights of courage. His wild
fearlessness was infectious, and the men fought like they
had never fought before.

In the midst of the battle, Atar stopped and raised his

mace, bellowing. Turning, he fled from the fight, and the
other soldiers, taking his lead, followed as they had been
ordered. The infantry disengaged and pelted after the

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cavalry. The Massagetae screamed in confusion and dismay,
while the Horde whooped with joy. They began to pursue
the fleeing cowards, many throwing their shields down to
run faster at the retreating figures.

Suddenly, the Persian archers turned in their saddles. It

was an old Paralatae trick. As their horses bounced beneath
them at full speed, they drew back their bows and fired.
Throughout history, this technique that the Persians learned
from the Scythians would be remembered. The Horde never
saw it coming.

They screamed with surprise. Their comrades fell to the

earth all around them, but some still did not understand
until the army turned around again and attacked. The fear of
seeing that shining banner rippling in the sun above the
army was driven deep into the hearts of the Horde.

They fell back under the onslaught, confused and

vulnerable. They broke under the charge and fled,
abandoning their weapons. The Persians raised their bloody
swords in victory, and were answered by a cry from the far
off gates of the city. The war was far from over, though. The
Horde was still between the Persian army and the city, but
for now, they could rejoice.

Atar and his army fell back.

* * * *

The flames burned white hot with the heat of her passion.
She ran her tongue along the rim of her bottom lip. What a
darling he was, the goddess thought, her eyes fixed on the
blood spattered little figure. Her favorite was turning out to
be more than she expected any mortal could be. But,
considering his untapped power…

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Chapter Ten

rincess Sophene the Sharp danced as madly as her
people on the battlements. Kartir yowled in protest,

digging his claws deeper into the fabric of Sophene’s shirt.
There was almost nothing to feast upon or to drink, but the
people were drunk on the joy of still being alive. Wild music
swirled in the air like the breeze.

Great bonfires roared in the open places, and people

laughed and screamed with joy. They were saved! Sophene’s
bright smile did not reach her eyes, however. With the
people laughing in the streets, she finally secreted herself
away into her own room in the castle. The trilling of a sweet
flute floated through her open windows. The diaphanous
curtains lifted on a warm summer breeze. Moonlight
illuminated part of her room, but Sophene sat in shadow.
Kartir purred consolingly on her lap. Sophene drew great
comfort from the warmth and softness of her faithful cat.

Tears rolled down her cheeks silently. She tried to push

the horror of her situation away from her mind, but it hit her
suddenly. She would have to leave all that she loved, all that
she believed in, to be the wife of a weak minded, vain,
utterly disgusting man. But she would do it with her head
held high when the time came. She would do it for her
country, because she was a woman of her word.

Wiping the tears away, Sophene silently held Kartir close.

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* * * *

The streets of Persia were as alive as the streets of the
Massagetae. The same moon shone down on the wild
revelers, but here the mead flowed freely. The Firestarter
was on everyone’s lips. His feats of bravery were expanded
upon. His tactics were told to wide-eyed children and half-
drunk men seated in bars. They told the rumor of the boar as
well. The soldiers’ sightings of the footprints were told and
retold. Thoughts of the awful drought were pushed aside in
favor of the victory.

Sugreeva’s fist came down on the stone table in Zohak’s

dungeon study.

“Ouch!” Sugreeva said, shaking his hand as he sucked in

his breath. “What are we going to do?” Sugreeva whined
pathetically as he cradled his hand.

Zohak did not turn away from the dark water of the pool.

He hated the sight of Sugreeva in his hair settings, wearing
the ridiculous lavender slippers that he favored.

“There is nothing to worry about, My Lord. As you know,

the mob is ever fickle. They can howl for one at dawn, and
then change their affections by evening. It is all about
manipulations, you see. I foresaw their revelry, and I have
planned for it accordingly. When you ride through the
streets on that savage’s stead, they will have another to
worship. He will be forgotten.”

“But what about all this talk? What do they mean about

seeing the footprints of the Farr, the great boar of royalty?
That’s foolishness…it’s…dangerous.”

Zohak pressed his lips together. He had not counted on

that. What possessed people to make up such foolish yarns?
It would even interfere with his own plans.

“Soon, My Lord. Soon, he will not be a problem. I sent out

my most capable messenger yesterday. There will be no
Firestarter to worry about after tomorrow.”

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* * * *

Later that evening, Atar finally sat down heavily. It had been
an utterly exhausting day. Heslin had bitten his nails down
to the quick. He tossed his head nervously, and fidgeted
maddeningly. The other generals ate their mush in quiet
amazement. The feeling in the camp was that the Firestarter
was one hell of a general.

Mage. Hey, wake up!
Heslin was slumped over, but he snorted when Atar’s

mental voice thundered at him. Y-yes, Lord Firestarter?

Tell the Generals that I will outline a plan tomorrow.
Atar got up, and Bulliwuf followed him to his tent.

“Bulliwuf, the Horde is in disarray. The battle today was
unquestionably a victory, but now we have to fear how the
Horde will react. If I were their general, I would storm the
city this very night, so that I could defend myself from the
walls of the battlements. But then again…”

Instead of answering, Bulliwuf sprang up. Ezad the

Insane had materialized in his tent. He glided into the circle
of light from Atar’s candle.

Mage! Atar bellowed in his mental voice. He heard a

squeal far off, and then a shuffling as Heslin scuttled toward
his tent.

Yes! I…
Shut up and translate, Atar said curtly with his eyes still on

Ezad.

“I come back…Ezad look…Ezad…” he broke off to look

into the dancing light of the candle. “The Horde is where
you told Ezad to go. I search long…Ezad see a fire…and…”

This is ridiculous! He’s insane, the mage began.

Shut up and translate.
“Ezad hear the talk of shadows. There is a legend…of

them…the wild one, they say, the one who kills with the fire

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of a tiger, it is said that he will kill the…him. They scream-
AHHHH! AHHH! He has come! The one who will kill him.
They run, they are afraid.”

Atar sat back and regarded the stars. He had no reason to

trust the wild ravings of this man. But something inside him
told him that the weaving, bleary-eyed man before him
knew more than an ordinary man.

Feed him. Tell him I am very pleased with his report.
Ezad gurgled with pleasure and clapped his three-

fingered hands together with a dull sound as Heslin lead
him out of the tent.

“That was strange,” Bulliwuf said from the shadows.
“What did you think?”
Bulliwuf stretched out. “The crazy man seems sincere.”
Atar went out to the fire where Tiridates and Monases

were still seated. Heslin had retired, so Atar called for him.

When the mage came, looking harried and hollow eyed,

Atar began.

There’s been a change of plans. We will attack tomorrow at

dawn, before they can regroup. General Monases, you and General

Tiridates will take half the forces to the flank, here, tonight. Get a

few hours sleep if you can, once you’re in position. General Tavos

and I will attack as we did yesterday. Use your judgment, and
attack at the appropriate time. I plan to pulverize them tomorrow

and have done with it.

Outside the camp, the Farr grunted, pausing for a

moment to gaze at the camp before it continued to circle.

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Chapter Eleven

tar surveyed his forces, praying to the god Ahuramazda
that he had not made a mistake by separating his army.

The rain drizzled down insistently, but this did not dampen
the spirits of the men. In fact, they considered it to be good
fortune, since it would doubtlessly discourage the Horde.
Besides, the drought had been so pernicious that the rain
seemed like a sign from the gods. Hopefully more would
follow. Atar closed his mind to doubt and focused on his
actions. Wheeling Ishria aside, he urged him into a canter.
The wind was cold against Atar’s bare chest, but he scarcely
noticed.

The army moved out behind him like one massive living

creature. Swords and bows gleamed. The humming of
imminent battle energized the soldiers. The massive
footprints that ringed the camp burned in the memories of
the soldiers. As the soldiers looked at Atar, he felt that they
were filling themselves with the same wild frenzy that had
overcome them all yesterday.

As they came into view, a wild shout rose up from the

walls of the city. His army answered with a roar that fired
the blood. It came from thousands of throats. This gave it a
resonance, a power that was indescribable. Atar watched the
Horde, waiting for them beneath the city. Even from this
distance, they looked nervous. The Persian army was a
frightful sight, riding out of the fog, the bright banner

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shining with eerie clarity even in the obscuring mist.

Atar thanked his lucky stars for the mist, for it would be

quite impossible for the Horde to tell that the army was now
divided. They swooped down on the Horde, and the ringing
clash of weapons shot through the morning air. Further and
further back they drove the dispirited enemy. The fury of the
attack amazed the Horde, and from high on the city walls,
Sophene and her father King Mena watched with delight as
their tormentors of the past few weeks slowly gave ground.

The archers on the walls of the city took aim with their

few remaining arrows and let them fly. A howl arose, and a
wild panicked shout infected the Horde like a racing fire.
One Mongol broke and ran surreptitiously, but Atar cut him
down as he fled. Another took the example of his comrade.
The Mongol general bellowed threats, but more ran away.

A veritable flock of Mongols fled then, swarming across

the land like flying rats.

A resonating shout from the other half of the Persian

army signaled that the battle had been joined once again.
The disorganized, panicked Horde fought for their very
lives. They believed that another Persian army had come to
finish them. The Massagetae howled, knowing the battle was
now won.

Atar raised his mace and let loose his piercing battle cry.

With a feeling of satisfaction, he wiped the sweat and blood
from his brow. He turned to smile with ferocious triumph at
General Tavos, who had come up next to him. Atar was
looking into the man’s eyes. The flicker of fear was the only
warning Atar had. Before Atar could figure out the meaning
of Tavos’ fear, they were upon him. A band of about ten
traitorous men surrounded him, and from behind, a forceful
blow to the head knocked him off Ishria’s back. He let out a
small scream of surprise and disbelief, but the noise of the
raging battle swallowed the sound.

As darkness filled his vision, Atar’s last vestiges of

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disbelief vanished. The knowledge that Bulliwuf would
search to the ends of the earth for him was his only comfort.

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Chapter Twelve

tar started awake. The pain that throbbed through his
body made thinking difficult, but he desperately

cleared his head. He was in the center of a muddy clearing.
Rough animal skin tents surrounded him. He heard the
garbled, foreign sound of the Mongol speech coming from
somewhere behind him. He closed his eyes for an instant,
and then snapped them open when he heard the heavy tread
of a man’s foot slop against the earth. The knife in his hands
was what Atar saw first. The Mongol advanced.

* * * *

Ezad the insane sat huddled in an alleyway of the city of the
Massagetae. Persian soldiers danced with the grateful
townspeople of the city by the light of the great fires. The
flutes and tambourines were not enough to drive Ezad out
into the torchlight. He was frustrated with his insanity for
once. For the first time since the comforting mist had
clouded his brain, he truly fought against it. The man’s smile
kept coming back. Zohak…the letter…what did it all mean?
The frustrating thing about it was that Ezad knew that he
knew these answers. In a lifetime long ago, he would have
known exactly what to do.

Ezad staggered to his feet. Weaving, he made his way into

the bright streets. He found himself seated in the back of a
bar. He shook his head, wheezing, afraid, but forgetting why

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he felt that way.

He heard men’s voices raised in song. A cheerful barmaid

joined in the bawdy tune, slapping mugs on the table. The
ever-present undercurrent of conversation hummed through
the room.

“What a tragedy! Such a bright flame.”
The woman by his side sniffed into her handkerchief.

“They never even found his body. Did you see him fighting?
There was such a power to the Golden Savage. I guess that is
why the soldiers talk so about him.”

“Yes, yes. He will never be forgotten.”
A hush fell over the room as a young couple entered the

bar. The young man carried a lute. A soldier at a table with
his comrades called out to them, “Can you play us the new
ballad, young one?”

The man nodded, picking at his instrument. The girl took

a sip of heavily watered wine. Ezad was swept away by the
haunting melody that filled the room. The girl lifted her
sweet voice and sang like an angel. The words were melodic
and lyrical, weaving in and around the melody, driving
Ezad to his feet. The song told of Atar’s ride into the Great
Fair, his race with Ishria, the fight with the dragon on the
mountain. It told of the bravery he displayed on the
battlefield, how the Horde turned, the indomitable Horde,
turned and ran when Atar came riding over the hill with
Ahuramazda’s grace, and Mithra’s valor.

His death heightened the drama of the story, and the lack

of a body added to the mystery. His great blue horse was
found alone, standing forlornly on the deserted battlefield,
scanning the corpses for sign of his master. Ezad waited, still
standing for the melody to continue. The glow of candles in
sconces flickered over the musicians. Ezad gurgled, and
tottered forward, desperation in his eyes.

“No!” he shouted.
People turned to look at the madman, and then looked

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away. Ezad took a deep breath. His vision cleared. In a
moment of perfect lucidity he said, “He…the Firestarter…he
was betrayed.”

“What nonsense is this?” one of the soldiers at the table

roared.

“I know. I delivered the message from Zohak to General

Tavos. Do not…do not doubt me. I…I was just doing my job.
I had no idea he was such a hero.”

Ezad’s eyes glazed over, and he was lost to insanity once

again. The musicians looked at each other, already thinking
about the verse they would add to the ballad. The room
erupted in talk, and Ezad slunk out the door.

The whisper of treachery had been started. It was a

whisper that would turn into a roar.

* * * *

The crystal glasses clinked with a musical little chime.
Sugreeva raised the wine to his lips, and laughed again.

“That was too easy! I am so glad to be rid of the

Firestarter. What a brilliant plan. Just brilliant!”

He jumped up and spun around Zohak’s dismal dungeon

apartments. His fine robes billowed out around him and he
threw his head back in delight.

“Now it’s certain that I shall ride through the streets. Do

you think I should take a chariot, or just my horse? I’d hate
to just stand for so long, but…”

Zohak cleared his throat. Sugreeva didn’t take the hint.

He waited for five minutes, saying nothing, taking deep
breaths to control the black fury that threatened to come
boiling to the surface. That damned ballad kept ringing
through his head. He thought it might drive him mad, that
is, if Sugreeva didn’t carry him off first. He was unsettled
and anxious ever since he had heard that whisper from one
of his agents. How the hell could the mob have discovered

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his message to Tavos? Were they just shooting in the dark?
He pondered that for a moment, consoling himself with the
certain knowledge that even if the nasty rumor circulated as
high as the castle, no one could do a damned thing about it.
There was no proof, and he had more important things to
think about. Finally, Zohak cut into the chatter as Sugreeva
paused for breath.

“Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but something of the

gravest importance has just occurred to me.”

“Huh?”
Zohak cleared his throat and endeavored to look sincere.

This was treacherous going, but he hadn’t misjudged
Sugreeva so far. “I believe we need to take action. The
people are quite worked up about all this. I think that your
grand procession through the streets will be a wonderful
addition to securing your power and popularity, but I
believe some things need to be taken care of first.
Your…ah…father. Well, as you know, he is a most
unreasonable man.”

“Ugh! Tell me about it,” Sugreeva said, a hot flush

appearing across his cheeks. “I can’t believe the way that
awful man laughed at me in front of the royal council.”

“I tell you, after your stunning victory over the Horde, the

people will love you.” Zohak paused, not mentioning
anything about the drought and the dragon rumors.
Speculation about the Dragon Caves was running wild
through the populace. The silly superstitious people actually
believed that the drought could not be the work of nature.
The child-like provincials of the countryside were the worst.
Some of them claimed to have actually seen the Water-
Hoarding Dragon. Zohak turned his attention back to the
conversation. “Such a tremendous victory sure would be one
hell of a way to start a reign.” Zohak sighed wistfully.

Sugreeva’s eyes took on a familiar sheen. “Yes…yes, I

agree.”

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There was a silence in the room for a moment.
Sugreeva said, “You mentioned action that we should

take. Do I read you correctly?”

Zohak smiled and nodded, wetting the tips of his fingers

in the dark water of the pool next to him. “Imagine the
power you would wield. That old man is really quite a
nuisance. He has done nothing but insult you and
undermine Your Majesty for as long as you’ve been alive.”

Sugreeva nodded, smiling, a far off look in his eyes.
“Imagine the coronation! Imagine the ladies in their finery

staring up at the dais, with you on the throne. The servants
would jump for real when you called. Think about it. That
awful father of yours would be gone for good. You could
rule in peace, you could finally discover your own power!”

Sugreeva laughed with delight, “Yes gone, for good.” He

looked up at Zohak, “What should I do?”

“I’ve got it all worked out, Your Highness.” Zohak

withdrew a black bag from his breast pocket. “When you go
to have tea with him this afternoon, drop a pinch into his
tea. No more than this, do you understand? He will feel
slightly ill. Tomorrow, you will put in a tad bit more, and
the next day, a slight bit more. You must do this gradually,
or that horrid vizier of his, Meruzanes, will suspect poison.”

Zohak was pleased to see Sugreeva’s shining eyes fixed

on him intently.

“So do you think an entirely new wardrobe would be the

best? As the emperor, I mean. You see, I have been insulted
so many times while wearing these outfits. What if
somebody remembers that when they see these clothes? Oh
no, that would never do. Do you think a particular color
scheme would be best? Or should it be random, depending
on my mood?”

Zohak covered his face with one hand. “You will

remember what I said, won’t you, Your Highness? It is of
utmost importance.”

KB Forrest

Chapter Thirteen

tar shuffled back, biting down hard, quelling the panic.
The man with the knife cut his gag and his bonds. Atar

rubbed his wrists and ankles, breathing hard. The ground
was muddy from the recent rain. Adrenaline surged through
his system. He scrambled to his feet, but fell to his knees,
splashing in the mud. Laughter made him snap his head up.
His feet were still asleep from the tight bonds, and as he
massaged his feet with hands that were almost as numb, he
grit his teeth against the million needle sharp points of pain.

The Mongols were assembling on the edge of the clearing,

chattering with each other, yowling catcalls at Atar. His eyes
darted around as more people gathered. What the hell…

The thought dissolved into mindless fear as the crowd

parted. Lumbering down the path was the largest, most
powerful man Atar had ever seen. He must have
outweighed Melik, the old Scythian chieftain by a hundred
pounds. His girth rivaled the fat Persian king’s belly, but
unlike him, the Mongol’s arms were corded with powerful
muscles. The fingers of his ham-like hands were twice as
thick as Atar’s. His feet sank deeply into the wet earth.

Atar swallowed and got to his wobbly feet. The crowd

laughed as he swayed and mocked him, falling against each
other in a parody of Atar’s bumbling motion. But Atar was
beyond caring. His heart beat fast as the Mongol chieftain
raised his fists and roared. Atar saw the cruelty glinting in

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his eyes and divined his intent. He turned a shade paler, and
stomped the life into his feet with the desperation of a
madman. Mud spattered his lower legs and sprayed up all
around him.

The crowd jeered, hopping and flailing as Atar flailed.

The chieftain said something that was beyond Atar’s limited
knowledge of the language, and the crowd roared with near
hysterical laughter. Cold sweat trickled down Atar’s frame.
He dashed it out of his eyes, as the monster before him took
a ponderous step forward.

The chief lunged with a quickness Atar had not imagined

possible. He was like a great lizard striking with terrifying
speed. Atar screamed as he felt the man’s powerful hands
squeeze his shoulders. He was lifted into the air with the
ease a father might lift his infant son. The ground spun
beneath him as he heard the crowd roar, and then pain
jarred his entire body. He was slammed against the muddy
ground with a splash. He arched his back, mouth twisted in
a silent scream of agony.

He opened one eye and saw a great foot come hurtling at

his face. Displaying his eerie quickness, he dodged the blow,
feeling the whoosh of air slide past his ear. He scrambled
backward, but the big man was upon him before he realized
it. He seized Atar’s forearm, wrenching it behind his back,
and pushing Atar down. Atar felt the pressure on his
shoulder increase, until he finally understood that the chief
meant to pull his arm right off! He swung his free hand up
and clawed at whatever he could get his hands on.

His fingers hooked on a string and Atar pulled, as his

shoulder popped painfully. He felt the string give way, and
then amazingly, the grip on his arm loosened. The crowd
grew utterly still. In his hands, Atar held an amulet dangling
from a string. He backed away from the large man, dropping
the amulet as the man howled like a wounded thing.

He felt paralyzed with fear. As in a nightmare, he saw the

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great fist come hurtling at his head again. At the last second,
he recalled himself and darted back. A wave of dizziness
overcame him. The Mongol struck again, and the blow
threw Atar spinning to the ground. Atar felt his stomach
contract spasmodically. He retched in the mud, but he raised
his red rimmed eyes to glare up at the ever advancing
chieftain.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he was going to die. The

knowledge sent his will to live rising within him like a tidal
wave. He rose, fighting the nausea that was reawakening.
The chieftain lunged and threw another punch that Atar
ducked, and he stumbled back. Taking another deliberate
step back, he launched himself, turning into the air, and
landing a devastating flying kick to the chief’s gut. He felt
his foot sink in and bounce back. It surprised Atar so much
that he fell in landing. The stunned expression on his face
sent them all into great fits of mirth.

Rising panic cleared his thoughts. How the hell was he to

fight such a one as this?

They circled and predictably, the chief lunged again. Atar

dropped with easy grace and using the momentum of his
body and that of the chief, he tackled the monster’s thick
legs. For a moment, he thought it wasn’t enough force, but
he felt the massive form giving way, sliding in the mud, and
toppling like a great colossus. He fell, his blubber in an
ecstasy of motion. The chieftain bolted upright, struggling to
get his feet under him. Atar’s powerful arm locked around
his neck.

The big man roared, standing to his full height, and lifting

Atar as he lifted himself. His face turned purple then blue, as
he struggled wildly to get Atar off. Atar held on for dear life,
clutching the man’s windpipe as hard as he could. The chief
staggered and sank to his knees. Then he toppled forward,
his eyes glazed in death.

Atar was dazed, and dangerously exhausted. The eerie

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lack of sound around him made his ears ring.

A wild howling shout rose up all of a sudden, and the

entire tribe took up the cry, raising their fists and rushing
toward him. Atar gasped, trying to strike out against them,
but they were all around him, overwhelming him.

* * * *

The Goddess in her realm of fire laughed and laughed. She
was amused beyond her expectations.

* * * *

The afternoon light streamed in, and warmed the intricate
tiled floor with its radiance. Sugreeva waited impatiently for
the tea to come. He was in the Emperor’s chambers with his
mother, Rutvana the Loud, Meruzanes the Vizier, and his
old man the Emperor. He listened to his mother chattering
away about the upcoming ball, until he too, began to
consider what to wear to the event.

He had a very smart red outfit that made his shoulders

look wide and powerful, but he was afraid the color might
be too loud for early summer. He almost forgot about the
little black bag burning in his pocket. The tea came, and
conversation droned on.

“Emperor Hergor!” A faint shout made them turn their

heads. The emperor and Meruzanes walked over to the
balcony. Sugreeva glanced at his mother, but she was busy
with a filing stone, flattening her nails. He took a precious
second to frown with disgust. He hated the way she did that.
He liked his nails to be rounded.

He casually extracted the bag and dumped the entire

contents into Hergor’s teacup. The powder sank, but it
displaced the tea, causing the level to rise considerably.
Sugreeva frowned. You’d think that Zohak would be a little more

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careful. Honestly, it was so hard to get competent servants, he
thought, placing the bag into his pocket again.

The Emperor came back to the table with his Vizier and

took a drink of his tea. He grimaced, and then his large head
fell back. Meruzanes leapt up, and his eyes flicked
suspiciously toward the emperor’s tea and then at Rutvana
and Sugreeva. Rutvana’s brow was crinkled with
concentration.

“Your Highness!” he screamed. “Servant! Drink this tea!”

Meruzanes held out the cup to a young man.

The man took it with a trembling hand. He took a small

sip and fell to the floor convulsing.

Meruzanes looked at the queen, and then at Sugreeva.

“Who did this?”

“Did what?” They both answered at once.
“The Emperor’s tea was poisoned!”

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Chapter Fourteen

s Atar sucked in breath for a scream, rough hands
knocked the wind out of him. They seized him and

lifted his muddy, sore, and aching body into the air. He
glanced wildly about him, struggling with what little
strength he had left. They were going to stone him. He was
going to die. The excited shouting reverberated in the air.
Desperately, Atar tried to think. The crowd carried him as
his heart beat with fear.

They set him down before a large tent and stepped back.

For an instant, he saw his tiger skin and mace in the open
door of the tent before he turned fully to face the crowd.

Atar waited for the first stone to fly, knees bent, arms

curled defensively. The stones didn’t come. It was then that
he noticed they were smiling at him. A girl sidled up to him,
but stepped back as a man came to the front of the crowd.

He began to talk to Atar in a reverent, excited voice. Atar

looked at the crowd and his jaw dropped. The word the man
kept repeating was the Mongol word for chief – that much,
he remembered.

Atar cleared his throat. Forming Paralatae words were

difficult enough for him, but Mongol words were nearly
impossible.

“Did you say, chief?”
The crowd nodded and someone whooped. The man

before Atar beamed at him and held out the amulet that Atar

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had ripped off the chieftain’s neck. Atar felt a flood of relief,
and thoughtlessly let the man tie the amulet around his
neck. The meaning of his predicament came home suddenly.
He couldn’t be chief! He didn’t want to be chief. He took a
deep breath and a plan occurred to him. He darted into the
tent to retrieve his mace and his tiger skin.

“I can’t,” Atar said firmly, when he emerged a moment

later. “I’ll appoint you in my stead,” Atar said, pointing at
the man in the forefront.

They laughed.
Atar smiled uncertainly. “I…uh…I really mean it. You

will be chief. Come on, make way.”

Atar gestured that they should move aside. Obediently,

they parted. As he passed, they touched his shoulders and
arms. He hurried along, disconcerted. He paused, trying to
figure out the quickest way out of camp. He chose a random
direction and started out. He glanced behind him. They were
following him. He shooed them away, certain that if he did
not leave soon, their mood would turn murderous once
again. Hurrying along, he reached the outskirts of camp and
bolted. A shout rang out, and in a swarm they were upon
him.

He shook off their hands, swinging his mace to keep them

away. “I am leaving now!” Atar insisted in broken Mongol.
The man Atar had appointed as chief stepped forward again.

“No!”
“What do you mean no? I’m chief!”
They nodded at this, relieved that he finally understood.

Chieftains tended to be a bit dull. His behavior was
reassuring to them.

“You are chieftain.”
Atar shook his head. “I don’t want to be! I already said,

you will rule in my stead.”

They shook their heads sadly, the man said, “You have to

be chief. You have no choice. The gods have chosen you.”

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Atar looked around at the implacable faces. This law had

probably been around for centuries. How was he going to
escape? He thanked Mithra that he was the fastest warrior,
even among the legendary Paralatae warriors. But now was
not the time.

“Okay. Let’s eat, if it’s going to be like that.”
The Mongols cheered.

Atar woke up at dawn. Although he had retired early,

most of the tribe had stayed up to revel. The old chief’s tent,
his now, he supposed, looked awful to him. Not that Atar
was particular about his accommodations, but the smell of
the monster man still lingered with a potency that triggered
his gag reflex.

He wouldn’t have slept a wink if he hadn’t been so

exhausted from the battle, then the taxing, almost fatal fight
with the chief. During the night, he had put the pieces
together. Zohak’s message to Tavos. Tavos’ fear and
nervousness. Then that final confirmation when Tavos and
his lackeys had attacked him. Atar was well loved by the
soldiers, even though he had only been in command for a
short time, but Tavos had been there for years. Of course, he
would have followers who would assist him in his treachery.

They must have left him for dead, but then the Horde

picked him up. They obviously wanted him to battle the
chief. They wanted to pay him back for what he’d done.
Now he was really in a fix.

The anger burned in his heart. The need to return to

Persia sent a wild frenzy through him. The gall of wrenching
him from his life, then thrusting him onto the battlefield was
bad enough. He had taken charge, because he believed it to
be his duty to protect the innocents who would have died at
the hands of the Horde. But then those treacherous people
wanted to kill him when his usefulness was over! He had
been discarded like a used rag. Fury blazed in his eyes.

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Cautiously he peered out of his tent. The camp looked

quiet. Atar took a sip of water from the canteen by his bed.
He hooked this to his belt as he strode out. The few people
huddled around the cook fires greeted him as he passed.
When he got to the edge of camp, his heart sank. About
fifteen or twenty men were gathered there talking, but he
couldn’t turn back now. They had spotted him. He smiled
and approached. A pit had been dug. Several men were
urinating into this. Atar followed suit, but as he finished, he
drew a little distance away from them. He swung his mace
over his shoulder, and looked across the horizon. The wind
caressed his face. Before they knew what was happening,
Atar was off like an arrow shot from a Persian long bow.

There was a shout of surprise, then Atar heard the

pursuit. He couldn’t hope to fight. His only hope lay in the
speed he had won from years of hard travel. He felt the
landscape blur as he fairly flew over the land, but heavy
breathing close behind him galvanized him into greater
speed. He couldn’t resist tossing a glance over his shoulder.
A dip in the land caught his foot and sent him sprawling
into the muddy earth. They were on him instantly.

He threw one man off with unnatural strength, and

struggled out of a second man’s grip, aided by the muddy
water that slicked his form. He swung his mace at the circle
of men that surrounded him, charging into their ranks with
the same battle fury he had tasted yesterday, but he felt he
couldn’t hurt them. They weren’t trying to kill him. He dove
for the small opening he had made, knocking men down. A
yank on his ankle sent him sprawling painfully. He felt the
press of restraining hands on his back. He kicked ruthlessly
at the man who was holding his ankle, and he felt the grip
give. Sliding on his belly, taking advantage of the wet
ground, he scrambled under the strong hands that
attempted to hold him.

He got to his knees then surged to his feet with spooky

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quickness, sliding out of their hands. He was running as fast
as he had ever run in his life, the Mongols a breath behind
him. Fear and anger fired his steps. On he ran as the
Mongols fell behind him.

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Chapter Fifteen

he air was still and stuffy in the Emperor’s dim
bedchamber. No breeze disturbed the single lamp that

flickered a yellow light over the ghastly scene. The painful
wheezing of Emperor Hergor sawed through the air, setting
the watcher’s teeth on edge. Meruzanes hovered over the
king anxiously. If Hergor died, the Vizier would lose his
position.

Silently, Sugreeva slipped out of the chamber. He

breathed a gusty sigh of relief when the heavy door swung
shut behind him. At least he could breathe out here! When
he let himself into Zohak’s chamber in the depths of the
castle, he found him pacing. Zohak glared at the Prince as he
settled into the couch and poured himself some wine.

“Do…do you realize what you have done?” Zohak asked

in a tightly controlled voice.

“What do you mean?” Sugreeva asked, sensing the anger

in Zohak’s voice. Nervously, he twisted his hair in his
fingers, then patted it down delicately.

“I am referring to the fact that you…” Zohak stopped

talking abruptly. He had his back turned to Sugreeva. He
was staring at the dark water of the pool. “You killed the
Emperor,” Zohak said in a flat voice.

“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? I can’t wait for my coronation.

I’ll make you my Vizier, my friend…”

“You killed the emperor!” Zohak roared, blasting

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Sugreeva with the full intensity of his stare. His words
echoed off the stone walls of the dark chamber. “Don’t you
understand? You fool! How could you do such a thing? You
were supposed to give him a pinch, and then a pinch more
each day to make it look like a natural sickness! You must
have dumped the whole damned thing in there.”

Distantly they heard the keening sound of mourners.

Zohak froze. “He’s dead.”

“But I don’t understand. Isn’t this what we wanted?”

Sugreeva’s face was pale.

“What you did puts us into considerable trouble. That

damn Vizier of his is as sharp as a razor. If he suspects us,
it’s all over. How could you be so phenomenally stupid?
You gave him too much, you fool! You blithering idiot! Now
everyone knows!”

As the light of understanding came into Sugreeva’s eyes,

they filled with tears. A great hiccupping sob tore through
his chest. “I don’t remember you telling me to use just a bit.
You should have been more clear.” His words came in nasal
sobs as snot ran down his royal face.

Zohak turned away in utter disgust.

* * * *

In the Great Hall, Cunaxa sat alone on the dais. The Hall was
packed with citizens waiting their chance to be heard by the
queen.

“If Rumain did not maintain his fence, he really can’t

complain when his neighbor puts up his own fence.
Regardless of property lines, the fact is…”

Cunaxa stopped talking as shouts and disturbance in the

back of the chamber interrupted her.

“Let me through, please I beg you!”
The man elbowing his way through the crowd wore the

unmistakable costume of a shepherd.

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“Let him pass,” Cunaxa said.
The man knelt before the dais, gasping for air. “Your

Majesty, I…I…saw it! I saw it with my own eyes! It was…I
have never beheld a sight of such horror!”

“Good sir, please explain.”
The people in the great hall watched with rapt attention.
“The Dragon! It was the Dragon of the Caves! I saw it

with my own eyes! I came upon its lair by accident. One of
my sheep broke away from the herd and went straight into
the mountain. It was eerie. It was almost like the beast was
being called. So I went after it. I came upon the dragon as it
struck my sheep down! The Drought Dragon does exist! I
tell you, this is no yarn! I saw this yesterday!”

The citizens were silent for a moment, then they

exploded. Queen Cunaxa sat back on the throne, deep in
thought. She knew when she was being told a lie, and this
was not a lie.

* * * *

Meruzanes the Vizier lay in his bed, his thoughts turning
endlessly. The Emperor was dead. His enemies would be
closing in upon him soon if he did not thrust himself into the
public eye. The delightful savage woman lay pressed against
him. As he looked at Jahi, Zohak’s wife, he felt his thoughts
focus. He had immediately spotted the rise in the level of the
tea. He had no doubt that foul play was involved in the
death of the Emperor. But who had planted the poison?

Servants were constantly coming in and out of the

Emperor’s chambers. One of them could have easily been
bribed. He had to conduct in-depth interviews with
everyone who had been working on that side of the wing. If
he could establish who had poisoned the Emperor he might
save his high position in the court. In fact, he might just
gather enough evidence to get rid of one of his many

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enemies. Perhaps he could establish a conspiracy theory and
bring them all down.

His thoughts were interrupted as Jahi stirred and sat up.

Her disheveled hair and sleepy eyes sent a thrill of hot
passion through his blood. He had never been quite as
moved by another woman. He supposed her ruthless
selfishness was what really drew him. Whatever it was, he
was determined to keep this woman.

He seized her wrist and attempted to draw her close. For

the first time, she resisted, yanking her wrist free with
surprising strength. She made a disgusted face.

He sat up. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t look at him again. Her face was suffused with

an odd dreamy expression. A hideous foreboding filled him,
followed closely by jealousy.

“Is it someone else? Huh? Answer me?” He gripped her

with bony fingers and shook her.

She smiled, but did not look at him.
“Who!” he raged, his breath coming in ragged pants. “I’ll

destroy him!”

Jahi laughed. “No, no. You can’t touch him, my friend. He

has nothing whatever to do with politics. There’s no way
you could drag the Firestarter into your foul world.” She
laughed again then added, “I’ve wanted him for so long.”

Suddenly Meruzanes knew who would suffer because of

the death of the emperor. He would destroy the nasty
barbarian and strengthen his position at the same time.

* * * *

Atar rejoiced as the sound of the cries faded behind him. He
hit the stream running, counting on the current to wash his
footprints away. By noon, Atar was confident that no one
could still be on his trail. He collapsed under an oak tree,
and uncorked the canteen.

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A rustle in the brush made him turn his head.
“Atar!” Bulliwuf shouted, emerging. He took Atar into his

arms and swung him around easily.

“Where’s Ishria?” Atar finally asked.
“He is with the Massagetae.”
Then he broadcast Atar his anger mentally, and flashed a

picture of Tavos closing in on him. He wanted revenge.

Bulliwuf instantly returned to his wolf form. That man will

pay for what he did!

The sun was setting as they crossed the open gates of the

city of the Massagetae. The tiger skin hid the exhausted
slump of his shoulders. As before, entering a city hit him
with a barrage of sensations totally foreign to him. The
evening streets were full of people, all trying to repair some
of the damages the ravages of war had brought.

Atar looked around at all this. What am I going to do now?

We have no money.

A woman turned her head sharply to stare at the startling

figure crossing the gates. She turned to her friend, “Was that
a ghost? Do you think…”

The other woman shook her head, “I don’t know. Let’s

tell Enee!”

Bulliwuf turned around suddenly as a shout went up

from the crowd. People were pointing and hollering at him.
To Atar’s consternation, they rushed at him. Someone was
shaking his hand, and all about him, the Massagetae shouted
questions.

“Let’s take him to the castle!” someone shouted.
Atar was swept away by the crowd.

* * * *

Princess Sophene the Sharp sat on the dais next to her father
with a face of stone. The sunlight was just dying outside, just
as her heart had died. She knew that her father grieved for

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her more intensely than she grieved for herself. He bitterly
regretted his helplessness, and was mute with horror that he
could do nothing to save her. The ambassador from Persia
was reading the finalized agreement sealing the marriage
between Prince Sugreeva and Princess Sophene.

Sophene felt the tight muscles in her face relax minutely

as Kartir purred. Desperately she willed the session to be
over, yet she wanted to savor every moment of this time. It
would be her last night in her homeland. Her chambers
looked stark and forbidding. The boxes piled in the corner
would be all that would remain of her life here. Her face
remained impassive, utterly expressionless, but the light in
her eyes was dying.

The sound of the street outside had been growing louder

for some time now. The people were singing, Sophene
realized. It was that popular ballad about the Firestarter. She
had told her father about what she saw on the battlefield,
but she was surprised to learn that he had already heard of
it. In fact, the entire city seemed to know. General Tavos had
disappeared.

The doors of the chamber were thrown open. The captain

of the guards came rushing in, his face was deeply flushed.

“Forgive my interruption,” the large man said

breathlessly as he knelt respectfully, “but I have news of the
utmost importance. General Atar is alive! According to the
people outside, he just walked through the gates!”

“What nonsense is this?” King Mena asked. “If you relied

on the public word, one would have to believe that the first
man, Gayomard, rose from the dead at least a dozen times.”

The council laughed softly, turning to murmur to each

other.

“Your Majesty, he’s outside!” the captain said.
The laughter stopped abruptly. “Well, come, come, let

him in!” King Mena said just as a tall form strode through
the doors. At his side was the unmistakable form of the huge

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silver wolf. The apparition of a bird of prey on the figure’s
shoulder turned his head for a moment, and then the fierce
outline of its profile disappeared.

* * * *

Atar paused for an instant. He was angry.

“Mage!” Atar shouted mercilessly.
Heslin whimpered in his seat a few rows back and came

stumbling into the large aisle that separated the two sections
of the council.

Don’t…
Ask them to tell me where Tavos is, he said quietly.
Uh, I think…well, I guess I should ask Prince Sugreeva if it is

okay to do that.

Atar advanced on the speaker mage. Twisting his green

robe with his fists, Atar hoisted him into the air, snarling like
a wild beast. He looked straight into the man’s eyes while
poor Heslin flailed like a fish out of water.

“What’s going on?” Sophene cried, rising from her throne.
Atar threw the mage down. Translate, he commanded.
Heslin gasped choking. “He…wants to know where

Tavos is.”

“Tell him that the traitor has fled the country, and we are

doing all that we can to apprehend the criminal. If he ever
sets foot in this kingdom, he is as good as dead.”

As Atar listened to this, it looked as though the anger was

draining out of him. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he
looked about the room. His eyes widened ever so slightly as
he looked at Princess Sophene. He looked down at his mud
caked, filthy body.

The king arose. “Order a feast to be served! At once!

Speaker Mage, will you invite the Firestarter to my
chamber?”

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The king and the princess escorted Atar to the king’s

private study. Heslin trailed behind them, glancing back at
the Persian ambassador. To Atar’s annoyance, Bulliwuf
walked beside the redhead, rather than by him. But Atar
supposed that he would have done the same if he were in
Bulliwuf’s place.

The chamber they entered was perfumed with exotic

incense. Atar stood awkwardly, watching them settle into
couches. Bulliwuf leapt lightly onto Sophene’s couch
without hesitation. Kartir poked his head out from behind
Sophene’s hair and growled.

Atar laughed.
Sophene jumped.
The great wolf stood, knocking over the low table in the

center of the room. The crash of breaking glass and the
muted boom of the table falling hard onto the intricate
carpet brought servants rushing to the door. Atar groaned
and covered his face.

King Mena bellowed with laughter.
Sophene said in mind-speak, that’s really quite enough, big

wolf! What a spectacle you have made of yourself!

Atar was startled by the voice that cut into his thoughts.

You…you…speak with the mind? Like me? Atar said stupidly,
gazing at her.

“Let’s settle down and talk!” King Mena ordered,

unaware of their mental exchange. Atar gingerly perched on
one of the couches, afraid to break anything else. Bulliwuf
climbed up after Atar and put his head on his lap. Kartir did
not respond to his mistress. He sat on the couch, lashing his
tail, eyes fixed on Bulliwuf.

“Now, tell us everything! What happened? How did you

get away from the Horde?”

“Uh…well, I just sort of ran away. But let me begin at the

beginning” Atar added hastily, realizing how stupid he
sounded. He blushed when he looked back at the redhead.

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He wished he knew her name, but he felt too shy to ask, this
late in the conversation. He told them the whole story,
broadcasting some of his memories, like the hulking figure
of the Mongol chief advancing, and the narrow escape from
the tribe.

They were speechless when he was done.
A servant came in and announced dinner. As they entered

the dining chamber, Sophene ordered another chair for
Bulliwuf. Atar looked around with dismay. The last time he
had eaten in a place like this, he had ended up running for
his life. But he sat obediently when the others did.

As King Mena told Atar’s story, Atar watched the

Princess. Why are you so sad?

Sophene looked up. This is my last night here in my

homeland.

Why?

I am to be married to the Prince Sugreeva of Persia.

Why?
That’s what I agreed to. The treaty I signed said that in

exchange for Sugreeva leading the armies of his empire in our

defense I would marry him.

Atar broadcast his confusion and rising anger. I guess I

must be dense, he said at last. Who is this Sugreeva?

Sophene broadcast his image to Atar. Atar nearly choked.

Him! The one who insulted you at the banquet! I don’t believe it!

He couldn’t lead a tame ox. I was the one who led the armies! But
why did you have to sign away your freedom? Wouldn’t they have

come to your aid in any case?

No, Sophene said.
Atar shook his head, confused and disturbed. He could

see why she was sad, but he couldn’t think of a way to fix
her problem. He could only broadcast his sympathy.

* * * *

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Sophene tore her eyes away from his. A thought, a totally
inappropriate thought, leapt into her mind. What a pity he
isn’t a prince.

* * * *

The walls of the city were falling behind Atar as the sun
rose. In his absence, Ishria had been pampered in the royal
stables, but as always, the stallion was glad to be in the open
once more. The rolling hills met the brightening sky in the
distance as Atar urged Ishria a little faster.

He needed to talk to dear old Zohak the traitor…his

brother.

* * * *

Princess Sophene wept openly as the city she loved finally
disappeared from view. She plodded along in abject misery,
not noticing the beauty of the morning. The sun was well up
by the time her caravan had made it through the crowds that
watched the princess leave.

The carriage in front of her stopped and she reined in her

horse. She waited for a moment then decided to see what
had caused the delay. She guided her horse to the front of
the caravan where she saw a crowd of servants staring at the
ground.

“Your Majesty!” one exclaimed, coming over to her. “The

Royal Farr. The giant royal boar! It has been here!”

She dismounted and looked at the deep cloven footprints

that dwindled into the distance. Then she noticed what the
others had missed. Bending over, she examined the half-
obscured hoof prints of a lone horse. She would bet money
that if she searched a little harder, she would see the paw
prints of a huge wolf as well.

She was greatly shaken. Could it be that the barbarian

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general was more than he seemed? He was known to be the
son of Anacharsis, but Anacharsis had not been of the royal
line. Nobody knew what Atar’s maternal lineage was.
Possibilities started to turn in Sophene’s mind.

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Chapter Sixteen

he anger had been brewing inside of him for days. Each
time he closed his eyes under the stars, he dreamed of

fire. Each morning he woke before the sun, and was on his
way. He ate little, relying on Bulliwuf to bring him food at
the end of the day. He was sustained by his anger. He
traveled fast through forests and open meadows. He
avoided the small towns he crossed, but he did not escape
their notice. He was hard to miss.

By the time the city of Persia came into view, he was mute

with wordless fury. His every waking thought was of
revenge. The people began to spot him, and news of his
return to life spread like fire. Soon the streets were teeming
with people who poured out of their houses to watch the
living legend ride through the city.

He looked at no one as he rode past. His narrowed eyes

were fixed on the castle. The only display of the fiery rage
inside him was the tightness around his mouth.

He barely noticed the people staring in shock.

* * * *

The Great hall was packed with nobles. Everyone was silent
as Meruzanes finished speaking.

“The irrefutable testimony of these ten servants here,

coupled with the testimony of General Tavos, provide a
solid case. When the Firestarter’s notorious ambition is taken

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into account, one can clearly see that it was the Firestarter
who poisoned Emperor Hergor. Doubtless, he would have
come charging back to Persia to seize the throne if he hadn’t
been killed in battle. Public opinion runs high in favor of the
general. It was easy to see how he coerced one of the citizens
to slip the poison into the Emperor’s tea. But justice will be
served! No barbarian will come in here and make a mockery
of this great land!”

Loud applause filled the chamber.
Zohak stood up and waited for quiet.
The chamber stilled. In perfect unaccented Persian, he

said, “The death of the Great Emperor has been resolved.
But now the time has come for someone to step into his
place. Sugreeva the Fair has lived in this castle his entire life.
He has been in your minds the rightful and only successor.”

The silence in the room was deafening.
“But, as you know, when Emperor Hergor took over this

land, Queen Cunaxa had a son by Dahaka, her husband.”

Gasps and shouts rang in the chamber. They stilled when

Zohak raised his hand in a kingly gesture of silence.
Sugreeva’s jaw was gaping.

“As you all know, I came home with Sugreeva when he

returned from the Great Fair. Before that time I was living
among the Paralatae with Devayani, my nursemaid. She
posed as my mother in the tribe of the Paralatae. Devayani
was my father’s servant.”

He paused and they waited breathlessly. Sugreeva

struggled to form words, and his brow creased with worry.

“But, I did not always live among the Paralatae. Until the

age of thirteen, I was living in this very castle. Queen
Cunaxa is my mother, Dahaka was my father, and I am the
rightful King of Persia.”

Pandemonium.

* * * *

Burned Dreams

Atar charged through the open gates of the castle. He rode
past the shocked stableman who waited to take his horse.
With Bulliwuf loping by his side, he surged through the
castle. Ishria’s hooves echoed like thunder on the stone
floors. This was the only warning they had.

The doors of the great hall burst open. Atar had returned.
He heard someone scream. His gaze shot straight to

Zohak. Baring his teeth and snarling like a wild animal, Atar
thundered at Zohak, swinging his mace over his head.

“Protect the new Emperor!” Meruzanes roared. “Hergor’s

murderer has returned to kill the new Lord of Persia!”

From the corner of his eye, Atar saw the swarm of red

shapes come running at him from both sides. Ishria reared,
his deadly hooves striking out, but there were too many of
them, and in the confines of a building, the horse panicked.
Bucking in anger, Ishria threw Atar, who rolled and began to
swing his deadly mace. Headless corpses surrounded him in
a red circle. He heard the rumble of Bulliwuf’s vicious
snarls, and the screaming of soldiers having limbs torn from
their bodies filled the air.

“Go! Bulliwuf, go! We are outnumbered,” he managed to

scream.

Zohak was swinging his mace now, and Atar struck out.

Their maces clanged with a metallic scream, but the soldiers
behind them were already moving.

“No!” Cunaxa shouted above the noise of battle.
They watched as the Firestarter went down. A huge net

was thrown over the mêlée. The soldiers descended upon
the figures, beating Atar with clubs. Ishria’s hoof beats
echoed down a corridor as he ran, led by Bulliwuf.

Cunaxa put her hands to her head. Everyone was

screaming at once.

Sugreeva jumped off the dais and ran to confront Zohak.
In all the excitement with the Firestarter, the Council had

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not been able to process his shocking pronouncement.
Meruzanes had taken advantage of this to call the guards to
attack.

“You are not my friend! How could you fake like that?

Using me to put yourself in the public eye! You have no
proof whatsoever of your claim!” Sugreeva was in tears, but
he appeared enraged. “You are not the emperor! I am!”

Zohak threw back his head and laughed. He turned to

Cunaxa. “Mother dear, tell the court who I am.”

Cunaxa stared at the son she never wanted to have. She

had been forced into the marriage with Dahaka, the
powerful wizard, but her heart had always belonged to
another. “How could I possibly recognize you after so many
years? What you ask is impossible. I do not know you.”

For the first time, fear registered on Zohak’s face. His

mouth gaped open like a fish.

“Preposterous! I am the rightful king!”
“You are not!” Sugreeva wailed. “Mother! Queen Mother

Cunaxa! He’s an imposter! Tell them!”

Cunaxa rose to her feet. “There seems to be too much

confusion, my court. We shall settle this all quite simply.
First, let us touch back upon Meruzanes’ pronouncement
about the Firestarter. I dislike leaving things such as this
unsettled, and it certainly would be unresolved now that the
Firestarter is apparently alive. I believe we should hold a
series of contests to clear everything up.”

The court murmured approval. Everyone loved a contest,

and in the case of a dispute over the throne, a contest was
the traditional way to decide. Sugreeva turned ashen. Zohak
snarled, making his hands into fists.

“If the Firestarter fails to pass the tests, he will be put to

death. If either Sugreeva or Zohak fails the test, then we will
know who the rightful king is. Let the gods decide on these
matters.”

Burned Dreams

Chapter Seventeen

tar opened his eyes to blackness and bone chilling cold.
A dripping noise plopped hypnotically somewhere

nearby. He didn’t move for a second. All was total darkness,
making Atar believe for one awful moment that sight was
lost to him. He moaned as he felt the pain of his wounds
reawaken.

The ground beneath him was damp and smelled of mold.

Atar began to shake. He was absolutely alone in utter
blackness. He heard an inhuman moan that shook with
mortal terror. He tried to inhale, but the ceiling of the cell
seemed to press down upon him. He was afraid to move,
certain suddenly that he would feel the ceiling inches away.
Sweat broke out all over him as the image of himself trapped
and dying in the darkness burned into his brain.

Atar closed his eyes, then opened them. He sobbed with

terror as the blackness all around him did not lift. Like a
wild creature, Atar had never spent much time without
seeing the wide Scythian sky. Because of this, he had
developed a terror of small places. Zohak, of course, knew
this. He had deliberately put him here, Atar was sure. Atar
sucked in a huge breath. It felt like he had forgotten how to
breathe. He tried to focus on anything at all but the
oppressive stone walls around him.

Zohak. Yes, Zohak did this. He was sure. He wondered what

would become of him. Why did they not kill him outright?

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Or perhaps that was what they planned to do. Maybe they
would just leave him here to go crazy in the dark.

Atar nearly lost control again. Tears rolled down his face.

He stopped breathing for moment, listening. The sound
came again, barely heard above the dripping. Atar waited,
still unsure, but the sound of footsteps approaching his cell
came closer. A barely discernible light flickered, and then
grew stronger. The step was light, Atar realized, very unlike
the heavy tramp of booted feet.

Princess Sophene appeared like an angel, with Kartir

draped over her shoulders. Her eyes widened with shock as
she took in Atar, who was delighted with the light that
poured into his cell. The ceiling was not so low, after all. He
crawled toward her and she let out a cry.

My God! What have they done to you? Sophene asked,

grasping the desperate hands that clutched for hers. His grip
was painful, he knew, but she made no sign. He was
hanging on to his sanity, as he clung to her hand.

It…it isn’t that bad. The…the pain that is. I…this cell…I can

barely breathe.

Atar sent her a poignant picture of a clear Scythian sky,

with the sun shining on the wide open field.

I understand. My God! How could they have done this to you

after what you did for them? Do you know what they are saying
about you? I only arrived yesterday, but that evil Meruzanes says

that you murdered the Emperor. They think you hired someone to

do it while you were away fighting.

That’s ridiculous! Damn! Impossible! I…all I ever really

wanted to do was go deep into the Wild Lands with my friend.

How did I end up here, hopelessly snarled in political intrigue?

The dripping inside the cell punctuated the awful stillness

of the chamber.

Please, Atar said, tell me something, anything! What else is

going on up there?

Well, the whole city is in an uproar! The nobles are chattering

Burned Dreams

constantly! Zohak the barbarian, I think he’s from your tribe

right? Well, he claims that he is the lost prince. He says he was

thirteen when he was sent off to Scythia, but now he is back and
wants the throne. Public opinion is divided. Zohak has done some

pretty unpopular things, but Prince Sugreeva has done a lot worse.

Queen Cunaxa declared that they would compete against each

other to determine who the rightful heir is. Since the accusation
against you implies that you were attempting to seize the throne,

you are to compete with them. Queen Rutvana the Loud,

Sugreeva’s mother, is howling all around about her son competing
with barbarians. And…

What? Atar asked, anxiously.

Well, the rumor started a long time ago. But now, in the public

mind…well, let me start from the beginning. It seems that some

shepherds saw the Royal Farr trailing you when Zohak first
brought you to Persia. The soldiers saw it again, marching ahead

of you as you led the armies against the Horde. That ballad they

are singing about you…

Ballad!? What ballad? And what is this Farr you keep

mentioning?

Sophene seemed surprised. You…you…don’t know the

legends of the ancient kings? But then…no you wouldn’t know,
being raised in Scythia. The Royal Farr is a creature of myth, or so

I thought…it is said to be the clearest sign of royalty that one

could possibly see.

I see. And they said this thing has been following me? What

does it look like?

It is the great boar of course! With tusks and hooves of gold.
Atar grew very still, remembering. It had been one of the

most terrifying experiences of his life. He had been just
eleven years old, but he had seen such a creature only a few
feet from him when he had turned around abruptly in the
woods.

The public sees the contests as an affirmation of your eligibility

to the throne. The fact that you are competing with the two princes

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makes you look like a prince. Queen Cunaxa certainly is clever.

That is what Rutvana really objects to. The people of this land

would like nothing better than to see you on the throne, and she
knows it.

There was a pause and the awful dripping cut into his

thoughts. Atar felt panic and disbelief. He didn’t want to
rule. He looked into Sophene’s eyes.

You’ve seen it too, haven’t you! The beast, I mean. Atar

couldn’t help but return to the subject.

No, no, but I did see…footprints. It was following you to

Persia.

Atar felt a chill go up his spine. What could this mean?

But did any of this matter at a time like this? His mind
turned to the fate he awaited. It would have been easier to
just be put to death, but to have such a burden placed on his
performance in these contests was infinitely more horrible.

I am glad for you, at least, Atar said. This means you don’t

have to marry immediately, right?

Sophene was startled to realize that the details of her

predicament were fresh in the Firestarter’s mind. For now,

yes. But I’m wondering who it would be more horrible to marry.
Sugreeva is a revolting fop, and a bed wetter by all accounts, but

Zohak is evil and conniving. He is probably the most frightening
man I have ever met. I hope Sugreeva wins – then at least I can

manipulate him. Zohak does not look like the type who would be
susceptible.

Atar did not know what to say. I must go now, she said.

Atar looked at her with desperate eyes. I’ll leave the light for

you, but I must go. No one knows I’m here. I hope…I hope you

understand.

Her footsteps died gradually, leaving the drip as the only

sound in the dead silence. Yes, hurry.

Atar sighed, feeling the sweat break out over him again.

Somewhere nearby a rat scurried over stone, the tiny nails
scraping against the hard surface. He looked around the cell,

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101

searching for the awful drip. A chiseled message in the wall
caught his eye. He couldn’t read, of course, but he went over
to the inscription. As his fingertips touched the rough stone,
an image of Anacharsis flashed into his mind. He drew back
hastily, knowing for a certainty that Anacharsis had written
on this very stone. But what madness was this? Who could
have been so devious, or so clever, as to force such a
powerful mage into prison? He wished he knew more about
his mysterious father. What truths lay hidden in the past?

* * * *

“No! No! Oh the gods! Ah!” Sugreeva wailed piteously to
his mother, Rutvana. “I thought he was my friend! I can’t
believe it…” Sugreeva broke off to sob into the silk pillow.

“It’s ok, my little prince. Mama’s here,” Rutvana said in a

voice devoid of sympathy. Sugreeva sobbed all the harder.
“We need to think.”

“Mama!” Sugreeva wailed in a voice that went up and

down like a seesaw. “What am I going to do? What am I…”

Rutvana slapped his pink face with her ringed hand.

“Enough!” she shrieked above her son’s howl of pain.
“Enough! I have had it with your sniveling. You have got to
get hold of yourself, or you will lose the throne. Then where
will I be? Eh? Queen Mother of a deposed kinglet?”

Sugreeva mumbled incoherently, feeling true fear for the

first time in his sheltered life. He had truly been too innocent
to see Zohak’s conniving ways, but not so innocent that he
hesitated to kill his own father.

“She will doubtlessly choose archery for the first contest.

That is tradition, but I haven’t the slightest idea of the other
two. Damn! Damn! Damn! I will think of something!”

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Chapter Eighteen

tar was hauled out of his cell by two burly palace
guards. He refused to walk, making his body go limp.

The guards cursed and struck him, but they had no choice
but to drag him along. They seemed to travel through the
quiet dungeons forever. Finally Atar began to hear the
sounds of people in the cells. Zohak must have put him in
the deepest, darkest cell, Atar realized.

When they emerged into the sunlight, Atar closed his eyes

against the powerful glare. They dragged him out into the
street and threw him into a wagon with unnecessary force.
Every bruise in Atar’s body was jarred with the bouncing of
the wagon. He stared at the sky, grateful to see it after such a
long time. All around him, the noise of the vibrant city
assaulted his ears. He could not see where the guards were
taking him.

The wagon stopped eventually in Mithra’s field. The

guards hauled him out. They dragged him a few yards, and
then hurled him to the floor. Atar picked himself slowly off
the ground, as the wagon trundled off. The first thing he saw
was the throngs of lords and ladies, seated, as if at a party.
Meruzanes, Prince Sugreeva, Queen Cunaxa, Queen
Rutvana, and Princess Sophene were seated together under
an awning.

What he saw next made him almost scream for joy.

Bulliwuf, resplendent in princely garb, casually sat near

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Sophene. He wore the clothes of a prince of Germania. Atar
knew this as Bulliwuf sent him a mental image. The rich
blue velvet of his tunic contrasted marvelously with the
silver of his shirt. His long silvery hair shone. A few stray
ringlets decorated his handsome, broad forehead. The crown
he wore was studded with sapphires that shone in the sun,
bringing out the blue of his icy eyes. He wore a slight smile
on his face. The court announcer called out the names of the
royal party one by one. When he came to Bulliwuf, he called
out, “His Royal Highness Prince Bulliwuf of Germania, who
is visiting the country on behalf of the King of Germania, is
also in attendance.”

They were at the center of a vast horseshoe that was made

up of the watchers. Anyone who was anyone had come to
witness the contest that would determine the next king.

Atar stood alone in the center of this. Turning away from

the crowd, he saw the horizon stretching out into the
distance. He was in a great clearing marked with the
footprints of thousands of soldiers. Mithra’s field was the
traditional training ground for the new recruits to the
Persian Army.

Twelve enormous axes were driven into the ground in a

straight line before Atar. They were placed about a yard
apart, and in the center of each axe was a hole. The murmur
of the crowd behind him made Atar turn around. Zohak
stepped forward, the light wind catching his long hair and
making his cape flair out slightly. He removed his cape
gracefully, and strode out on the field, bow in hand. Zohak’s
immaculate armor threw back the sun, and brought out red
highlights in his dark hair. His handsome face was cool and
composed. Next to this glory, Atar looked like a naked, dirty
savage. But he was beyond caring about such things.

The onlookers turned to Sugreeva expectantly, but

murmurs of shocked disapproval rippled through the crowd
as Anusawan, a famous archer, stepped out from the crowd,

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and stood next to Zohak.

“What is the meaning of this?” Meruzanes’ irate voice cut

above the mill of general conversations.

There was a pause, and then Queen Rutvana turned to

sneer at Meruzanes. “The Prince Sugreeva is above such
petty contests. He does not feel the need to compete himself,
since the throne is rightfully his.”

Meruzanes gaped at such boldfaced cowardice. The eager

gossips strained to catch every word. Queen Cunaxa
frowned, but Meruzanes jumped to his feet.

“Impossible! We are not judging Anusawan’s eligibility

for the throne! He is the best archer in Persia, no doubt…”

“Be silent, Vizier!” Rutvana ordered.
“Yes, I agree,” Queen Cunaxa said quietly. Silence fell at

her surprising words. They waited for more, but Cunaxa
said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on Atar.

“I don’t believe this absolute cowardice! What is to

become of us if…”

“Oh shut up!” Rutvana said.
Atar stood watching, feeling his nerves quiver painfully

as the seconds rolled by.

“Get out of the goddamned way, Idiot,” Zohak said in

Paralatae.

Atar jumped and moved away from the axes. Anusawan

stepped forward. He drew an arrow from his quiver, and
hooked it on the string. There wasn’t a sound as Anusawan
squinted at the axes. He moved to the left then took a step to
the right, scrutinizing the impossible task before him.

He drew back the bowstring, and held it for a heart-

stopping moment. He released the arrow.

Whip, whip, whip, CRAACK!
The arrow whizzed past the first three axes, but cracked

against the fourth. A shout rang up from the watchers, but
Sugreeva’s wail of vexation rang out above them all. He
began to sob uncontrollably.

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“Stop that at once!” Rutvana hissed at her son.
Sugreeva did not stop. Two guards escorted the

distraught young man off the field. Zohak’s smile slipped as
he next approached the axes. He drew out his arrow and
studied the axes with intense concentration. Finally, he drew
back the bowstring, and let fly.

Whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip—CRACK!
The crowd cheered and Zohak turned to bow and preen

at the audience. He stepped off the field, leaving Atar alone.
A guard approached him, handing him one arrow and an
army issue bow.

Atar took a deep breath. He glanced briefly at Bulliwuf,

and saw his friend’s eyes twinkle. He walked over to the
axes and peered into the holes. Then he drew back the
bowstring, and let fly.

Whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip, whip,

whip, whip.

Not a sound from the crowd. Atar turned and they

erupted into raucous conversation. The arrow had passed
cleanly through the twelve axes.

Meruzanes shouted orders and the guards advanced on

him again. They hauled him off to his wagon before Queen
Cunaxa could make herself heard. Atar smiled as Bulliwuf
howled a wolfish howl of victory. People backed away from
him as he appeared to shine in the light of the sun. Atar
thought his lover looked like the moon, who in his bold
splendor, dared to challenge the sun at high noon.

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Chapter Nineteen

he crash of glass broke the silence of Zohak’s chamber.
Zohak let out a wordless roar of animal rage. He stalked

up and down his room, biting his fist so hard that blood ran
down his knuckles.

“This is fine. I can deal with this,” Zohak muttered to

himself. “I will simply win the other two tests. Perfect.
Fucking perfect.”

But his anger did not recede. The idiot had bested him yet

again. Maybe it was time to do something about the Idiot.
Perhaps a dab of poison?

* * * *

“Mama!” Sugreeva wailed, “I thought you said he was the
best! I thought…”

“Shut up!” Rutvana shouted.
“But…”
“Damn it! I cannot think when you whine! We are in deep

shit. I don’t even know what the next contest will be! How
can we arrange things if I don’t know?”

“You mean I’m going to have to compete! Eeek!”

Sugreeva squeaked in terror. “Why don’t we ask the
Germanic prince to help us? He looks so strong!”

Rutvana turned away from her weeping offspring with

disgust. “We’ll see about that. He may not want to get

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107

involved.”

* * * *

In a different part of the castle, Queen Cunaxa sat in
shadow, absorbed in speculation.

* * * *

Down in the dungeons, the guard pushed the cart over the
uneven stone, muttering about the inconvenience of it all.
There was only one pot of the vile mush left in the cart. On
the edge of the pot was an inconspicuous little yellow tag.
The guard finally reached Atar’s cell, and shoved the mush
inside. Atar sat up and scrambled forward, the painful
hunger inside him demanding relief.

Gourmet mush, he thought. Atar had raised the mush pot

to his mouth and then he stopped. The hair on the back of
his neck rose.

Foxglove.
It was unmistakable to Atar’s trained senses. Atar silently

and fervently thanked Bulliwuf for his years of patient
training. If Atar had missed the faint, almost undetectable
scent, he would have – well, he would have died. Atar
emptied the bowl in a corner of the cell, over a pile of poop,
and put the empty bowl back through the bars. Let his
poisoner figure that out.

The hunger in him was so acute that it made him

nauseated. He listened to the rattle of the food cart fade.
Atar crouched in the absolute blackness of the cell, utterly
still.

A wave a terror hit him. He forced himself to calm down,

to picture a serene Scythian forest. This was not a prison cell.
This was a forest. He shut his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he
would see the sun-dappled ground. He was shaking, he

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knew. He could feel sweat rolling down his back, but he did
not move or make a sound.

He calmed himself down by clearing his mind of all

thought. After an hour, he could feel the muscles in his legs
and back knotting. The pain gave him something to focus
on. With the patience of a predator, he waited.

Another hour passed.
His quiet breathing was barely perceptible above the

monotonous drip. Atar’s hair was soaked with sweat. A
drop hung from the end of his nose, trembling with the beat
of Atar’s heart. The scuttle of a rat was loud in the nearly
silent cell. Atar waited. The creature shuffled the air,
attracted to the mush Atar had dumped there. It was
nearing. Atar tensed. It was inside his cell.

It paused. Atar guessed it was only four feet away. Some

sense was warning the rat not to approach. Atar held his
breath, his keen ears straining to hear. The rat advanced.

Atar pounced with the liquid speed of a predator. He

howled with delight as his hands closed around the
squirming rat. He dispatched the creature neatly and
clutched it close in victory. Someone was laughing insanely,
and he had a horrible suspicion that it was him, since the
other prisoners were out of earshot.

He exhaled, the laughter trailed off. Now what? He was

glad he couldn’t see the creature. Even though hunger
squeezed his stomach, he couldn’t help grimacing at the
stench of the fur. He bit into the rat, tearing off the hide. He
was thankful to have anything at all. He thought of Bulliwuf,
and tried to imagine himself as a great wolf. It was not the
only rat he finished before the night was over.

On the dawn of the following day, Atar woke to the rattle

of the guards’ keys. He lay still for a moment, peering at
them through his lashes.

“I expect he’s dead,” one of the guards said.
They peered at him a moment, then swung the door open.

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109

As they stepped inside, Atar sprang to his feet, knocking the
two guards over. The echoes of their screams chased him
down the corridor.

His fleet feet carried him easily down the corridor. By this

time, he was in the populated section of the dungeons.
Dimly he heard the other prisoners howling as he bolted
past. He came to a fork in the corridor and stopped. The
heavy tramp of his pursuers reminded him he had to move.
Fear gripped him, and he ran forward, choosing his way at
random.

He tossed a triumphant glance behind him and ran

headlong into a company of soldiers. They were upon him
before he knew what was happening. He struggled wildly,
maddened by his taste of freedom. He caught one of the
guards with his fist. Ruthlessly, they subdued him with
vicious blows.

“Stop!” one of the first two guards shouted breathlessly.

The two guards came running over, totally winded.

“Got away from you, did he?” the others laughed. The

first two guards gave their comrades black looks and seized
Atar none too gently. They dragged Atar upwards.

When the guards finally threw him down this time, filthy

and aching, he was in the Great Hall. Sunlight poured
through the huge windows, glittering on gems and gold
threaded lace. He looked around him. The nobles were
assembled like yesterday. Zohak put his hand to his throat,
unable to hide his consternation and surprise. The guard had
told him that the Idiot’s food bowl had been empty. How
could he be alive? Zohak thought with a touch of desperation.
Things were not going as planned.

Atar picked himself off the ground once more, and glared

at everyone. Sugreeva’s face was buried in his hands. Upon
the throne dais, Queen Cunaxa, Queen Rutvana, Sophene,
and Meruzanes the Vizier sat. Bulliwuf sat on a lower guest
platform, smiling wolfishly. Atar’s eyes rested on Sophene

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for a moment then shifted to Queen Cunaxa as she rose.

The court murmured as she went to the wall behind the

dais. No one knew what the next test would be. Cunaxa had
kept silent so that Rutvana could not find Sugreeva another
replacement. Queen Cunaxa reached for a black, plain
looking long bow that rested on metal supports driven into
the wall. Prince Sugreeva uncovered his face and watched
the Queen. Atar noticed that he looked very pale around his
normally shell pink mouth.

The bow was unstrung and the heavy string dangled

from one end.

“This is the bow of King Siyavush,” Queen Cunaxa

declared in ringing tones that carried over the murmurs of
the court. “There has been no one in the two hundred years
since his death who has been strong enough to string his
mighty bow. If either of you is to be King, let Mithra lend
you his strength.”

A smack punctuated the end of her speech.
“My God!” a gentlemen in the front row exclaimed. Half

the assembled audience rose to their feet, as Prince Sugreeva
fell in a dead faint on the floor. Atar knelt to help the prince,
but he was not welcomed. Guards came rushing over, and
Prince Sugreeva was gently carried out of the great hall.
There was a great rustling of silk and satin as the people
resumed their seats.

Zohak burst out laughing rudely, his rich baritone rolling

over the heads of the spectators and catching on. Ladies
snickered behind their fans, and gentlemen chuckled and
whispered to each other in muted undertones.

Zohak, looking as immaculate as before, stepped up to

Cunaxa.

“Thank you Mother,” he said to her casually, smiling in a

way that was somehow obscene. He appeared undaunted by
the task before him.

Cunaxa resumed her seat and Zohak turned to smile at

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the court, holding the bow lightly. “Ladies and gentlemen,
as you know, for all of my adult life, I have lived with
savages. But even among such people, my strength was
renowned. I was honored as the fiercest warrior among
them. I was second only to the chief, and before long, I
became chief. But I left the tribe easily, for I knew my
destiny called elsewhere. Now I am here before you…”

A lone, imperiously slow clapping interrupted Zohak’s

speech. “Why doesn’t the little prince dispense with the
speech and string the bow? In my country, men who have
much to say are considered cowards.” Bulliwuf smiled, but
his eyes were chilling.

“How dare you? You are only a visitor! My guest!”

Zohak’s voice almost squeaked as he stared furiously.

“I believe I am the guest of the queen, for you are not the

emperor. As you have only boasted of your claim, how dare
you speak to me like that? I am of royal blood. You only
claim to be so. Show us what you are made of, little man.”
Bulliwuf had so enraged Zohak that his eyes were red and
his face distorted into an ugly mask.

Snickers followed.
Zohak turned back to face the dais. He placed his left foot

over the bow, trapping it with his shins. Reaching down, he
grabbed the end of the string with his right hand. With his
left hand, he pressed down on the bow, expecting it to bend
beneath the inexorable pressure of his arm and back.

Zohak stopped pushing and readjusted his grip. He

pressed down on the bow again and did not let up for five
entire minutes. The veins in his forehead stood out, and
trickles of sweat dripped past his eyes. Zohak put the bow
down and stripped off his arm guards, letting them clatter to
the ground. He took up the bow once again, and heaved
mightily. Finally, the bow moved visibly. He moved it
another fraction of an inch, but his face was turning dark red
from the strain.

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112

Zohak let go, and put the bow down again. He stripped

off his breastplate and the rest of the armor on his chest. His
shirt was pasted to his body with sweat. The worry in his
eyes was unmistakable. As he bent to his task again, the
court could see his muscles straining and quivering. His
powerful hand gripped the bow. It began to bend. People
rose to their feet to get a better look. Zohak was shaking
with the effort. The string was only three inches away from
the end of the bow.

Snap! A chorus of “Oohs” went up from the watchers as

the bowstring snapped out of his hands.

“Fetch me some wine,” he demanded, wiping the sweat

from his brow. A servant hurried over. An hour later, Zohak
threw the bow against the steps of the dais. “He won’t be
able to do any better!” Zohak’s eyes were bulging with fury
as he glared at Atar. The audience murmured as he reached
to touch his leg. Zohak’s left shin was scraped raw from the
bow pressing against it.

Bulliwuf laughed in a rich, deep voice. Zohak raised a fist

at him and Bulliwuf teased him by waving at him to dare
approach. Zohak did not.

Sugreeva was back on the dais. He brightened when he

saw this exchange.

“I want the Silver Prince to pull it in my stead,” he

announced. He looked imploringly at Bulliwuf.

“I can indeed do this quite easily, but I am not vying for

the throne of Persia. I have my father’s kingdom to deal
with. I do apologize,” Bulliwuf said.

Zohak turned to him with trembling lips drawn back, but

Bulliwuf smiled graciously.

Atar did not need a translator to tell him what to do. He

had grown heartily bored long before the bow clattered
against the stairs. Zohak folded his shaking arms against his
broad chest and smiled malevolently at Atar.

Atar walked over to the bow, his naked chest shining in

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113

the sun, despite the filth that covered him. He stooped to
retrieve the bow. The silence in the chamber was absolute. A
worried frown crossed Zohak’s face. Atar positioned the
bow, grabbing the dangling string. He pushed the bow
down with his left hand, and to his surprise, the bow bent
easily, as Bulliwuf had predicted.

“Look! Look! He’s strung it!”
Atar looped the string over the opposite end of the bow,

and lifted his leg out of the way. He smiled up at Queen
Cunaxa and at Sophene, who sat gaping with the rest of the
court. One of the guards slipped away to tell the waiting
crowds the new development.

“This is ridiculous!” Zohak shouted. “Mother! Why must

you put me through such silly games? I am done with this
nonsense!”

The court looked at him and turned to each other.
“Take him back to the dungeons!” Meruzanes the Vizier

shrieked furiously.

Bulliwuf’s amused chuckle rumbled over the court.

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114

Chapter Twenty

ugreeva lay curled up in his bed, snoring lightly. Rutvana
opened the door to his bedroom and slammed it shut,

causing Sugreeva to start awake.

“What do you mean by this? What a display! You’ve

really stepped on your little dick this time, brat! We are the
laughing stock of the Empire!”

Sugreeva sat up in bed, looking dazed. “What? Mother,

you…you just woke me up! You barged into my chamber!”
Sugreeva lay his head back down. Rutvana seethed,
watching her son’s shell pink mouth curve in a contented
smile.

She walked over to his dressing table and picked up the

washbasin.

“Eeeahhh!” Sugreeva shot out of bed, his soaking wet

clothes clinging to his slim form and flattening his hair into
dispirited rat tails. “Mama! Eeeek! Oooh-ukk!” Sugreeva
shrieked while shaking his hands, holding them away from
his body helplessly. “What the hell?”

“Listen to me, brat!” Rutvana practically screamed, her

face turning bright red. “We are this close—this close to
losing everything that I have worked for! I am not going to
stand by and watch you piss your power and my influence
away! You will have one last chance. You have done
miserably, you little shit, on the first two trials, but that will
not matter if you pass this last one. Why? Well, it

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overshadows both of them in difficulty. Shut up!
Just…just…ok, all you have to do is follow the Firestarter,
okay? Sound simple enough?”

“Umm…follow him…where?”
“To the Dragon Caves.”
“What? That’s in the mountains! Ooooh! My feet get very

cold, I really can’t. What if we meet a dragon? No, no, no…”

“Uukk! Buffoon! Foolish whelp! You will lose everything!

Do you want to spend the rest of your days begging in the
streets of some provincial town on the frontier? Do you want
to become a farmer, and till the fields from dawn until well
after dusk? How will your little tootsies feel then? Get off
your ass, child, do this for your future glory! I am destined
to be the mother of a mighty emperor!”

Sugreeva’s

brow

was

crinkled

thought.

“And…and…all I have to do is follow the Firestarter? I
mean…okay, okay.”

* * * *

Zohak sat in total darkness. The only sound that broke the
absolute silence of his subterranean chamber was the trickle
of water into the natural basin by the wall. Zohak’s very
world was shattering. His every waking thought for years
had been of the day when he would declare his right to the
throne. It was what had sustained him, and had given him
strength through the deep, unforgiving cold of the Scythian
nights. It had given him the courage to ask for Jahi’s hand in
marriage. It had given him something to think about when
Jahi began to see other men. There was nothing he could do
to stop her, but he kept his sanity, all because of his dream.

It was his shining ambition that thrilled him and kept him

awake at night. It filled his dreams and his heart with hope.
The troubles of the present paled to insignificance when his
fantasy danced in his brain. From the day he had left the

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castle, on that warm summer night, he had thought of
nothing but his future. It was his by right. He was the only
son of Queen Cunaxa and Dahaka. But he remembered his
father. Dahaka had warned him. “You fool!” Dahaka had
hissed at him. “That one you call the Idiot is the son of
Queen Cunaxa and my brother! He, too, is of royal blood!”

Zohak tried to blink away the vision. He saw himself on

the throne, the lords and ladies bowing with awed respect.
They would dance in the great hall, the hall where he had
first met Devayani when he was a toddler. The bright fabrics
would be swirling, and Zohak would take a lady’s hand,
while her jealous husband watched, and he would lead her
out into the garden. The scent of jasmine, the faint music
from the dance would float on the air.

He would look down at the lady, relishing the sweep of

her lashes and the sweet curve of her lips. She would raise
her eyes to his, and they would be filled with promise of so
much more. But, suddenly he remembered another pair of
eyes. He remembered, too, the laughing, mocking Prince
Bulliwuf. He would kill that man, too. Zohak clenched his
fist so tightly that his nails bit into his palm. Hot blood
splashed against his knee.

The goddamned Idiot. He had defiled every precious

moment of Zohak’s life, and now the creature was weaseling
his way into Zohak’s fantasies. The wretched ballad!
Everywhere he went, he heard it.

The footprints marched ahead into the distance of the dawn

Glory, glory, glory, a sign to Atar
The king to be attacked that day, tore the Horde asunder

Marching, ever fearsomely, roaring like the thunder

High the shouts were raised that day, high the cries of battle
The Firestarter swooped that day, gave the Horde a rattle

Fires raised into the night, burning for his glory

Songs were sung across the night, telling all the story
Zohak let the haunting ballad into his brain for a moment.

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117

He didn’t believe the drivel in that god-awful ditty. He
knew he was the rightful king. He was on his feet. His
determination to have his dream made him step forward
into the darkness. From the very depths of his soul, his
passion called out to the darkness. The hot blood from his
injured hand soaked into the stone floor of his chamber. The
blood—his blood, was laced with ancient magic, and the
blood of monarchs stretching back to Gayomard himself.

His entire body vibrated with his passionate anger, and

with the power that he unconsciously summoned in himself.
He held his hands over the pool of water that he knew was
there, despite the darkness. His blood dripped into the
liquid, drop by drop.

* * * *

The Goddess looked up from the luminescent square she
had been watching. She was being summoned. She laughed,
long and low.

* * * *

Zohak had a vague idea that he should wash his hands, but
he was so preoccupied with his fury and his need that he
just stood there for a moment.

He put his hands into the cool water, then snatched them

out, cradling his scalded hands. A bubbling that sounded
like water in a rolling boil filled the chamber. Zohak stepped
back from the basin of water as steam hit his face. He felt a
hot flash of fear shake his soul. What is going on, he thought,
turning away, stumbling in the general direction of his room
in search of a lamp. The air became thicker, and thicker, as
the steam rolled off the basin.

An odd, deep sound froze him. He turned. The steam was

illuminated into bright clouds of light. The brilliant source of

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118

the light came from within the pool. Zohak felt his knees
shaking, and he backed away from it. The backs of his thighs
hit a wall and Zohak watched, transfixed as the water
frothed over the sides of the natural basin. The air in the
chamber felt heavy with an undeniable oily power. Zohak
tossed his sweat soaked hair out of his eyes.

“Oh the gods, oh no!” Zohak breathed as the steam above

the pool began to coalesce into a figure. Two dark eyes
opened. They were deeper than the darkest night, standing
out obscenely against the luminescent steam. There was
something infinitely vile and unclean about the presence
before him. Zohak tried to draw back further, and he heard
the creature laugh again silently.

The Goddess had arrived.
The dark eyes transfixed Zohak. He was frightened as he

had never been before. He screamed as he felt the creature
reach out to his mind. Then it was there, within his soul,
whispering. Zohak stopped shaking. For a moment, he
stopped breathing. He stared into the darkness of the
demon’s eyes. He was aware of a rich, painfully sensual
power. Sweat rolled off him, but the humid air of the
chamber no longer seemed awful to him. He didn’t hear
anything. The words the demon spoke were pure feeling.

“This could be yours, this is yours. Yours, yours! You are

the rightful king, sweet Zohak, dearest Zohak. This is your
destiny. Your destiny is to rule.”

“Yes,” Zohak laughed, filled with the rich power of the

creature. “Yes! Yes!”

The goddess floated slowly forward, her outline barely

perceptible. “Do you want this power, this rich, unending
sea of pleasure? Do you want to be a god walking gloriously
among men? Do you want the world at your feet? You can
have this. This power.”

“Yes, yes, I want it more than anything, I am the rightful

King. It is my right to live my dreams in this life!”

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119

“More than anything? You want this with all the passion

of your soul? You are very much your father’s son!” the
Goddess laughed silently. Zohak felt the delighted,
somehow vicious vibrations of the laugh with his soul.
Before he could consider that, his senses were overwhelmed
once more with his power. He closed his eyes and saw a
shining drop of water trembling in his hands. He looked up
and out across a vast sea.

“My God!” Zohak breathed.
“Who is your God?” the Goddess laughed.
The vision was gone abruptly, but the aching power of it

made Zohak’s head throb and his soul shake with the need
to dive into the ocean. If one drop felt like this…

“Do you want this?”
“Yes! Yes!” Zohak screamed.
The Goddess was inches away now. Zohak was surprised

to feel the deep fear struggle violently to the surface. He
thrust his hands out, warding her away, his face a mask of
fear, but it was too late. He couldn’t move.

She bent her head and kissed his right shoulder with

unseen lips. Tiny fangs pierced his skin. They were scalding
hot, like fire. Zohak shuddered with pleasure. She kissed his
left shoulder, tiny fangs again piercing his skin. Zohak felt
the most wondrous waves of power shoot through him. He
felt like a god!

Then Zohak screamed and screamed. He fell to his knees,

screaming. And all the while, his head rang with the sharp,
measured sound of iron striking iron. The sound rolled
through him, tearing at him, tearing at his sanity like a
raging river. The awful clanging mingled with his pain,
producing a fear inside him unlike any he had ever
experienced. He screamed until the blood dripped out of his
mouth and nose. He felt the most awful sense of shame and
violation that he had ever known. The pain persisted like
fire, with unbearable intensity. The Goddess behind him

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120

laughed. The thick air was foul with the scent of rotting
corpses and vile things.

“What have you done? What have you done?” Zohak

screamed at the presence, hating it with all the intensity of
his pain. He could not hear his own words for the awful
clanging in his head. The measured tones fell with
inexorable precision. Zohak fell to the floor, clutching his
shoulders as more unbearable pain centralized there. Under
the palms of his hands, he felt his shoulders swelling. He felt
something smooth push against the palms of his hands.

“What…what’s happening to me? What? Ahh!”
Zohak screamed again, but his voice was horrible to hear.

The weak, rasping croak was a parody of his normal clear
voice. He took his hands away, but he could feel the things
growing. A hungry hissing filled the chamber, and the
clanging died away. Zohak strained to hear it, but the
hissing was now dominant.

“No! No!” Zohak sobbed, wishing this were a dream.
The chamber was in blackness again. Zohak stumbled

over to his room, and fumbled for the lamp. He somehow
got the thing lit. Blinded by tears, he blundered into his
bedroom. The light from the lamp seemed to be swallowed
up by the utter darkness around him. He froze before the
mirror, shaking his head in denial. Through his tears, he saw
the sleek black shapes weaving in the air above his head.
Their scales glinted in the yellow light as they undulated
ceaselessly in a way that was sensual, but at the same time
unspeakably horrible.

The one on his right shoulder dipped and flicked his

damp hair with its red, forked tongue. The copper eyes of
both snakes regarded Zohak with steady malevolent
intelligence through the mirror. Zohak reached up, and saw
himself touch one of the snakes. He felt the smooth dry
scales under his fingers. He screamed, and lost
consciousness.

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121

When he woke, he felt something warm slither against his

neck and burrow into his long hair. He could feel the silky
texture of his own hair. He could feel how good it felt to
slide through it. Then he remembered, he remembered
everything. He moaned and finally mewling in terror, he
began to light candles. He could feel the snakes watching
him. He could even feel their contemptuous amusement.
They slid against his cheeks. They embraced his neck. One of
them angled in front of his face, so that he was forced to look
into its demonic eyes.

When the room was lit like a torch, Zohak sat before the

mirror. He drew his dagger and grabbed one of the snakes.
His hand suddenly let go of the dagger. His fingers refused
to obey him. He picked up the weapon and tried again with
the same result. He fell to the floor, rolling and writhing. His
screams rent the air until he was exhausted.

We are part of you now, Zohak. Do not try to escape. You asked

for this. We will use you and your body as we wish, but in return,
you will be the greatest emperor the world has known. Surrender

to our sweet will, Zohak, and defeat your enemies.

A strange feeling of calm filled his mind. The waving

snakes were hypnotically moving back and forth. Zohak felt
peaceful suddenly. He finally realized that the snakes were
there for good. His life would never be the same.

As he raised the dagger to his heart, he felt a flood of his

new power course through him. It took him by surprise,
being on the brink of utter despair. It was such a flood of
sweet, tainted power that he forgot the horror of the snakes
for a moment. What could a person like him do with such
power? Zohak shivered in delight. The snakes waved in the
air encouragingly.

About the Author

KB Forrest has researched ancient Indo-European history
and folklore for several years, and brings to this novel his
story-telling flair and the accurate details today’s readers
demand. He is skilled in animal husbandry, primitive
survival skills, and horsemanship. These talents allow him to
imbue the story with realistic elements.

KB lives on a farm in Northern Mississippi with his

faithful dogs. He raises Brahman cattle and a large variety of
birds. When not writing, he paints in oils and watercolors.

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