Dream of Fire

Triskeles lay sprawled out, groaning.

Kerebos pulled his sword, Mistaaka. "Next time I'll strike with this!" he threatened, brandishing the long blade.

Blood streamed from Triskeles' face, painting his white skin. The holes in his cheek were large enough to admit his tongue. He pinched the largest gash closed. "Understood, my lord," he gargled.

Kerebos subdued his temper and sheathed Mistaaka. "I require no night guard. No one," he said.

"But we're the First Elhar!" Triskeles protested; that unit had been the ikari bodyguard since ancient times.

"Shut up!"

Triskeles sat silent a moment. "As you wish, ikar," he said finally.

Kerebos nodded, satisfied. He felt better after hurting Triskeles. He always felt better after hurting people. Pain was the only thing that took his mind off his dreams. He produced a needle from his cape and tossed it at Triskeles.

"Sew your wounds," he ordered. "And start your men on drills. I want the elhari in my tent as soon as possible. We'll catch and finish the Stalenzka rabble this very afternoon."

"Yes, lord," Triskeles gurgled.

Kerebos marched down the slope toward camp. He reached the perimeter and a pilum-bearing guard saluted, fist over heart.

"Lord Ikar!" the man cried.

Kerebos strode silently past as he picked pale skin off his gauntlet.

Back on the cliff Triskeles stitched himself, and though the new wounds pained him greatly, he savored them and silently prayed Kerebos might someday strike again.