The Battle

                                  1.

        Purple overtook the realm above the land.  Purple, deep as the
velvety petals that grew next to the stone wall, behind which he
lay his sleepy head each night.  How many times had he admired
their hue, as he pulled straggling filaments of green and brown
from between them, to maintain the purity of the single flat of
earth that was his own.  The flowers, beckoning him with
outstretched arms and scenting the air with a golden mist, were
so far away now.
        Dark mountains of moved overhead, their edges illuminated with
the flashes of war demons.  Great demons they were, their
tongues flicking the ground.  As he beheld the tongue, a
luminous etching lingered in his vision.  Opening his eyes
again, he heard the roar from their throats, wet and aching for
the sacrifice, the blood libation about to be poured in their
honor.  The land quaked, birds fled for cover, beasts crawled
beneath rocks and into caves.
        The raspy voice of the demon cracked the sky.  He listened
carefully to each crackle, as mounds of tarry fluff ballooned
and shrank, repeatedly fragmenting amid the roar.  As the rumble
rolled across the distant hills, ricocheting from cliffs that
stood in silhouette against the purple, he heard the scraping of
boots through sand.  Looking about himself, he saw reflective
domes, glinting in the twilight.  The domes bobbed up and down,
in rhythm to the march.
        He felt the soles of his own boots dragging across the rugged
terrain.  He plowed his feet through the sand.  He struggled to
maintain the brisk stride, white grains scattering about his
feet.  The fighters continued their march, heaves of breathing
sounding below the din of the firestorm.
        Reaching to his chest, his gloved hand moved across the leather
and metal that creaked and rattled with each footfall.  There,
he felt the rope that anchored a water flagon to his back. 
Untying the rope, he brought the flagon up to his face and
smelled oiled leather.  He recalled the animal sacrifice that
enabled him to drink this water.
        He pulled the cork, and the leather stomach burped.  He slowed
his pace for a moment, and tipped the flagon.  Lukewarm liquid
rushed into his mouth, then into his throat.  Wash free the dust
and sand, from a gasping, coughing throat.  After several
swallows, he corked the flagon.
        And then, the solidity beneath his boots glowed.  Dazzling
light strobed.  Rushes of warm air that moved him a step
backward.  The sky opened, and a sonic hammer broke forth,
shattering a pinnacle of stone, Earth's finger thrust skyward. 
A prodigious thud rolled over them, and the ground seemed to
sink for a moment, before rising again and impacting his feet.
        He fell to his knees, metal meeting sand, the grating sensation
stroking his kneecaps.  A piece of rock struck a helmet.  How
melodic the tone, how pure and free of harmonics, like a bell
tolling in the morning.  Turning, he saw his fellow, shaking his
head and cleaning his ears.  More pieces of rock, small and
painful, pelted them.  Microchunks skimmed his cheeks.  He felt
his face, in search of blood but found only thick beard. 
Clearing their senses, the warriors stood and looked upon the
smoldering remains.  The demon's tongue had pulverized the stone
pinnacle.
        Shouts of "Onward!" filled the air, and then another flash of
orange strobed the twilight into day.  As the light faded, he
saw green shadows.  They flowed over the rock and sand on which
they trod.  In that moment, as the daylight returned briefly, he
saw the enemy, dark and massive, up ahead.
        Fear gripped his heart, and he felt its beating stop for a
moment.  He froze in his tracks, his breathing labored, until
the pulse returned.  The fear caused his arms and back to
tingle, as he struggled with himself to continue.  
        The Black Horde was legendary.  They had overturned every
kingdom in the Realm, from East to West, but one.  Somehow,
despite inferior numbers, they had defeated all whom they had
faced on the battlefield.  
        Now, his home stood as the only bastion of freedom between the
Horde and the Sea.  He sighed and fought back a flood of tears,
as he remembered his Love, his family, now awaiting word of the
battle from within city walls.  Thoughts of death, of losing all
that was sacred, strengthened his resolve.  He banished the fear
and welcomed anger into his heart with a grin.  His eyes
narrowed in the breeze, now humid with demon breath, as he
kindled the fire within himself.  Anger became rage, boiling in
his veins as he resolved to emerge victorious.  Bloodied
perhaps, but victorious.  Teeth clenched, arms tightened, as his
rage spawned a lust for the enemy's destruction.
        Then there was shrieking and screaming.  He snapped to
attention as his eyes scanned the twilight.  In the distance,
sword met sword, and a metallic symphony lifted its melody
skyward.  The battle had begun.
        He forgot the storm and charged forward, the rhythm of their
clanking armor accelerating.  Breathing mingled with his own. 
Charge headlong into victory or defeat.  A great beast charged
by him and snorted in the night air, its hooves striking free
bits of stone that scattered in its wake.
        The animal thundered forward, the rider holding an immense
metal spike.  This inspired the men, who increased their pace to
meet the enemy, the sound of the approaching carnage
intensifying.  Only steps away, he saw a struggle.  They
battled, hand-to-hand, beneath the darkening sky.  
        Wood poles, capped with oiled rumples of cloth and straw, came
alive, casting luminous eyes upon the scene.  Then a torch came
to life, directly ahead.  He saw the struggle more clearly now,
as the enemy soldier, its glossy, exoskeleton crackling in
the night, clashed with a comrade.  Their metal blades met again.
        He and his fellows came forward.  The task of finishing this
enemy, this loathed emissary of the Monarch of Shadows, belonged
to him.  His hand found the cool metal.  Drawing it with a hiss
from the scabbard that swayed at his side, he held it firmly
with both hands.  High into the air it rose, as his eyes focused
on the enemy, subtle alterations in his stride, changes that
would hurry the kill.
        Many suns ago, entranced before the flames.  Yellow arms
twisted into sky, their collective heart splitting potential
energy, locked within the wood, a gift of nature.  At a safe
distance from the swirling cloud of energy, yet close enough to
feel its warmth, face growing too hot, able to warm one's hands
on the coldest of nights, when he stroked his own cheeks.  
        There was the old one, a clouded eye producing their
reflection, the fire shadowing nose against forehead.  From a
mouth, teeth bent and brown, whispers flowed forth, amplified by
the fire spirit, setting those same flames alight within all who
listened.  Great wars were wrought, between and above the
embers.  Entire armies of armored ones covered the land. 
Soldier ant king rode a great beast at their rear, observing all
that happened, the battle unfolding before him.  Blood was
spilled, glories were recounted, ascending like gold flecks on
the rising spark columns.  His blood boiled during the recounts,
his arms flexing and finding an imaginary saber at his side. 
The torches of battle were each a flicker from that great fire,
and he thought of the old one, the Wizard who was King, whose
magic was their stronghold.
        He groaned.  From the sky, liquid diamond began to fall,
composing music on his helmet.  The droplets coalesced and
formed larger drops, at the lower rim of his helmet.  In that
last moment, as the blade whistled downward, he saw the whole
world in one drop, heaving and pregnant with its own weight as
it struggled for freedom from the metal rim.  There was the
mortal struggle, of good versus evil, refracted and ballooned at
the edges, through this quivering tear that suddenly fell onto
blood-soaked sand.  
        Strike the enemy, shock moving through the handle and into his
arms, focusing energy in his elbows, which flooded with pain.
        He felt the enemy crumpling beneath him.  He never saw the
face.  Instead, there was the explosive release of air from
insect lungs, and, in that hellish glow of torch light, a
comrade's sword shot forth like the forked tongue of the
venomous one.  It pierced the plating with a crackling sound. 
Black syrup oozed and drained from the opening that exploded
through the enemy's chest.  The blade entered further, until it
struck armor on the enemy's back. Far enough. Soldier's boot on
the fallen one's shoulder, providing leverage for both hands to
grasp the handle and wrench the weapon free.
        The blade came loose.  Droplets of life fluid sprayed their
faces.  His friend, the one who had struck the enemy from
behind, tasted salt.  Then the enemy fell forward, landing flat
faced upon the ground, never to rise again.
        Raising his sword, he felt the numbness draining from his
elbows.  He shrieked, sound without lingual focus.  The guttural
roar leaped forth, as did his friend's.  He heard their shrieks
mingle with the battle like individual droplets in a rain storm.
        How fitting that the sky above suddenly opened, a cloud bound
ocean seeking Earth.  The liquid fell, cold and odorous, onto
the battlefield.  Torches were extinguished.  He watched a
flame.  It struggled against the war god saliva, dribbling from
the jaws that opened from above.  The flame fought with all its
strength, tentacles of heat and light soon hissing in defeat. 
Soldiers discarded the torches or used them as clubs.
        The battle continued in darkness, as water hammered the Earth. 
Mist hung about them and soaked them to the bone.  The sky
purple had fled, and now the battle was one of sound, not light.
 He put forth his hand, his sword tight in the other, and felt
his way forward in concert with the cries of his comrades.  He
met the horned, smooth helmet of the enemy.  Back off and slash
with the blade, each time numbing the arms with electricity. 
Several strikes knocked it to the ground.  Then the polished,
honed metal, poised like the overhanging stinger of a giant
scorpion, shot forth and took the life from the evil one.
        He shrieked again, as the sky roared above them, war demon
cheers splitting the sky, the water from above scintillating in
the strobing energy flashes.  It continued on like this, until
the cries slowly died.  He was exhausted at the end, knuckles
bloodied beneath his gloves, blade sticky from the enemy as the
war demons slowly cleansed the metal with their breath.
        Nausea overtook him, and he fell onto his own knees.  He felt
his innards contorting from his exhaustion.  Mouthfuls of his
stomach sprang forth, souring his mouth and then splattering
onto the Earth, between two fallen comrades.  
        Amid a blaze of light, he saw that he had known both of them,
before their essences had fled the confinement of armor,
leather, muscle, and bone.  He would forever recall the eyes of
one of them, wide open and frozen in surprise.  He knew that
someday he might experience this amazement, the realization of
one's own mortality, when, after taking life, the situation is
suddenly reversed.  Life sucked away, pulled free by the blade
as it recedes from the body.  His mind calmed.
        Rainfall intensified, muffling those crying out into the night
for help, both friend and foe.  When he regained his footing, he
heard steps.  Boots plied the water as it flowed from the
mountains onto the battlefield.  He froze, the blade tight in
his grip.
        Someone was groaning, gurgling in those last moments when the
body is losing the struggle, when the last traces of sentience
are rising and sinking to some unknowable destiny.  It was the
sound of an enemy warrior.  Soon, the splashing boots halted,
and he heard the striking of a sword.  The groaning stopped.  A
comrade had performed mercy upon the enemy.  He walked forward,
through the storm that blanketed the battlefield with a strange
calmness, masking the cries of agony that slowly faded into the
night.  
        Over time, the survivors found each other, telling of the
fleeing of handfuls of the enemy.  Upon realizing the lost cause
of their onslaught, the enemy had taken to the hills for refuge,
both from death by the sword and the storm.
        Exhilaration overtook them.  It blew like a Spring breeze,
fertile and self-sustaining.  Cheering interrupted the tiredness
in his bones, as the cold water soaked through to them, beneath
clammy skin.  The battle had ended.  Before long, he knelt upon
the ground.  He felt the rushing waters parting about his knees.
Cold.  Drenched.  Dizzy.  Victorious.

                                    2.

        Yellow disks gleamed, round and large as a fist, slits of black
dilating as buttresses of wet flesh narrowed the disks.  Long
canines, etched with his own blade and sharpened for battle,
slipped free of the lower lip which curled in disgust.  The
corners of the mouth twisted upward, and a hiss of air moved
through nostrils which lay above the yawning rows of teeth and
more teeth.
        A cry rose into the sky, still flickering with demon speak. 
His throat burned, pain moving along the cords which pleated the
air and formed his voice.  Hot air, meat air, issuing from the
mouth, toward everyone, and no one.  Lungs deflated.  Sinews
pulled his neck downward, at last relaxing as his head leveled.
        Cowardly faces floated past, over the rough land.  The
phosphorescing eyes of the Black Monarch followed them, as they
sought protection.  Two appendages, bony and spiked, had found
their mark with those who had strayed close to him.  A goodly
fraction of his own casualties were by his hands, if they could
be termed casualties.  Battle necklaces, collected from about
their bloodied necks, now adorned his wrists and tusks, thrust
at varying angles from head armor.  Like immense scales,
overlapped as shingles on a fortress roof, they deflected arrows
and clubs.
        Ribbons and plates of metal, encrusted with the jewels of
conquered kingdoms, felled like great beasts on the plain of
battle, encircled the chest, the back.  Segments pleated
inward and outward with each heaving breath, were his natural 
armor.  The front appendages moved outward, turning over corpses
in the sand.  Blood colored the ground beneath each body.
Weatherworn rocks and a powdering of microstone clung to their 
wounds as he toyed with them, like a child with many dolls.
        Lower legs stretched out, tensing the stirrups along the side
of the steed, the great beast that rolled like living armor into
war.  Neck horned with twists and spikes of metal, the beast
stood stiffly on the ground.  Eyes burned red, nostrils snorted
and convulsed, neck strained by the Monarch's pull.
        Officers were gathering survivors, and then those who had
waited in the crags for the rising sun.  Strategy formed slowly,
fluid thoughts, rolling as thick syrup within the skull.  Flames
rekindled, and the rushing clouds above glowed orange.
        He sampled one of the dead, finding the neck soft.  The blood
whetted his appetite for the enemy's life-force.  Monarch spread
the dark lances across the sky and turned to those cowering
before his might.  Soon, revenge would be theirs.  When the soft
ones slumbered, drunken on their apparent victory, the real
battle would unfold.

                                    3.

        Booted feet slogged through mud, pools of water, between
spidery plants growing amongst the boulders.  Water fell from
the sky in buckets.  Their packs grew heavy, soaked like immense
sponges in the rain.  Armor iced their skin.
        He trudged onward, leaden legs and granite boots struggling
into the wind.  His ears were numbed by the drumming,  the
incessant drumming of water.  Arms ached, head swam, ears
pierced with pain as the cold, wet breath of the war god
whistled beneath his helmet.
        About him, comrades continued the journey, toward the safety of
home.  A hazy region of illumination grew.  Through the fog, the
water mist, and their dazed vision, they sensed home.
        Ground sloped gently downward, awash with rain.  Soon, the
terrain leveled, and the mountainous ascent began.  High above,
atop an immense plateau of rock, surrounded by walls of stone
thicker than his house, stood Lathia.
        "Lathia!"
        Music in his heart and on his lips, lightening his legs for a
few steps.  Then the march again grew intolerable.  The cries of
victory had died, though the flames still danced in their
hearts.  For now, the they had repelled the Black Monarch.  Many
of their own had perished, pierced by enemy swords, blades
tortuous and ragged from the forge.
        Somewhere, beyond the cold walls, havens awaited them.  Warm
hearths, aglow with yellow and orange.  Smells of food and brew,
being wrapped in the skin of the Akbar, comforted his thoughts. 
Greeting him at the door, eyes wet with anxiety and sadness of
the news of death, his mate would embrace him.  Ushered inside,
the fires of life would be rekindled.
        The slope steepened, and song wafted from behind, from warriors
raising fists in a humble victory march.  He thought of joining
them, but backstepping proved unthinkable.  The war demon's roar
had faded into the distance, across the mountains, where
it would chastise the defeated, mocking them in their hour of
humiliation.  Now only the demon's wings moved the air. 
Cleansing water fell over the battlefield and all that
surrounded it.
        Not long afterward, as the rain began to subside, a resonant,
mellow song reached his ears.  A guard, watching carefully
between the mist and the dark water, had seen the first of the
warriors.  They emerged from the gloom, into the dim, flickering
glow of the lamps that burned about the walls.  The horn
sounded, followed by another, and soon a chorus erupted,
offering a sonic beacon to the victors.  Shouts rose from all
about him, and he raised his voice with theirs.
        The flickering haze discretized into evenly spaced smudges of
brightness.  The nearest of these sharpened, and behind them,
the mortared stones came into view.  How warm the wall looked,
shadows cast at wild angles over the roughhewn rock.  Safety
beckoned him forth, so he ran, with traces of remaining energy,
his muscles cramped.  Ahead, the massive square of stone, inset
into the outer wall.  
        Thick, gleaming bars rose in its midst, the sound of iron
cogwheels meshing and grinding. Links of metal jingled in
unison, and another volley of horns sounded into the night. 
Gates opened, and then a wooden door, creaking as it swung wide,
admitted a band of warriors standing before it.  He continued
forth and joined the rear of the group.  They passed unimpeded
into the tunnel, and a rush of wind focused within its length,
pushing them forward to safety.  Soon, he heard many voices up
ahead, and he came into their full view.  Villagers stood on
either side of the path, cheers and laughter echoing into the
night, between the warm walls of home.
        The journey was at an end.  He moved toward his family.  He
fell forward, pivoting on his boots and heading face first for
the ground.  Then hands, strong gentle hands, caught his fall,
easing him down and around until he sat on a bed of hay.  He
felt the pricks from rough bladed grass, a sweet aroma passing
through his wet nostrils.
        Then warmth surrounded his lips, his mouth.  He felt a hot
breath on his cheeks, and he saw the face of his wife, her eyes
glowing jewels in the torch light.  Skin, silky smooth to his
touch, numb fingers tracing around her cheeks, warming
themselves in the forest of shiny hair.  Golden threads, spun by
the gods themselves, swung in the glow of a lamp held next to
her.  Radiant smile, words without meaning penetrating his
frozen thoughts.  His heart beat again, as they wheeled him off
in a cart, toward their house many blocks from the city gates.

                                   4.

        As the waters subsided, the Black Monarch looked to heaven. 
There, the mists were aglow, tinted blood red along the horizon.
All at once, in simultaneity with his glance, the first rays of
the rising moon broke between the billowing cloud mountains. 
Eyes narrowed in the glow, cast upon him and the hoard now
assembled.
        Not far beyond the city, in the foothills, the steeds
waited, slick sided and wet from the mist.  Each rider carried a
flame, dancing precariously within a metal cage.  Each firebird,
held from taking to the air, illuminated the ghostly forms of
the riders.  Black armor swallowed torch light.  Shafts of wood,
ending in elaborate conspiracies of metal and mind, rose
skyward.  Chain mailed fists gripped leather reins.
        Behind them stood infantry, rank upon rank, all silently
awaiting the call.  Then they rose to the cry, like a roost of
owls taking flight into the night sky, tightly grouped and
noiseless as they swim through the mists with their soft
feathers.  It grew loud and shrill, climbing higher and then
turning, arcing wide in the sky.  Turn and swoop upon them,
talons unfolded, urging them on, under death's awful pain, to
defeat the enemy.
        As the hoarse scream faded into the night, the Black Monarch
unleashed the furious beast, which struck sparks upon the rocks.
The ground beneath Black Monarch shuddered, and behind him, the
chaotic jumble of lanterns began to move.  Light propagated
along the mountain pass.  Singularity of purpose.  Soldier ants.
        The march began, without syncopation, without rhythm.  A roar
rose across the land, as thousands and thousands began to move,
slowly at first, then, as cavalry spread out and sped into a
great crease in the ground, they increased their pace.  The
night held dominion, as the moon sliver rose slowly into the sky.
        Ropes of woven leather cracked the damp air, hooves scuffing
rocks and pounding dents into the earth.  The Black Monarch rode
before them, a hood drawn over the worn face, the awful visage
which longed to behold the burning of Lathia.  He knew that
soon, this dream would be reality.  Stone walls would crumble,
pulverized to atoms beneath his might.  
        Sky hammer descended.  A thick trunk of wood splintered as it
struck, flaming ash chunks trailing skyward, then earthward. 
Black Monarch steered the steed from its usual course, then,
with a pull of the reins, the beast reared and left the ground.
        As he arced across the scorched tree wreckage, flames licked
his boots, warming the spurs that raked the rippled muscle of
the beast.  Then, the animal descended, amid the cries of his
officers.  Hooves met earth.  Onward they charged, into the
night.

                                   5.

        Lathia shimmered in the night.  A dark blanket rolled back to
reveal countless points of light, twinkling in the heavens.  The
moon rose higher, casting a glow onto the walls, the temple
spires, the palace minarets which towered above all else.
        Great structures of stone, adorned with the carvings of past
heroes, luminaries, dark dragons, the elements.  How many cold
visages looked down upon the city, from lofty towers, above the
masses who called Lathia their home.  One such stone dragon, its
forked tongue still glistening in the water that cascaded from a
pointed spire, perched above the stone precipice on which he
stood.
        He was alone as he leaned upon the sculpted parapet.  Layers of
multicolored robes, decorated by the most supple hands in all
Lathia, adorned him.  Breathe deeply, feel the breeze through
his hair, long brown locks dangling over his cowl.  He watched
the city celebrating beneath him.  His subjects marched the
streets, glowing torches in hand.  Lanterns danced like
fireflies, horns blared, as the celebrants emptied and refilled
wine flagons.
        He turned from the city and saw a strange cloud, rising slowly
in the distance.  Atop the fortress castle, its base powerfully
built of granite and marble, the King stretched forth his hands.
His eyes widened, his pupils dilated as he stared far out,
beyond the brightly lit interior of the capital city, to the
dark countryside beyond.
        The cloud rose slowly, a thin veil of mist stirred by some
power moving beneath it.  Vibrate.  He felt it, conduction
through the cold stone.  His fingers rested again on the
parapet.  His heart suddenly jumped within his chest.  He gazed
outward, over the city walls, beyond the celebration.  Into the
darkness, through the low-lying mists, across the plateau, down
the slopes that rose again upon the foothills.
        A mass moved.  A trail of hoof prints, stirring the muddy
waters which flowed back to cover them.  An army approached. 
Giant arthropods, cascading over hills and through valleys,
scouring the land as they went, devouring scouts in their way.
A ray of cold fell onto his heart, and it throbbed glacially.
        His mind closed to all but himself.  The Wizard King never
shared these thoughts with anyone, not even his mate, in times
such as these.  Glancing back to the celebration, his digestion
boiled.  He knew what had to be done.
        He spread his arms again, eyes closed, lids tightening upon
timeworn cheeks.  Clear the mind.  The wind rose about him, as
he breathed deeply and projected his mental boundaries outward,
upward into the sky, where the winged predator glided.  Soft
feathers silently cutting the air.  Huge, round eyes searching
for prey.
        The Wizard cast a mental web into the sky and drew it around
his quarry.  The net sealed neatly about the owl's
consciousness.  Mind impulses slowed, man mind merging with bird
mind.  Arms loosened, fingers lengthened and thinned.  His eyes
sharpened, pupils dilating in the night.  Hearing became more
acute, toes ossifying into talons.
        His thoughts resurfaced within the owl.  Expanding outward,
through pure survival instinct, hunger, wing flap, motion upon
the ground.  Images took on new meaning -- not just patches of
geology and botany, but rocks, plateaus, mountains.  Turning up
his gaze, a moon hung in the sky, the land below burnished and
orange.  What clarity of vision, grace of flight!
        Lowering his glance, while his arms flapped in the breeze, the
ground shivered and then stabilized.  The blackness moved,
ahead, beneath the lingering clouds, casting shadows upon the
Earth.  One can wonder how God would view a plague, revealed to
Its own vision while invisible to man's.  That was how the army
moved, insidiously, between low points on the ground, along
mountain slopes and across the plateau.  It engulfed all that it
encountered.
        Thousands of flickering fireflies illuminated the Horde, thin
smoke trailing from their torches.  Beneath each dancing flame,
shadows cast, pulled, stretched like hot wax.  Black helmets,
horns sharpened.  Beneath them, rage and ferocity.
        Descending downward, he saw their leader, the Black Monarch,
thundering amid a shower of sparks, breath from the snorting
steed filling the air.  It charged like a smoke belching
locomotive, and nothing dared to stand in his path.  Upon the
steed's back, riding with arms retracted, Black Monarch sucked
in the night.
        The Wizard rose, pushed hard with his wings.  Soon, he flew
back toward the castle walls.  He left behind the roar of
charging beasts, and rank upon rank of infantry, their boots
plowing the soil.
        He faced the city as it loomed beneath the moon.  Oh what a
sight to behold!  Walls shimmering, torch light cast into the
sky.  He discerned music in the distance.  Air currents buffeted
him as he neared the city wall.
        Then, pulled back wings, extended talons, felt an updraft of
air, ricocheting from the parapet and buoying his wings.  Talons
grabbed tightly to a dragon's horn.  The owl perched, as the
Wizard observed his own body, arms limp at his sides.  Then, his
consciousness dwindled, sinking into survival instinct,
squeezing forth through an ever narrowing psychic orifice.  The
mentality merged again with the King, thoughts expanding into
Homo Sapiens awareness.
        He opened his eyes and smiled, as the owl returned to the night
sky, its mission accomplished, its master served.  He turned
again to see his kingdom, with human eyes.

                                    6.

        His subjects danced, swilled wine as they celebrated their
victory, wept in their loss.  The city shimmered with energy,
its towers illumined by a thousand points of fire.
        Stepping backward, he passed into the tower.  Down into the
stairwell, dark and cold.  He descended the spiral stairs
gracefully in the darkness.  He  restrained his fear and
formulated a plan of action, one that would protect his people,
his kingdom.
        Crowd noise echoed through the cylindrical chamber in which he
stood.  The citizens raised victory banners and paraded officers
upon their shoulders.  Soon, they would merge their voices and
raise a cry for their Wizard King, to appear before them and
consecrate the celebration.
        Sandals met the stone floor, and they shuffled slowly, his
tired legs leading him forward, through the drafty chamber. 
Voices echoed about him.  A ray of orange light passed between
the palace doors and flickered upon the floor before him.
        The King lowered his gaze and exhaled as he knocked at the
door.  The sound echoed throughout the massive chamber, and then
a metal latch lifted.  Creaking followed, as a palace guard
pulled the massive door open.
        The Wizard King saw the celebration, spread out before himself,
just below the massive porch upon which he emerged.  As he
strode forth, his robes dragging across the ground, the crowd
went wild.  A singular roar rolled from the back of the town
square to the front.  The noise swirled between the shops, the
temple, and the palace walls.  Cheers mingled and formed an
emotional cyclone.  Raising his hands, he began the arduous
process of quieting the masses.  His heart broke as he prepared
to tell them of a new danger, far greater than what they had
faced several hours ago.  There would be no time to prepare for
this assault.  The Wizard King realized the wisdom in Black
Monarch's strategy, of lulling the enemy into a false sense of
security.
        Below, the crowd turned to behold their King.  Glowing orange
and gold, white raiment spread upon the wind, wise eyes
twinkling like stars.  Yet, something was missing. The face was
solid, no smile upon his pale, thin lips.  He concentrated, his
mouth opening silently to the night sky.  His subjects realized
that some prayer or incantation was climbing to heaven.
        They knew that luminaries received his words.  Angels would
transmute them, carry them to the four corners of the world,
beyond the ocean's edge, where swam the eternal leviathans, jaws
open, teeth sharpened upon the hulls of sunken ships.  Above,
the clouds coalesced.  The smoking mass formed a swirling
ornament of flickering orange, sprinkled with wood sparks,
crowned with the natural incense that carried their thanks from
this world.
        The King froze, motionless, as the entire city beheld his
graceful presence.  Shouts rose, building upon one another,
fueling a collective roar that shook the city.  Hands and arms
rose to the King, the strategist, the one who had crafted the
attack, who had called forth the sky storm to confound the enemy.

                                  7.

        He stood now with his wife and children, wounds dressed, his
hair flowing clean and dry in the wind.  His children frolicked
and played in the street, the pavement of stone adjacent to the
palace.  As he stood amid the flickering torches, the voices of
thousands of celebrants, he felt something closing in upon him.
        Air grew heavy, cheering became muffled.  From overhead, a
breeze swooped down and nearly extinguished the torch in his
wife's hands.  Vertigo replaced euphoria, and he stood
unsteadily.  He looked upward and beheld the smoke as it rose to
heaven.
        Darkness closed in upon them, descending insidiously from the
clouds, extinguishing their voices.  As the curtain fell,
another disturbance rose.  A thick wall, glossy and black in the
torch light, rose from the city's perimeter.  Luminous points
appeared.  The wall became a wave of glistening pitch, which
solidified into a metallic terror.  Poised over the city.  Bent
on destruction, the wave stopped, balancing on that thin, sharp
precipice of stone.
        Screams arose, from the center of the crowd, as arms shifted,
fingers pointed into the darkness.  Shouting became wailing,
mouths covered, eyes wide with terror.  For there, atop the
great, stone wall, without a single trumpet's warning, the
guards long gone and completely overtaken by the death swarm.  
        Hush.  Silence.  Isolated shouts into the night, people taking
to their feet and scrambling for cover.  Hide beneath the city,
within houses, under floors, above ceilings and in attics! 
Cover children with blankets, men take up arms, women prepare
for the wounded!  Then they realized the hopelessness of their
futile resistance.
        The King rose from his vantage point.  He floated in midair,
the throng's vision still trained upon the castle walls.  He
moved away from the parapet and settled slowly, with the aid of
some invisible gossamer parachute, to the street below.  Turning
his face upward, he awaited the arrival.  He appeared to be made
of stone, his face upturned, arms at his sides.
        Suddenly, the massive wooden doors exploded open.  The crowd
fell silent, as they prayed that this was some cruel fantasy,
some Wizard's trickery to serve as a finale' for the celebration.
        Door fragments scattered upon the street below, and an echo
reflected between every building, every mortared brick and
thatched roof in the city.  Smoke poured from the gaping
opening, as one door, barely on its hinges, began to drift shut,
suddenly restrained by two arms, shining and solid, armor upon armor
advancing into view.

                                   8.

        Yellow eyes blinking, twisting as cold enveloped the crowd,
black fist gripping the city.  The throng was too terrified to
behold the awful visage which leered above them.  Fangs
unsheathed.  He strode forward, each clawstep loud and echoing
upon the stone.
        Black Monarch halted, then looked down.  Below, statuesque and
vulnerable, the King stood his ground, his frail body all that
stood between the dark wave and the city.  New cheers arose,
not from human throats, but a guttural, gurgling sound. 
Thousands combined into a roar so loud that it seemed a terrific
lion was about to swallow Lathia whole.
        Arms reached out and down, across the stone parapet, toward the
city street below.  The hands unfolded, gangly and dark, 
expanding like umbrellas of death on either side of the Wizard
King's head.  Fingers enfolded the King like the legs of some
giant, metal spider.
        The Wizard, held within the powerful hands of Black Monarch,
rose into the air, then across the street, until he stared into
the beast's eyes, now narrow and laughing.  A hiss and a bellow
broke forth from the enemy leader, in unison with the shouts of
the soldier swarm which stormed and milled about the city wall.
        Two faces, hugely disparate in dimension.  One, soft and frail,
beard ruffling in the breath of the beast, liquid diamond
dripping from fangs poised near the victim.
        Below, silence.
        Then, color returned to the King's face.  Blood filled his calm
expression, and his eyes opened.  At first, they were black
slits, shining, as though blood tears had collected upon their
rims, about to stream down the timeworn cheeks, between Black
Monarch's talons.
        The eyes opened wider.  Black Monarch bent closer, yellow disks
flashing, breath sucking in, curiosity crossing the vicious
expression.  As the eyes grew in diameter, the King's face
smoothed, wrinkles vanishing, beard dropping off in great, soft
clumps, carried to the city street by the enemy's heaving 
breaths.
        The face became younger, first an adult, soon a boy, even
further, cheeks puffing and rounding, lips full and wet, nose
receding, hair thinning and darkening.  The eyes opened further,
and Black Monarch was puzzled, his mind straining to comprehend
the metamorphosis.
        Black.  The eyes were lightless, corneas wet and yet shedding
no tears -- irises, pupils, and sclera all part of the same
darkness.  The eyes grew huge and glassy, each casting a
reflection of this hideous invader.  The Black Monarch was drawn
inward, curiosity luring his mind toward the gaze of this
unearthly infant, a man's body hanging limply below.
        Yellow eyes froze in line with the dark orbs, as they became
bottomless pits, the shiny bubble coating allowing the other
consciousness to venture forth.  Inward the Black Monarch's mind
ventured, leaving bodily confines for a split second.  
        Wizard's energy flowed outward from the black eyes, the abyss
marbles which swallowed light and thought.
        A mental appendage advanced, through the head armor, the
thickness of skull bone, into the depths of the Black Monarch's
inner sanctum, spongy and wet to the old Wizard's touch.  With
just a subtle twist of his fingers, the damage was done.  The
arm retreated, hand emerging and dripping with the serum of
life, black and sticky as it fell to the ground below.  The
black eyes blinked, slowly and softly, like a feather descending
from a tree to the forest floor.  
        Hands released.  The Wizard fell, into the arms of his
subjects.  They bore him away, across the cobblestones and down
the street.
        Black Monarch's eyes were frozen, arms falling limply to the
ground, great body shuddering and then arching downward and
forward, crashing upon the stone parapet, splintering and
shattering parts of the wall.  Rock and gravel hailed upon the
crowd below.  As they fled for cover, a new victory cry arose.
        The huge body struck ground, armor sparking in showers of
orange and blue, the entire mass slowing to a halt in the
flickering torch light.  The wave stood poised above this
unforeseen turn of events.  When the great head struck the
pavement, dragging half of the Monarch's body, the crowd shouted
in defiance.  Black Monarch had fallen silent, blood trickling
from the ears, the eyes, the gaping mouth, frozen open in
surprise.
        From above, the blackness fell backward, dropping from the
walls and onto the ground outside the city.  Without their
mighty leader, the army fled, shrieks of terror filling
their ranks.  The Monarch's steed -- living, breathing battle
armor, shrank away, its hooves speeding upon the ground.  Sparks
rose into the night sky as it retreated.
        The hoard scattered and thinned across the land.  Their
collective will had vanished with Black Monarch's demise. 
Behind them, now forever free of their onslaught, the citizens
of Lathia celebrated anew.
        The Wizard King's face had changed again.  The beard had
returned, and the wrinkles too, deepening and creasing the face
which betrayed a subtle smile.  The eyes opened, rolled back
forward from within his head.  Human eyes, soft and warm, gazed
upward into the joyous faces of his subjects.
        And then the Wizard King closed his eyes.  He slept for a long
time, with the knowledge that Lathia was safe at last from the
Black Hoard, the army of evil, the Black Monarch.