Date: September 7, 2000 (Aether: January 22, 3907)
Place: Throne of Fire - Varati Kingdom
Cast: Anubis, Khalid, and Mariham (all doing @emits), Zuhayr
Scene: The Black Guard, also called the Lions of Fire, or Agni-Haidar, attempt to decimate the forces of Clan Ulkhar guarding one of the Sky Bridges leading to Masada.

Throne of Fire - Varati Kingdom:
      Black night clings to the mountainous landscape of the Varati Kingdom like a shroud of death. The jagged peaks of snow capped mountains are just visible against the inky backdrop in all directions. Almost eclipsing their sharp outlines are the smaller hills that ring the valley floor, a valley severed in half almost unnaturally by an enormous gorge. The gorge is a full league in depth, and not quite a leage in width, carved by a raging river beneath. Spanning this rift is one of the two enormous Varati bridges, the Sky bridge.
      A tunnel of stone, the Sky Bridge stretches from the near western side to the far eastern. It emerges from the gorge's wall halfway down and is suspended by an enormous series of chains that reach upward toward encasements at the gorge's edge. Above these stone anchors on either side, towers stand tall, overwatching one of the most strategic locations in the Kingdom. These towers provide the only local access to the tunnels and the bridge below. Small villages lie at the foot of each spire and feed off the trade roads between Eastern and Western Kingdoms.
      The village of Amharan surrounds the Western Tower. It is a small village composed of a large handful of stone structures not more than two stories high immediately around the spire, and lesser wood and stone structures outlying it. There are three main roads that lead tower the tower in the center, allowing access from the North, West, and South. The small village is normally in a bustle of activity, but now lies in near collapse.

The proud stone Tower stands aflame with fires burning in its uppermost stories. Below, a vicious grueling contest continues as 4500 warriors bearing the blue and black standard of Clan Ulkhar desperately try to force their way into the Tower's depths.

Opposing them, the last remnants of the Agni-Haidar garrison, their numbers quickly dwindling. Everywhere in the small town, fires burn and some buildings lie in total ruin in evidence to the struggle.

A vicious clattering arises from the town's center where the bulk of Ulkhar warriors stand, pressing against one another as if eager to enter the slaughterhouse of the Tower. The mass will surge once and many clansmen, armed with falcare and shield, will pour into the ruined mouth of the Tower.

The nightmarish noises of metal bashing against metal and the sounds of men screaming with their last breath melt into one horrible concert of death. Soon, bodies begin piling up at the Tower's mouth and the battle is paused so that they can be cleared.

Those enlisted to labor in such a manner do so carefully, for now and then a black bolt will claim one of their number. The shapes of men rent and are cast aside, away from the action, and have formed a horrible pile of lifeless and bleeding flesh in the northern end of the town. When the bodies are cleared, the effort begins anew.

Fifteen hundred warriors stand beyond the city's edge, forming a loose perimeter of exhausted men who wander the forest of white tents that ring the village. Spearmen and bowmen mostly, whose weapons and skills are of no use in the melee that Clan Ulkhar is now locked in. They huddle around fires and try to forget the sounds of death that constantly assail them while warming their hands and feet.

Sentries, in groups of twenty spearmen and bowmen, stand atop the hills beyond the camp and cast disgruntled looks at their comrades by the warm fires, muttering curses, and casting only cursory glances into the dark winter night beyond.

Zuhayr, mounted on an angry wyvern -- as are many of the men who ride behind him -- has been riding for days. If there are any who wonder whether they will arrive too late to be of any use, none have dared to speak such thoughts aloud. Certainly not in Zuhayr's presence.

Now, he signals a halt, and the gesture is passed down the ranks by those Kaimakams who have joined the advance. No words are spoken, but fifteen hundred men all come to an agreement, more or less, on where to stop.

Atop a hill, that is where they stop, so that they can see those figures at the base of the tower -- but not so close that they might smell singed flesh or blood. The wyverns, though, they smell it, and one or two let loose bellows or screeches of challenge before they are quieted by their riders.

Zuhayr sits atop his mount, and watches the flames, watches the movement of men, and then makes another gesture.

Again, the gesture is passed on. This time, portions of the massive wedge that ride with Zuhayr split off, until the single body is as three, each arrowed toward the tower.

Then, and only then, does Zuhayr stand in his stirrups, draw his falcare, and break black-cloaked silence. "For the glory of Amir-al! Now!" So his blade drops, so he urges his wyvern forward, and so those who ride in each of the parts surge forward, like a glittering black wave.

The melee between black-clad warriors and Clan Ulkhar begins early. When the wyvern-mounted black guard crests the first hill to view the scene of carnage below them, a group of Ulkhar sentries are startled from their miserable conversation by the sea of lizards. They shout a frantic alarm.

The crossbowmen among their number fire their deadly bolts nervously at the oncoming wave of scales, hitting a handful of Agni-Haidar and wyverns. The bolts do little damage, injuring two janizars and a mount.

The spearmen refuse to challenge the Agni-Haidar, instead, they leave the crossbowmen to fire their shots and flee down the hill's slop, screaming their alarm "The Black Guard has come... the Black Guard...!"

The alarm is picked up by the warriors in forest of white tents. Clan Ulkhar Kaimakams shout orders to their men who heft spears and crossbows and fall back to the village, abandoning the camp. Feverishly, they try to organize into some semblance of a defense, but confusion is rife, and they do so slowly.

Two groups of 400 warriors manage to assemble themselves into something resembling ranks, with spearmen to the fore and crossbowmen at the rear. They try to defend only the southern and western roads leading into city, largely abandoning the tiny alleyways that individual dismounted men can use to infiltrate.

On the northern road, however, the warriors are still at a loss and fail to organize themselves at all, despite the urging of their officers. They scurry about uselessly in a confused mass.

In the face of the flight of crossbow bolts, weaker men might flee. Not so, these Agni-Haidar, though some who are too close to those who are injured might doubt, for a moment. Still, the wyvern thunder on, the black-clad warriors on their backs raising their own cry to challenge Ulkhar's noise.

The wedges do not advance at the same speed. Those two who charge toward the western and southern roads, finding more resistance, must by necessity move slower, though with no less determination.

Those who ride at the front wield spears with which Ulkhar's men are batted out of the way, and skewered to give them a final end. Bowmen, at the back, pick off some few Ulkhar warriors who edge around the main body of the fray, and those who are foolish enough to run. Still, another few are caught by the jaws and claws of agitated wyvern.

The spear that drives northward however, moves more quickly, with Zuhayr at the fore. Here, too, spearmen ride beside him, to the front, to clear out the first ranks of those Ulkhar who stand their ground, and bowmen ride behind. Zuhayr himself wields his falcare like both blade and club, and leads the charge on.

...the mounts were glad to be out of the tunnels. Some wyverns live and grow and die in the tunnels, but others are raised on the vast alpine fields that cap the Varati empire. Kaimakam Bak's wing rides almost exclusively on the ladder, and now that they are free from their confinement, there is a joyous, predatory bounce to their steps. His force peels off of the main body of the Agni-Haidar host.

Bak is holding a flag in his left hand, a small, blood-red banner. With an expert and elegant motion, he signals four stars' worth of swordsmen to angle off towards one of the unguarded alleys. Another rapid, sinuous gesture sends four more stars off towards another.

Even the main road is narrow. As the force charges forward, Bak is still transmitting orders back along his lines. He rides with the lances, rushing forward, their configuration shifting as they ride so as to more perfectly match the rebels' ragtag ranks. The lances are long enough that, even in orderly rows, the points reach forward beyond the first row to pierce the enemy.

Behind them, there is a dark, shimmering song as a horde of blades come free from their scabbards, rested with edges pointed outwards on the shoulders of their wielders.

Behind them, still, are the crossbowmen. A coordinated chorus of clacks sounds out as they ready their weapons. The wyverns behind settle into a ground-eating lope, neither rushing nor dawdling. Confident. Calm.

Fifty men of the five hundred flanking. The remaining four hundred and fifty move forward. There is a ringing sound, almost musical, as if heavenly lutes were playing -- but it is only the crossbows. They rise up and up and up, swallowed by the sky. Vanishing. Only to reappear before the lances strike, a hail of deadly black darts flying swift enough to pierce a man and three feet into the ground, besides.

The spearmen to the north approach, and although disorganized, they still have enough numbers to slow Zuhayr's assault. Many of the spearmen are impaled by the lances of the Agni-Haidar, falling quickly. The mass behind those first ranks stumble backward, buying time with their retreat, but a few moments only until they find themselvs tramped beneath the claws of the monstrous beasts, or ripped asunder by teeth sharp and eager.

It is only the later rows of the spearment that provide any semblance of resistance. Spearpoints flash out at Zuhayr and his warriors, trying to impalce the riders or topple them outright from their mounts. This resistance buys some time for the crossbowmen behind to organize.

Certainly, the crossbow bolts will take out several of Zuhayr's men. It will not stop all of them, however. Some wyverns will topple, taking men with them. Some will, yes, be unseated and forced to fight on foot, but the Ulkhar will find the Agni-Haidar ready and able for such a thing, broken spears are cast aside, and falcares drawn to enter close combat. Even those who sport injuries that are less than fatal attempt to climb to their feet again, and fight on.

It's not working. They're still coming. Today was the day that Harshief turned sixteen. Today was the day he became a man. He will earn his manhood in truth today, or so he was told. He does not feel like much of a man now, his breath rasping harshly in his chest and his knees knocking like a girl's on her wedding night. He hastily rams another bolt into his crossbow and, like many of his comrades, levies another volley. We are being mowed down like wheat, yabbers his mind. Fight like a man!

Off to the side and far too much to the rear to be comfortable, a great roar goes up. Man, beast, yelling with rage and fear and hunger. The drive of Bak's force has curved around and plunged into the side of the city, putting a mountain's rocky cliff at its back with a bold surety not lost on the defenders. Screams echo up through hills and buildings alike, and the dying sun winks off of the edges of blades chopping downward into dying men.

The lancers hit first in a great wave; their momentum carries them further so that two, even three men are impaled on the same lance. With thunderous cracks, some of the lances are broken by the weight and torque. They are tossed aside, and with feral, helpless yells, some of the defenders still standing in the forest of thrashing, biting wyverns try to pull those men from their saddles while they move to free their swords. Some succeed -- the ground boils with effort and blood.

A chorus of sickening cracks rips through the air as Zuhayr's wyvern's plow into the first real resistance of the northern approach. Spearmen plunge their spearpoints into wyvern flesh and try to find the bodies of Agni-Haidar, who deftly turn aside clumsy thrusts. More wyverns fall than Agni-Haidar warriors, but those fallen wyverns prove an obstacle to be overcome by the advancing black guard.

Yet once the Ulkhar spearmen step bravely step forward to challenge the attackers, they are slaughtered easily by expert slashes of falcares and thrusts of lances. Black bolts from Agni-Haidar crossbows plunge into the mass of Ulkhar defenders, felling scores of them with well aimed shots to the head and throat.

Both crossbowmen and spearmen alike grip the new wounds, desperately trying to stop the flow of lifeblood as it seeps from them.

Finally, what remains of the crossbowmen have managed to assemble into ranks. As one, fifty Ulkhar crossbowmen heft their deadly weapons and fire at Zuhayr and his brothers. It is perhaps the only shot they can make before being overwhelmed.

Because of the ferocious melee, the swordsmen to the rear of Bak's force have difficulty working their way up. In the back, the Agni-Haidar crossbowmen send up another volley towards the rear of the rebels' lines, where there is more confusion.

Fueled by fear and rage, the rebellious clansmen push forward, seeking safety from lance and dart alike mixed up in the ranks of the Agni-Haidar.

The fifty men of Bak, fanning out, dismount and leave their steeds behind. The animals regroup into a wary herd in the shadows of the walls; unsheathing their swords, the riders vanish into the narrow warren of alleyways.

The Ulkhar men's last hurrah does not lack effect. Zuhayr's wyvern, among others, falls to the rebel weapons. The Seraskier himself escapes impalement on any of the bolts, and climbs to his feet again with his fellows in the black guard, to continue on. It will be blade to blade now, however.

From behind, those crossbow men still carrying bolts load and fire at those rebels who still oppose them. Fair is fair.

The Ulkhar crossbowmen in the northern approach, desperately attempting to recock their weapons, doing so while walking backward. The spearmen before them buckle suddenly under the might of the assaulting wyvern charge.

Wyverns rip apart the bodies of the Ulkhar spearmen before tearing through the retreating lines of crossbowmen and trampling them easily. The street is clear for a hundred meters as the road runs towards the immense stone spire, still engulfed in flame.

The densely-packed Ulkhar heavy infantry struggling to reach the tower, now turn suddenly to see a wave of black guard bearing down upon them. They turn to face the charge, but their shields and falcares offer little defensive protection against the sprinting weight of a wyvern.

And farther into the city, blood fountains in the air as teeth meet teeth through a matrix of living flesh. The wyverns toss their heads and the Agni-Haidar hack down into the mass of rebels. More crossbows sing out, but fewer find their marks now.

Suddenly, there is a crack and a rumble. The walls of the buildings that line the path of fighting, though only two storeys high, come crashing down on Agni-Haidar, wyvern, and rebel alike.

Zuhayr bellows, "Forward! We go forward until there is no farther to go." And he rends a rebel's arm from his body with a single flash of his lion-headed blade, then wades forward, not stopping to count the fallen. There will be time for counting those lost later.

Spurred by the the Seraskier's order, the Agni-Haidar (both mounted and dismounted) slam into the throng of Ulkhar heavy infantry. The mounted Agni-Haidar easily rip through the heavy infantry lines, their riders cleaving skulls and rending throats as they wade through the mass. These riders struggle to retain control of their mounts, who shred the armored men of the Ulkhar eagerly and fall into a bloodlust.

Some wyverns at the fore leap about uncontrollably, pouncing from one clansmen to the next with a rabid intensity, lost to the mindlessness of a blood-frenzy.

It is where the Ulkhar and dismounted Agni-Haidar meet that combat is more even. The large shield of the clansmen help fend off the viperous strikes of Janizars, but it only slows their death. Eventually, a black bolt or falcare finds its way through the defenses and fells the clansmen. The Agni-Haidar press towards the stone spire, forcing the Ulkhar from it.

Too many Agni-Haidar fall, too many -- Bak among them, crushed by the stone or by the trapped weight of their heavy mounts, or pinned where Clansmen can more easily kill them. Though those who hunt the fallen take their own risks -- even in the midst of death, each Lion is intent on taking several honor guards with him into the hereafter.

The dust rises and Clansmen pour over the rubble, joining into a mass thrust that slices into the riders behind the line.

Onward toward the spire, yes. That is the ultimate goal. Zuhayr struggles for a moment with an overeager young man, not much younger than he, who manages to put his hands around the Seraskier's throat.

The boy does not maintain his grip for long, but for one moment, he is gleefully triumphant. And then, poor boy, he is dead, split deftly open and left to gasp out his last moments while staring into the fixed eyes of a fallen clansman.

The northern approach battle has settled into a slow grinding, death for the clansmen. Wyverns abreast march methodically up the street, the steeds feasting on the Ulkhar while Agni-Haidar lancers and swordsman deliver death from atop them. The clansmen simply cannot withstand the assault, and resolve begins to crumble.

Adding to the mayhem, Agni-Haidar crossbows rain a steady death of bolts upon them, felling those behind the advancing wyverns. Clansmen begin abandoning the effort slowly, retreating down the alleys to find other battles to find or ways to escape the trap.

But the tide is turning for the battle on the other end of the city. As night begins to settle over the field, the Clansman have found their strength. The Agni-Haidar fight valiantly, relentlessly, mercilessly, but they are being driven back. Another wall falls -- less effective, but effective enough: the Clansmen are building themselves impromptu fortifications.

The spire. The spire is the ultimate goal. So focused is Zuhayr on the spire that he has no notion that the Agni-Haidar are being crushed elsewhere. If the spire can be taken, the spire can be held, and if it can be held, the rebels will not dare to rise again.

This, he calls out to the men around him as he walks beside the riding men, and wades among the walking. His falcare no longer glints purely golden, and his haik and boots are damp with other men's blood, but still he moves forward.

Faced with almost certain death in the jaws of a wyvern, the thrusting of their riders' spears, or from the hail of crossbow bolts that rains down upon them constantly, the Ulkhar defense around the Tower begins to dissemble. Clansmen begin fleeing the scene in droves, escaping down alleyways and roads. They are chased by the wyverns that suddenly advance much quicker in the absence of a stauncher defense, and the neverending hail of bolts.

The street is littered with Ulkhar bodies, the still twitching and writhing figures of wyverns, and a spackling of limp Agni-Haidar forms. Yet the way to the Tower is clear, unimpeded.

Night falls on two scenes, equally grim: one is grim for the Ulkhar rebels who struggle to get into (or away from) the Tower, while the other is grim for the Agni-Haidar who are falling back and finding themselves with their backs to the mountain cliffs. The fickle moon darts behind passing clouds, its silver-blue light faintly tracing out scenes of horror.

At the tower, the few tower defenders are in an all out race with Zuhayr and his rapidly-advancing men -- they try to get the tower's doors shut before the two forces clash.

Oh, no. No no no no. The Agni-Haidar under Zuhayr's command, with Zuhayr at their head, they are not about to let the doors close. Zuhayr himself lets out another blood-curdling cry and charges at a full-out run for the swinging doors. He is joined by fifty others, immediately, who throw their shoulders into the doors. Twenty wyvern are ridden straight into the doors. No, Zuhayr will not let them close while he stands.

The doors groan closer, closer, closer to being closed. Then there is a jump and a shudder -- muscles inside strain against muscles outside, breath hot in cool night air redolent with the stink of fear and death. Oil lamps inside flicker, rimming the defenders' arms and shoulders with deep orange. The lamps' glow gives the rebels a nightmarish glimpse of the unstoppable, pitiless Agni-Haidar. The Clansmen are fighting for their lives and they know it.

The sixteen year-old Harsheif, inside the tower, pushes with his brothers and cousins -- the grunts and gasps echo off of the stones around them, magnified by the tall, circular walls. A wyvern slams into the doors, knocking them back but not off their feet. Then another. The angry shrieks of the animals, denied their meals by just a few inches of wood, fill the tower like bolts of lightning.

Zuhayr leans into the doors and calls, "To me!" a summons that should bring those who are able to move to the Seraskier and the ever-increasing number of bodies pressing against the doors, to push them open. Unlike the Ulkhar inside, there are still bodies to add to the press.

The Ulkhar are, however, not entirely stupid. They bring to bear whatever they can, which in this case is a pair of tables end to end, propping the doors closed. Wood begins to creak. Then, abruptly, arrows dart down from the spire's heights. Then a large chunk of rock thumps down.

The situation at the cliffs is desperate... for the Agni-Haidar. The walls have knocked down their numbers; the frantic skill of the Clansmen have whittled them down even more. But then, high high above on the cliffside, there is something: two lights. Then two more. They wink into existance and descend, and where they came from, even more lights appear. The Ulkhar do not see them at first, so intent they are on killing Agni-Haidar.

More of the Agni-Haidar will fall to those arrows, not mortally wounded but distracted enough that they leave off pushing and retreat. Zuhayr, though, close to the door, is more shielded by the bodies of his comrades, and he instructs, "We push, and we take a step back. Then forward, to the doors again, and a step back." A battering ram, made of living bodies.

Nods all around. The creaking sound grows louder and louder with each push. Arrows are fired down with increasing intensity and the chunks of stone get bigger and bigger -- the rebels are prying loose whole paving stones and throwing them down on the seething mass of black below.

With a scream of wood tortured past its breaking point, matched by the horrified yells of those within, the doors crack inwards. One breaks in half and the other comes off its upper hinge, twisting around.

Harsheif watches his oldest brother fall to the swipe of a lion-pommelled blade. He jumps back and pulls out his own sword.

More lights appear on the mountainside, a whole snaking line of them. "What -- ware the lights!" one of the Clansmen at that part of the battle points upward.

"Empyreans?" "More Agni-Haidar!" Faster than the leaders have ability to control it, the word and fear spreads. There are easily five hundred lights up there now, marching down the mountain's black sides like angels descending, or like soldiers on narrow paths. They are in bad formation, but there are so many of them--

First one Clansman turns to flee, then another, then another, then it is a flood.

The Agni-Haidar whom they have been decimating recoil from the base of the cliffs and pursue.

More shouts ring up and through the battered streets: the running Clansmen have run into the fifty Agni-Haidar who have been making their way through the alleys. It is a slaughter, so much so that an additional star of Agni-Haidar runs to the tower and throws themselves into the fray to aid the Seraskier.

When the doors splinter, another flood is loosed. Wholesale slaughter, absolutely. Zuhayr, with the rest of those still mobile, pour through, crossing swords with those who are foolish enough to dare. Zuhayr orders a finger up the spire staircase, to face those who stand at the top, who have been tossing stones down at the lion guard. He himself stays below to fight it out.

The Clansmen are forced backwards. Harsheif finds himself in a baffling press of terrified bodies, all struggling to survive. He and a handful of others are pushed up the staircase, fighting hard to defend it. Steel rings on steel, thuds into flesh -- blood splashes, there are terrible cries and smells, all confined by the close walls which once seemed comforting.

Now Ulkhar find themselves in a killing box. It does not take too long. More Agni-Haidar fall, but they fall in such a small ratio to the rebel dead that there is no hope.

Outside, the wyverns dart and snatch and feast. The cries of the slow and the wounded and the dying are cut short.

When all on the bottom floor are down, Zuhayr and those who remain move toward the stairs as well. To see what remains above. How many remain above. Those who have fallen on the stairs are nudged over the side to fall below, to topple off the side of the stairs, those doing the nudging unconcerned with how or where they land.

Bodies thump down with soft thuds and the clatter of metal against stone. There are very few up above. Harsheif is one of them, arms shaking from exhaustion and fear. He and perhaps six others are being methodically cut down by the Agni-Haidar -- with gurgling cries, they fall and die.

The boy makes a last, valiant rush, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears -- clang! a strike is parried, the next attack diverted, but then he overreaches and it is all over as a sword buries itself in his neck.

Death is quick for the boy who became a man today.

It's too dark to see much from the top of the tower, except that Zuhayr can see the army of lights on the nearby cliffside. There doesn't seem to be much order to the lights, though there are a lot of them, and though they're more or less lined up as if on paths. No discipline to them, either -- some stand still, while some slowly move around others. It's a little like spectators jockying for position.

Although Zuhayr can't see, he can certainly hear: from the sound of things, the battered and torn Agni-Haidar are mopping things up nicely down on the ground.

Zuhayr squints toward those lights for a long few moments. He asks, of a companion, "Do you see them, Arik? To whom do these lights belong?"

"I do not know, Sirdar," comes the somber reply after a few moments' worth of looking. "But they do not move in any order. Except that they are moving in pairs." And so they are.

A Janizar comes up the stairway and gives a report: "the ground is secure, Sirdar."

Zuhayr's eyes narrow further, and he grunts an assent to that assessment. The report, too, earns a grunt, and he tells the man, "Find those who live and bind their wounds. If any rebels live, kill them." And then he turns and walks down the stairs again.

"Yes, sirdar." The Janizar races down the stairway, preceeding him, and passes the orders. Several soldiers light lanterns so as to more easily distinguish friend from foe. The culling begins.

When Zuhayr reaches the ground, the lights still remain up on the cliff, watching. Perhaps there is no easy path down to the city from where their bearers stand.

A pair of stars moves off to begin a house-by-house search of those buildings nearby.

Zuhayr asks, will ask, any man capable of speaking, to explain the lights as he passes through the city. Stepping over bodies clad in Agni-Haidar black will not stop him, nor will the pleas or cries of the dying slow him.

None of them seem to know; they are as puzzled by it as Zuhayr. Some had originally thought them to be members of a heretic Clan, but if that were the case, why have they not attacked? And in which direction is the Seraskier heading, precisely?

Zuhayr is headed toward the lights. On the ground, of course, and on foot. Will he gather any followers as he goes? Who knows. He does not ask for them to follow.

Some of the wounded live, but have suffered mortal wounds. Their brothers dispatch them with merciless slashes of their blades. In one of the houses being searched, there is a sudden hew and cry and the crashing of wood. Scuffling, then silence. Then a wordless code cry: the Agni-Haidar signal for all-clear.

Two Janizars fall into step at Zuhayr's side, the only sound of their passing the creak of their leathers and the clanking of chain. They reek of blood, but then again, so does Zuhayr; chances are that none of the three even notice it.

They pass a wyvern feasting on a dead Clansman -- it is worrying the top of the head free to get at the tasty brains.

The Seraskier and his companions will, shortly enough, find a narrow way to get up towards the lights. As they approach, the nearest pair of lights bobs and move away, doubling back on the line. There is a sound something like wood being clapped together.

Zuhayr climbs the path then, and proceeds toward the pairs of lights until half a dozen of the pairs have retreated. There, he stops, and holds out an arm to stop the janizars as well. "Stand forward," Zuhayr commands the lights in his gruff voice. "Tell us who you are."

Whoever they are, they're short. The lights bobble and sway. Then there's a sound:

"Ba-a-a-a-a!" One of the pairs of lights bounces alarmingly and there is a clatter against the stone. "Ba-a-a-a-!"

But then there's a voice. "N-n-namaste, Imphadi--" it's a man's voice, and at the hearing of it, Zuhayr's Janizar companions whip out their swords as swiftly as a serpent's strike.

The voice is suddenly much lower to the ground and muffled-sounding. "Don't kill me, please! I'm a friend -- a friend!"

Zuhayr does not flinch as those blades are drawn. Indeed, his hand falls to the hilt of his own falcare and his brows draw down. He does not draw, though. "They will not kill you unprovoked. We do not slaughter the faithful. Name yourself, friend."

Hearing an Agni-Haidar say the word "friend" is no comforting sound -- no, not at all. The voice quavers like that of an old man. "I am Malik al'Dufta," he says to the dirt. "I am only a simple herdsman. There are others--" who are probably cursing him right now for having mentioned them "--we only wanted to help!"

The clattering quiets and the lanterns right themselves. They're now close enough for Zuhayr to see that they are little paper lanterns tied to the horns of a mountain goat. The animal's eyes are pitch black, reflecting the lantern light in tiny points like stars.

Goats. Goats, with paper lanterns tied to their horns? A man who was not Agni-Haidar might laugh at that image. Zuhayr's only reaction to finally spotting the creature, is to let his eyebrows return to where they normally sit, heavy over eyes as dark as the goat's. "Malik al'Dufta," he repeats. "Rise." The others are still hiding?

Even if the others are standing out in the open, they'd be hard to see -- it's pitch dark and the moon is hiding its delicate pale face. The herdsman rises and steps forward into the light cast by his goat's lanterns.

He's of average size and average countenance, though slender of build and wiry in the way of people who eat little and work hard. He has a staff with him. "We heard of the infidels attacking here, Imphadi. We wanted to help."

Malik stands with shoulders bowed and eyes downcast. Clearly the man -- a vaisya goatherder -- expects at the very least to be beaten for his interference in a Kshatri matter.

Zuhayr does not lift a hand to strike the man. He doesn't lift a hand at all. Instead, he looks the man over, head to toe, then glances past him briefly and back again. "'We.' The others are of your clan, Malik al'Dufta?"

"Up in the rocks, Imphadi," says Malik. "They are herding the goats. We gathered all of our flocks together, two whole Clans' worth. Dufta and Tareen." Hasn't anyone ever told this man NEVER to volunteer information?

"Baa-aa-a-aaa-a!"

Faced with a trio of the black guard reeking of blood, who can blame him for answering without thought? "Dufta and Tareen," Zuhayr echoes yet again. He studies the man in silence, enough to unnerve him again, and then he lifts his chin. "Those who assisted us in the matter, imphadi, will have their names reported. At dawn, you will bring with you one who speaks for clan Tareen, and speak with me there." He turns to point back toward the spire.

In Zuhayr's quick appraisal of the man, he can see that Malik is not from a wealthy tribe. His clothes are serviceable but very threadbare, and his bare feet are wide, flat and calloused from a lifetime of walking without shoes.

There are lights on the spire, so when Malik turns his gaze towards the tower he can see what Zuhayr means. "Y-yes, Imphadi," he says. 'Reported' has such an ominous sound. "A-at dawn." He kneels and puts his head in the dirt, kow-towing before he gets up and melts into the night.

He becomes visible a bit further along the path, lit up by the light of lanterns which begin to surround him. With the classic clicks and calls of a goatherder, he drives them on towards home.

"Ba-a-a!"

Zuhayr watches the goats and goatherd off, then he turns, gives both janizars a nod, and begins the trek back toward the spire.

FIN  

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