Nahar preview

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Nahar
Preview
Kirk Templeton

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Nahar Preview Copyright © 2020 by Kirk Templeton. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems,
without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who
may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Cris Delara
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Kirk Templeton Books
San Francisco
Visit my website at www.kirktempletonbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America

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Book Description
Erotic fantasy for the discriminating reader, set in an imaginary world with an Indo-Persian flavor.
“It was as pretty a piece of swordwork as the Mrrrg captain had ever witnessed. He
thought: Queen, dancing girl, pleasure slave, and now shield maiden. I wonder what else this
human female has up her sleeve.”
Nahar is the beautiful young queen of Samandal, a city-state located on the rich
trade routes linking the Inner Regions of the desert with the Kurgon Empire. She
rules alone and well until Samandal is threatened by the Mrrrg, a semi-human race
of ferocious and savage conquerors. Their paramount warlord, Timur, uses warcraft
and magick to take Samandal and its queen. His searing gaze and electrifying touch
capture both her body and heart, leaving her torn between love and desire and her
duty to her people. Her city fallen, she is held captive within a web of unbridled
male desire, not only of Timur but of Bahadur, her Captain of the Guards, and
Gimbutal, Timur’s cruel and cunning rival for leadership of the Mrrrg horde. Forced
to serve the pleasure of the conquering Mrrrg yet recognizing in Timur her soul’s
complement, Nihar finds herself plunged into a world where she not only
experiences the depths of her own sensuality but embarks upon a profound voyage
of self-discovery. Timur also finds himself torn, for Nihar has captured his heart as
well. Yet he cannot appear weak before the Mrrrg and so must leave her as a
pleasure slave—a fact that Gimbutal strives to use in unseating him.
Meanwhile, the powerful matriarchs who rule Samandal’s Great Houses move in
secret to foment revolt and free their city from the Mrrrg, and Nihar’s cousin, the
princess Estera, must come to terms with her own involvement with power, desire,
and destiny along with Bahadur.
Within this swirling maelstrom of war and intrigue, passion and desire, Nihar must
find her way not only to the perfection of love with Timur, but to her own self-
realization.
The purpose of this romance is to provide entertainment and pleasure to the reader
through powerful and explicit sexual fantasies set within a context of romance, high
adventure, and personal self-discovery. Please be advised that it is intended for
mature readers only.

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Advance praise for Nahar….
“This is very good writing—you probably don’t need to be told that—and I had little
to add or change…This entire chapter is a delight, and it only gets better as it goes
along…Let me compliment you again on your novel. I am increasingly uncertain who
I’m rooting for among a growing list of options, and I enjoy that."
--Jack, editor of Nahar

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“Nahar is regal, bold, and beautiful… I think that her passion and sensuality are
wonderful…Your writing is impressive, well though out and intuitive.”
--Joanne Fung
“I’ve started reading Nahar…First blush: I’m impressed.
--R.A. Moss, author of King Robin
“I have to say, so far, its very well done. The prose is sturdy, lyrical, and elegant. Great
word choice and images. Solid character description and dialogue… I really like the
descriptions and story of Estara, especially the beautiful revelation of human need,
that she longed for the embrace of Bahdar, that was very striking and moving….The
drive of the prose, the mounting of tension, the minimal dialogue, the vividly painted
scenography, the completed climax of Bahadar also give (finally) some refuge to the
reader in balanced outcomes, but far beyond these effecting plot devices, your prose
never relents from confronting the power of touch and companionship, captured so
strikingly in this chapter. Wow.”
--Mario Dossantos

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Nahar Copyright © 2020 by Kirk Templeton. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems,
without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who
may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Cris Delara
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Kirk Templeton Books
San Francisco
Visit my website at www.kirktempletonbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America

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One
THE NAME OF THE CITY WAS SAMANDAL and Nahar was its
queen, and both city and queen were beautiful.
Samandal lay on the great trade routes that united the far-flung
cities of the Inner Regions with the Kurgon Empire. It was a city of noble
palaces, slender sky-reaching towers, cool fountains, and wide bazaars.
Architects from far Hiranyapura, masters of the marriage of light and
stone, had crafted its domes and galleries so that white stone and pink
marble caught the sunlight and cast it off in patterned geometries of light
and shade. At night the buildings of Samandal, reflected in limpid pools,
glowed with a soft rose translucency.
The people of the city were happy and prosperous, their culture
rich and opulent. Samandal sang with the melodies of its musicians, was
adorned with the tapestries and rugs of its weavers, gained enlightenment
from the discourse of its sages, and delighted in the taste of its foods and
wines. There were times of high festival, and the commerce of the Inner
Regions flowed daily through Samandal’s Great Gate; an immense current
of wealth and humanity that enriched and enlivened the city’s bazaars. And
in the soft nights, lovers intertwined in alcoves while others sought
pleasure in the diyar al-awalim, the Houses of Courtesans.
But there was another side. It was a dangerous world, and
Samandal’s wealth and prosperity attracted the greed and envy of the
powerful. The city stood within a web of dark designs fomented by ruthless
and cunning enemies, leaders of other great cities and powerful tribes. And
over all was cast the shadow of the Mrrrg.

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So Samandal’s walls were high and guarded and her people well-
versed in the discipline of arms. For her rulers, there were policies to be
weighed, treaties to be considered, and the subtle and devious game of
diplomacy to be played, wherein nothing was ever what it seemed.
These concerns, the grave and difficult duties of state, weighed
heavily on the soft round shoulders of Samandal’s young queen—all the
more so because Nahar had to bear them alone. King Schazaman, her
father, had died in a war against a neighboring city-state. It had been a
glorious death, one worthy of a king, but that did not assuage the
desolating sense of loss felt by Queen Amara, Nahar’s mother, for the king
and his queen had been very much in love.
The queen had wasted away after the loss of her love and lord; in
truth it seemed that her spirit remained in her body only long enough for
Nahar to come of age at eighteen before it left to join the king’s. After her
ascension to the throne, Nahar had relied for a time upon the wise counsel
of Sayayu, who had been her father’s minister-in-chief and her own tutor.
But Sayayu was far advanced in years, having served two generations of
the Royal House before her, and just a few years into her reign he, too,
died.
That left Nahar ruling alone. She hesitated to appoint another chief
minister because she found no one in the royal service whom she felt she
could trust with that high office. The young queen herself was gifted with
a fine intellect and quick intuition; it was not lack of insight or discernment
that made her burdens so heavy; rather the reverse. Her qualities enabled
her to understand the demands of her position fully, and she was daunted
when she matched those against what she felt to be her own lack of
experience. Nahar was a good and dutiful queen, loyal to her House and
devoted to her people. But she bore the burden out of obligation; she did
not relish it, and she often wished that she could be free of its cares. Still,
she always returned to the path of duty and strove to follow it to the best

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of her ability and with honor.
Naturally, Samandal’s aristocracy did not lack for noblemen who
were eager to provide her with support and guidance, for in the fullness of
time the queen would have to take a consort to ensure the continuation of
the Royal House. But Nahar was unwilling.
The politics of Samandal’s court were devious in the best of times,
with the Great Houses of the nobility jostling for power in an intricate
game of status, favor, and influence. With a young queen ruling alone,
intrigue grew even more intense, and Nahar was not at all happy to be at
its center. She especially could not find it within herself to favor any of
those who put themselves forward as suitors. In large part this was because
she believed that a consort might want too much to take the reins of
Samandal (and her) into his own hands. Ruling the city might be a great
burden at times, but as rightful queen Nahar felt that it was hers to bear.
Paradoxically, she was jealous of her duty even while wishing to be free of
it.
But there was another reason. Amongst her nobles there was no
one that Nahar loved or even felt she could love. With the example of her
mother and father before her, having been aware of their deep and abiding
love from her earliest childhood, Nahar was loath to give herself to a
consort in a loveless marriage of policy.
The people of Samandal were more sensible than those of many
city-states of the region in regard to sexuality, not requiring chastity of their
noblewomen any more than of the men. Faithfulness was expected of both
once married, but pre-marital liaisons were tolerated in all classes. So
Nahar had knowledge of the physical aspects of love. But her experience
only confirmed her reluctance to tie herself irrevocably to one of her
nobles.
This was the influence of her mother, who had taught her to
respect her own happiness as a woman as well as to perform her duties as

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queen. Her mother had been a great beauty, and Nahar, who had
worshipped her, felt herself less comely. In this she was wrong. If anything,
the daughter was even more lovely than the mother.
Her mother had been a princess of one the desert tribes that owed
allegiance to Samandal. She had stood a little below middle height. Among
the aristocracy of Samandal, tallness was considered one of the marks of
good blood and breeding (perhaps because the Mrrrg were, as a rule, short
of stature, although immensely strong). The fact that Nahar was loved
almost universally by both her nobles and her people did not prevent
whispers from passing among some of the more ancient families in the city
concerning her mother’s ancestry. Even though her tribe was among the
noblest and considered by most in Samandal to have blood fit to be joined
with that of the Royal House, doubts still existed among the most
conservative, who viewed any desert blood as suspect.
Yet it was that heritage that gave both mother and daughter their
extraordinary beauty: the eagle-proud features of the desert tribesmen
softened into a sweet vulnerability. Nahar’s eyes were large and grey-green,
soft but direct in the open honesty of their gaze and fringed with heavy
black lashes. They changed color with her mood. In repose they held the
grey of winter seas, but when she was deeply moved they took on the true
emerald hue. Her cheekbones were high, and her store of fierce passion
was evidenced in the sweeping arch of her nostrils. Her lips were full above
a fine, strong chin. The line of her jaw was clean and clear, though soft.
Her hair was like a waterfall of midnight, its sea-waved richness as
black as the night sky between the stars. Her body was a dream:
voluptuously curved into rounded fullness in breast and hip, but slender at
the waist above her gently rounded belly with its goblet navel. Her arms
were slender and rounded; her thighs were finely shaped above the graceful
arch of strong calves that descended to delicate feet and ankles.
The young queen’s skin tone was that warm, dusky light brown

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that was so prized among the women of both the Inner Regions and the
Empire. It was darker than the fair rose-blushed complexions of the blue-
eyed shield maidens of Fulda in the far northwest, yet not so dark as the
deep-hued satin skin of the exalted sun-priestesses of ancient Khemnu in
the south.
Her voice was a soft contralto. At first acquaintance this was often
surprising, for on seeing her one somehow expected a higher register. But
the more she spoke, the more apparent it became that her voice suited her
perfectly. Its depth was utterly feminine, throbbing with rich undertones
that expressed a deep and complex emotional range and carrying an
ineffable quality of sweetness and sensuality.

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Two
ONE FINE SPRING MORNING, the young queen left her apartments
in the high tower of the royal palace and made her way to the chamber of
the Great Council. Her form was flatteringly shown in a dark blue sari
worn low about her hips and draped over one shoulder, richly embroidered
in silver and gold. Her choli top revealed deep décolletage above a bared
midriff, below which a close-fitting skirt outlined the full curve of her hips
and graceful lines of her legs. Bangles and bracelets adorned her wrists and
arms, among them a golden snake with ruby eyes, the sign of an
accomplished court dancer. She wore golden earrings with large rubies at
the lobes and a golden circlet about her head with a disk bearing the
phoenix symbol of Samandal. A jeweled net of tiny pearls and fine gold
chain gathered the dark masses of her hair, except for the long, heavy, and
splendid tress that fell thickly forward over one shoulder.
Nahar walked with some speed and alone, for she eschewed a
retinue in her daily rounds of tasks and duties. The messenger who had
come brought the request for a council meeting had said it dealt with
matters both urgent and dire, hence her hurry.
She came to an elaborate arch decorated with lapis lazuli tile rising
above intricately carved doors of brass. A guard made his deep obeisance
and opened it for her. Within, sitting on cushioned divans, were the
members of her Great Council of State. She noted not just Lord Ketuman,
captain general of Samandal’s army, but Lord Rashtra, the grizzled old
commander of the Samandal cavalry, and young Bahadur, the captain of
the household troops and thus of her personal Life Guards.

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As the queen entered, Bahadur followed her with his eyes. As
always, the sight of her caused his breath to catch in his throat, so great
was his love for her. They had been raised together, friends since
childhood, and his family was high enough to earn him his position as
captain of her guards, and possibly her hand, although some—Lord
Ketuman for one— would think his rank not high enough. But unlike the
captain general and others among the nobles, Bahadur wanted to marry
the queen not in order to rule beside her but for the sake of his love for
her alone. Close as they were, she must have discerned what was in his
heart, yet she made no sign, and this drove him to despair.
As Nahar entered, all her lords had stood and greeted her with
deep bows. Now she took her seat on a chair whose back and sides were
draped with jewel-studded cloth of gold and gestured for them to resume
theirs. She addressed herself to the captain general.
“So, My Lord Ketuman. What is happening in our lands that a war
council should be summoned?”
Ketuman smiled slightly in appreciation of her sagacity in knowing
that this meeting dealt with matters of war.
“Majesty,” he said, “it is the Mrrrg.”
She drew in her breath. The Mrrrg were a savage, semi-human race.
Masters of horses and war, they were a short breed, the males massive and
immensely powerful, the women squat and unlovely. They were cruel and
ruthless, taking a savage delight in battle and conquest. They were a
scourge upon the polite and civilized nations, preying on them as the tiger
upon lesser beasts when they periodically emerged from their mountain
fastnesses to harry, raid, plunder and conquer. They were not fully human,
but their warriors were ferociously male, and it was known with horror
throughout the Empire and Inner Regions that one of their chief delights
in conquest was the taking of human females, in the fullest sense of the
word.

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“The Mrrrg!” exclaimed Nahar, “Is it the Dragon Horde?”
The Dragon Horde was the full armed might of the Mrrrg: a great
army led by their paramount chief and warlord, Timur.
Ketuman smiled grimly. “Nothing so dire as that, Majesty. But bad
enough. A large raiding party has seized Astana.” Astana was an outlying
town, part of Samandal’s domains. It lay at a distance of three day’s journey
from the city, where a major trade route spilled out of the mountains into
the broad desert steppe. As such, it was a major nexus in the net of trade
routes overseen by Samandal.
Lord Ketuman continued. “It seems they came upon the city at
dusk and under cover of a sandstorm. They were through the gate before
the guards could react. The garrison has paid the price of its carelessness,
I am afraid. They were less than ten score, all told, Astana being so close
to our city. The Mrrrg had close to ten times that number. The men fought
well but were cut down, except for one who was captured and spared to
send us their defiance. The women and children . . .” A grimace of pain
and hatred crossed his face.
“We will rescue them, My Lord,” said Nahar. “Or I shall ransom
them back, or at the worst find out where they have been sold and send
agents to purchase and return them.”
Ketuman looked up, suddenly fierce. “Majesty! Taken by the Mrrrg
. . . better that they were dead!”
Around the council chamber, the hard faces of all the men
mirrored the captain general’s thought. To the men of Samandal, a human
woman being possessed by a Mrrrg was an abomination, and she was
considered sullied past repair. It was a sentiment that Nahar found
incomprehensible, although she knew it ran deep. She also knew the dark,
barely whispered rumors of women whose names were now forgotten
except in curses who, taken by the Mrrrg, chose not to come back. She
sighed inwardly and put the matter aside.

18
She spoke once more to the captain general. “And what is your
counsel, My Lord Ketuman?”
Ketuman stood to speak. His figure was tall, imposing, and
soldierlike, displaying that fierce pride, almost arrogance, affected by so
many of the nobles of Samandal—though not by the Royal House, for her
father had treated all men and women with warmth and generosity.
Ketuman wore a short black beard and curled mustachios, neatly trimmed.
His robes were of deep red silk, richly embroidered, and his fingers
sparkled with jeweled rings. Around his shoulders hung the splendid gold
chain of his office. Now his dark eyes blazed with resolution, and his hand
grasped the hilt of the long curved shamshir at his waist.
“Majesty, this insult to our honor by these subhuman vermin must
be wiped out in their foul blood, and that immediately. The filth have sent
terms—terms—to Your Majesty as ruler. They will hold Astana as a free
city and levy tribute on all the caravans that pass through, sending a tithe
in tribute to Your Majesty’s coffers. If we refuse, they will harry and raid
throughout the region. Astana’s place at the foot of the pass guarantees
them a rich levy of plunder. It is the only trade route through the
mountains. There are but two thousands of them, Majesty. We can be
upon them with the army in three days, retake the city, and put them to
the sword. These Mrrrg beasts must learn that they cannot trespass on our
lands and endanger our trade. We must make a quick example of them,
sending a message that will be heard throughout the Mrrrg lands and as far
as Arzurum in the Empire.”
Nahar nodded. “And what forces will you take to reclaim Astana,
Captain General?”
“Majesty, we must strike quickly and in overwhelming force. We
must crush and annihilate these vermin who thus dare to challenge us. I
will take four thousand horsemen, and of the Trained Bands of foot, nine
thousand.”

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The queen’s eyes widened in surprise. “But that would empty the
city, My Lord. You would take virtually our entire force of men at arms!”
Ketuman nodded grimly. “Nothing less will serve, Majesty. Bear in
mind, Astana is close. I have already sent riders to alert all the tribes within
range. They will set a cordon around the city and allow none to escape,
because that is the message we must send. Astana is a walled town and so
we must have overwhelming force of foot to take it by storm and enough
strength of horse to deal with these Mrrrg scum should they attempt a
mounted sortie. We can muster enough force to crush these invaders and
yet not be gone from Samandal for more than a week. It risks almost
nothing.”
Still Nahar hesitated. “But My Lord Ketuman, is it not strange that
the Mrrrg would put themselves so readily under our hand? We can muster
overwhelming force to defeat them utterly, as you say. Would they not
know that?”
Lord Ketuman smiled a trifle patronizingly, as if to say that
although Nahar was queen, she was still young and not fully conversant in
the arts of war.
“Majesty,” he said, “recall that these Mrrrg are barely human. You
should not expect from them such levels of rational calculation. They are
savages, reaching for plunder without circumspection. They see nothing
beyond their own lust and greed.”
“Yet they had forethought enough, My Lord, to take our garrison
of Astana unawares.” she said.
Ketuman waved a hand in dismissal. “A beast’s cunning is not
forethought, Majesty.”
Nahar remained thoughtful. She turned to the grizzled figure of
Lord Rashtra. The cavalry commander was old and white-haired in service
but still fit and strong. His garments were less ostentatious than the captain
general’s but still fine, and the sword he wore was a sturdy one that had

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obviously seen much use.
“My Lord Rashtra. You have fought the Mrrrg before.”
“Many times, Majesty.”
“What, then, do you think?”
Rashtra looked from his queen to the stern face of the captain
general.
“We must needs act, Majesty,” he said finally.
“That is true, My Lord, but given your knowledge of the Mrrrg, is
it as the captain general says? That this is a thoughtless move on the part
of a group of savage raiders?”
Rashtra considered. “If this were the Dragon Horde, or some other
great force commanded by a high Mrrrg lord or chieftain, I would be more
cautious, Majesty. But it seems to be as the lord captain general says: in
essence, just a large raid.”
She looked around at the faces of the other members of the
Council, the great officers of state and the viziers who represented each of
Samandal’s seven Great Houses.
“Do the rest of you concur in the captain general’s assessment and
his proposed course of action?” she asked. There was quick and forceful
assent from all the men present. Clearly, the Council members were all
eager to cleanse this stain upon Samandal’s position and honor—as well
as the threat to its wealth and trade.
Nahar sighed. She felt now more than ever the lack of Sayayu’s
council. It seemed to her that this decision was hasty and premature, based
solely on the desire of her warlords for immediate vengeance on the
impudence of a despised (though feared) foe. But what could she do except
bow to their greater knowledge and experience? And as they said, she must
do something. She glanced at Bahadur, captain of her Guards. One look
at his face told her she would find no good counsel there.
She sighed again. “Very well, My Lord, and when will you set out?”

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“As soon as the army can be assembled, Majesty,” said Ketuman.
“By tomorrow noon at the latest.”
“Then let it be so,” said the queen. She stood, causing all present
rise as well. Accepting their obeisance, Nahar turned and left the council
chamber.
Halfway down the hall, she became aware of Bahadur following
behind her. She turned to face him. The captain of the Guards bowed, his
face a mix of desperate yearning and uncertainty. Bahadur was of goodly
appearance, handsome in fact. Nearly as tall as Lord Ketuman, his body
was well-knit and powerful. He had dark brown hair and clear blue eyes,
shown to advantage by the blue tunic of the Guards emblazoned with the
golden phoenix symbol of the city. There was no lack of young beauties of
the city’s noble Houses who sought to catch his eye, and more than his
eye. But he ignored them all in his devotion to Nahar.
Nahar was not unaware of his feelings. She could hardly be, given
their long friendship. She was even aware of the tales carried through the
court of how the mistresses of Samandal’s Houses of Courtesans had
learned that to please the Lord Bahadur, one must provide dark haired girls
who bore a resemblance to the young queen.
She tried to still her impatience. With the Mrrrg at hand, she had
no time for protestations of love, though truth to tell those would not have
been welcome from her captain at any time. Her feelings for him did not
go beyond friendship.
“Nahar,” he said, calling her by name as he had done when they
were playmates together.
She raised an eyebrow at this familiarity and was at pains to reply
in more formal terms. “Yes, Captain?”
He plunged ahead. “May I see you for a moment?”
With some resignation, she motioned him to follow her into her
morning room, where fresh cut flowers adorned the low tables and

22
contributed their perfume to complement the fresh sunlight that flooded
through the colonnade. She sat and gestured him to do likewise.
“Now, what it is, Lord Bahadur?”
“Nahar—My Queen, I just wanted to tell you that I have spoken
to some of the matriarchs of our noble families concerning the possibility
of our becoming married.”
Nahar’s eyes blazed. “You take far too much upon yourself, My
Lord, and much for granted! Such an approach should not have been made
without first speaking to me, your queen!”
Bahadur became flustered and confused, something that happened
with growing frequency whenever he spoke to his childhood friend, who
had become so distant from him. “But, Majesty, it is known to all the court
that you have no favorites among the other nobles, and we have known
and loved one another since childhood, so I assumed—”
“You assumed far too much, Lord Bahadur!” She paused, not
wanting to hurt him. “We have loved each other since childhood, but I do
not love you in the way that you want. You have always been my best
friend, and I love you in the way I would love my brother, if I had one.
Indeed, that is how I think of you.”
He listened patiently, even though her last words cut him deeply.
Then, he could contain himself no longer.
“Goddess curse it, Nahar, I don’t want to be a brother to you. I
love you. I want you as a man wants a woman!” He jumped up, strode over
and, taking her by the arms, pulled her up against him. The feel of her
rounded softness, the perfume of her hair, was intoxicating to him, like
wine. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Taking you in my
arms and making love to you is all I can think about. It has become an
obsession!”
Her voice was as cold as artic winds. “Release me, My Lord. Now.”
Remembering himself, he let her go and stood back, head bowed.

23
“Hear me, My Lord. You will never speak to me in this wise again.
Is that clear?”
Miserable, he nodded. “Yes, My Queen.”
“I have had enough of this foolishness, especially now when the
Mrrrg threaten. How can you even think to approach me so at a time like
this? You will forget these fantasies and attend to your duties as captain of
the Guards, My Lord!”
“Yes, Majesty,” he said, dully.
She decided to focus his attention on the matter at hand.
“Despite what my lord Ketuman intends, Bahadur,” she said, “I
do not feel it necessary for the entire Household Cavalry to ride forth
tomorrow with the army. Leave one troop here with me.”
Bahadur gulped and nodded. “Yes, Majesty.
“Then let me wish you well on your faring, and glory.” She touched
his arm and smiled, “I need not tell you to maintain the honor of the
Guards in arms, because I know you will do so.” She turned and left the
room to continue down the hall. Bahadur bowed and then stood, feeling
his arm where she had touched it. Somehow, someday, I will make her mine, he
thought. I must, or not go on living.

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Three
NEXT DAY AT MIDMORNING came the faring forth of the army of
Samandal to scourge the invading Mrrrg and retake the town of Astana.
Nahar would not go with the army, but as ruling queen she sat on
horseback clad in full panoply of the armor of the Guards to watch her
soldiery as it marched forth. The martial gear emphasized her soft
femininity by contrast. Her long black hair flowing out from underneath
the rim of her warlike helmet with its gold phoenix crest curled about her
shoulders as she grasped a long lance and held the reins with calm
assurance.
The young men of the Trained Bands—the infantry drawn from
the apprentices of the city’s guilds—were filled to a man with worshipful
adoration as they marched past, pikes on their shoulders, every eye upon
her. No less the young nobles of the cavalry in their richly embossed
armor. She sat her horse well, chin lifted in queenly pride.
The people lining the great Road of Kings leading to Samandal’s
massive Great Gate were cheering wildly, both at their young men going
off so proudly to battle and at the sight of their young queen whom they
loved, for they had received ample proof during her reign of how
constantly she kept their welfare in her mind and heart.
They cheered as well because this faring forth of their army was
fiercely supported among the people. Not only were they grimly
determined to right the wrong done to their kin and countrymen in Astana,
they knew that for the sake of the city’s prosperity and thus their own, the
threat of the Mrrrg to the trade routes must be put down quickly and

25
completely.
So, horse and foot, to the cheers of the populace, the army of
Samandal marched in prideful cadence out of the Great Gate and set forth
to chastise the Mrrrg. Last to leave were Bahadur and the greatest part of
the Life Guards, young men drawn from the most noble of the Houses of
the city, as strong and eager as the blooded horses they rode. Then the
Great Gate closed, and the people began to disperse. Nahar rode her great
black mount back to the stables of the Guards, dismounted and removed
her armor. As she left the barracks, she turned to Dariush, commander of
the troop that remained with her in Samandal, and gave command that the
chancellor of the city attend her in her chambers.
When that lord arrived and requested his queen’s pleasure, he was
somewhat surprised to hear her ask what store of provisions there were
within the city to withstand a siege.
“Three month’s supply, Majesty,” he replied, puzzled.
Nahar nodded pensively. “It is well,” she said.
∞ ∞ ∞
In the campaign tent of Timur, paramount chieftain and warlord
of the Dragon Horde of the Mrrrg, a golden crystal spun. The air vibrated
with the sound of mantras chanted by Grihatsmad, the warlord’s pet
human wizard. Under Timur’s deep-hooded gaze, images appeared in the
depths of the spinning crystal. With grim satisfaction the Mrrrg beheld the
setting forth of the army of Samandal by means of the mage’s Art. He
nodded his great head. “Good. Ketuman leads forth their entire force.”
He turned his baleful gaze on Grihatsmad, who was sweating and
trembling with the strain of maintaining the vision. “Enough,” he said.
The human almost collapsed at this relief from the effort of his
magecraft. He looked at his lord with the fawning submissiveness of a

26
faithful hound. Timur lifted his massive frame from the richly carved seat
in which he had sat to view the Farseeing. The furnishings of his tent were
rich, gorgeous, and barbaric, looted as they were from a dozen cities. The
Mrrrg lord strode to a low brass table and poured a goblet of wine. Gazing
once more at his wizard from deep-set eyes set under the heavy ridges of
his brows, he offered it to the human. “Rest now and eat. Tonight, I will
need thee again. There is something more I wish to see. This time within
the city itself. The army of Samandal has left the shelter of its walls. And
the Dragon Horde is already moving to take it within our jaws. Samandal
will soon be mine. The city . . . along with its queen.”
Grihatsmad took the goblet from his lord’s hand. The human was
as tall as Timur, but thin as he was, he seemed frail before the squat and
mighty frame of the Mrrrg lord. “It is an honor, Lord, to receive drink
from your own hand.” He met Timur’s gaze. “I will be ready.”

27
Four
WITH THE ARMY GONE, the royal palace of Samandal seemed empty,
as did the whole city. Wandering the halls about her chambers, Nahar felt
the burden of her responsibilities even more in the silence. She was
troubled by the sense of foreboding that had seized her during the council
meeting. Now the die was cast, but it did not assuage her worry.
She stood now at sunset on the high balcony of the royal palace.
She could see all the city and the desert steppe beyond. Sunset was
approaching in a glory of red and purple light. Attendants went silently
about the chambers, lighting torches and lamps. She beckoned to one of
her ladies-in-waiting and gave instructions that she was to be left alone for
the night, and that musicians were to play for her from behind a screen at
one end of the rich chamber beginning at nightfall.
She watched the still westering sun for a while, enjoying the beauty
and silence. Then she went into her wardrobe. She divested herself of sari
and all her jewelry except the golden snake bracelet. She loosened her hair
from the netted jewels and pins that held it, letting its black masses tumble
down over her shoulders and back. From one of her closets, she removed
a simple blue dancing skirt with two panels, a matching blue halter top,
and a hip scarf adorned with small coins that made a rustling, ringing sound
as she tied and adjusted it over the skirt.
When she returned to her main chamber, night had arrived, and
moonrise, and the music. As was her custom on such nights, she simply
stood for a while and let the melody wash over her. There were as yet no
drums, just the fluid, intricate sounds of strings and flute. Surrendering

28
herself, she felt her neck and shoulders loosen, the tensions and worries of
her position and its duties melting from her. Especially since the death of
Sayayu, she had taken recourse to this late-night dancing to find refuge
from her cares. Trained to the dance since childhood, she could use it to
forget herself, to go deep within her body and let its energies absorb her
and take her far away from the city, the palace, the council with all their
burdens. She could almost imagine she was not queen at all, but a simple
dancing girl of one of Samandal’s inns or even in a dar al-awalim, one of the
city’s Houses of Courtesans.
She had given no instructions to the musicians, allowing them to
make their own selections of melody and rhythm. As they could not see
her from behind the screen, there would be none of the communication
that allowed the drummer to respond to the dancer’s temperament and
movements, but she preferred it that way; it allowed her to be carried off
by the mood of the musicians. That was what she did, letting the sounds
of the flute and strings enter her and move her, slowly and languorously,
without the pulse of the drums, first her hips, then rippling outward to her
waist, torso, arms, thighs and knees. She let the music take her, forgetting
herself into it.
Soon, she lost all track of time and any sense of herself as separate
from the music. She could not even have said at what point the percussion
instruments entered, only that she found herself dancing to drums as well
as melody, her hips lifting, falling and circling now to the beating pulse,
responding to it, letting it move through her in complex patterns that
varied and expanded but always returned to the beat as their source.
∞ ∞ ∞
In his tent, Timur the Mrrrg sat in his chair before the spinning
golden crystal. The air vibrated with the sound of Grihatsmad’s chanting.

29
In the depths of the crystal, the image of Nahar undulated and spun in
flashes of blue costume and warm-toned skin. As he watched, a smoldering
fire grew in the Mrrrg’s eyes. His thick-fingered hand gripped the arms of
the chair.
∞ ∞ ∞
As the young queen danced, the music became more driving and
insistent. Whether it was the mood of the musicians or her own, she
suddenly felt herself intensely aware of her body’s needs, of her desire to
be touched and loved. Her dancing became more sensual, her movements
those of offering her body to some imagined presence before her. She
flung her head back in abandon, and the midnight toned clouds of her hair
swirled heavily about her face and shoulders. With a passionate gesture,
she reached back to unhook the clasps of her halter. Casting it aside, she
danced bare-breasted to the night under the radiance of the moon, which
caressed the contours of her body with silver light next to deep shadow. A
sheen of sweat began to cover her body.
∞ ∞ ∞
Watching through the Crystal, the Mrrrg sat slowly upright in his
chair, his grip on its the arms tightening. He had never wanted a woman
so much in his life. The conquest of Samandal had now become more
imperative than ever. He swore to himself that both the city and its queen
would be his before another fortnight passed. He gestured to Grihatsmad
that the session of Farseeing was at an end. The wizard relaxed in obvious
relief. Timur looked at him. “Prepare thyself, wizard. I will be using the
Cloud Path more times than I had thought. “
Grihatsmad sighed in resignation. “Yes, My Lord.”

30
∞ ∞ ∞
In the royal palace of Samandal, the music in the queen’s chamber
drew to its close. Deliciously exhausted, the young queen lay down on her
great bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

31
Five
FOR FOUR DAYS, the city of Samandal waited for word of her army.
Messengers brought reports that all had gone well on the first few days,
but as Astana lay three day’s march away, news of the assault on the town
would not arrive until the fifth day at the earliest, even by fast courier.
Along with the rest of the city, Nahar steeled herself to go about
her daily routines, striving by this to express confidence in the outcome.
On the fifth morning after the army departed, the queen was in her bath
when one of her ladies rushed into the chamber, her face drawn and pale.
Making a hurried obeisance, she informed the queen that something
approached the city. Not bothering to dry herself, Nahar wrapped a towel
about her lush young body and rushed to the high parapet, where she could
look out over the desert steppe.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she saw great clouds of dust on
the horizon, such as could only be raised by a great host in furious motion.
At this distance she could not make out details, but it appeared to her that
the dust came from more than one source, and she believed that even this
far away she could discern the tiny figures of riders approaching the city.
Calming herself, she remembered the responsibility of her royal
station. She gave command to her ladies to that they should prepare her
dress for the day, for certain it was that news should soon reach the city,
and she should be ready to receive it.
By the time she had dressed and arrayed her hair and ornaments,
it had arrived: a single rider, sent ahead of the rest and bearing news of
disaster and the complete overthrow and near destruction of Samandal’s

32
army.
Pale but composed, Nahar received this news from her throne.
The young cavalryman, his armor rent and bloodied, stood staggering
before her until she kindly bade him sit and ordered a flagon be placed at
his elbow.
“It was the Dragon Horde, Majesty,” said the warrior. “Hidden
cunningly and completely in the lower ravines of the mountains. The gods
know how they came to be there in such numbers without any knowing.
But as we approached the town they were upon us with twice our strength,
and we were caught between the hammer and the anvil. As soon as it was
apparent that we were to be overmastered, I was chosen with three others
to ride out with word—”
Nahar raised her hand. “Warrior, I will hear your full tale, but time
may be pressing. Is the sum of it, then, that we are overthrown completely,
and this city of Samandal is to be besieged by the Mrrrg?”
The warrior swallowed and nodded.
“And how long do we have before the Mrrrg are here?”
“Majesty, the remnant of our armies is riding hard eight hours
behind me at most, and the Mrrrg are on their heels.”
“Then,” said the queen, turning to her attendants, “call my council
at once and tell Dariush to have twenty of my Guards prepare themselves
to ride and with all speed. There is much to do and we have little time.”
Then did Nahar show the queenliness within her, and had her
father and Sayayu been there to see, they would have been proud. Her
council assembled, she gave orders for the people of the villages, farms,
and holdings near to the city to be brought within its gates, and with them
what stores of food could be added to the three month’s reserve in the
warehouses. She sent riders to those villages farther out with word that
their people should go into hiding until this stormwind of the Mrrrg had
passed. Then she gathered scribes to her equipped with quill, ink, and

33
parchment. Reaching deep within herself and gathering all she knew and
had learned of statecraft under Sayayu’s tutelage, she dictated for their
writing letters to the rulers of the other city-states in the region. With
eloquence and well-reasoned arguments of policy, she informed them of
the invasion of the Mrrrg and urged them to raise combined armies to
come to Samandal’s aid and lift the siege that the Mrrrg would doubtless
soon begin. Persuasively she argued that this incursion and scourge would
harm the prosperity and well-being of the entire region, and thus
themselves. She also gave hinted assurance that their succoring of
Samandal would allow them to claim advantage of her once the siege was
lifted and her city was again free. These letters written, they were
dispatched under her royal seal by selected riders drawn from her Guards
on the swiftest horses.
Then she dictated other letters to the loyal tribes who lived round
about the city and owed her fealty—tribes such as her mother’s. To these
she commanded that they to flee from the immediate onset of the Mrrrg
and secure their women, children, and herds in well-hidden places of
refuge, but that this once done they should begin to harry the Mrrrg with
fire and raid to aid the city.
These immediate tasks done, Nahar then turned back to hear the
rest of the melancholy tale of her army’s overthrow. It was as the rider had
said. Samandal’s army was taken suddenly in flank and rear as it
approached the town of Astana by the Dragon Horde of the Mrrrg. The
entire army would have been surrounded and taken had it not been for
Lord Ketuman, who together with a few squadrons of cavalry had
sacrificed himself in a last, gallant, desperate charge into the teeth of the
advancing riders of the Mrrrg horde. Thus he paid for his misjudgment
with his life and saved the greater part of the cavalry, who escaped through
the breach he had torn in the encircling ring of the Mrrrg.
A good half of the cavalry escaped. But the Trained Bands, the

34
infantry of Samandal, on foot and hopelessly outclassed by the surging fury
of the Mrrrg horse archers, were all lost or taken. There was this one ray
of hope, however: the Mrrrg were savage, ferocious, and cruel, but also
shrewd and avaricious. Given a choice, they would rather take slaves for
service or the market than wantonly kill. The men of the Trained Bands—
skilled farmers, merchants’ sons, and craftsmen—would be valuable stock,
and this the Mrrrg would know. If the Bands had sued for quarter from
the Mrrrg, it would probably have been granted.
By this time news of the catastrophe had spread throughout
Samandal, and the cries of grief of the people filled the air of the great city.
Yet they were a disciplined folk, and the threat of the Mrrrg was real and
growing greater every moment. So pushing grief and fear aside, they turned
bravely to the myriad tasks of preparing to resist. In this they took comfort
and inspiration from their beloved young queen, who went amongst them
throughout the long afternoon, offering solace where needed,
encouragement and inspiration where called for.
As the shadows of evening were just beginning to lengthen, there
came at last to the Great Gate the harried remnant of Samandal’s great
host, a shadow of what had set out so proudly under bright banners but
five days since: grim riders of the Household Guard, led by Bahadur, and
the rest of the horsemen under Lord Rasthra’s command. But their ranks
were sorely depleted—barely three thousands all told after the losses
occasioned by Lord Ketuman’s death ride and the harrying by the Dragon
Horde since.
And the Dragon Horde came close behind them, circling the city
to cut it off and put it under siege, with brazen horns blaring out barbaric
music and the thunder of drums crafted, it was said, from their enemies’
skins. Will dead warriors of Samandal now furnish drumheads for the Mrrrg?
thought Nahar as she stood on the high parapet of her palace, looking out
over the fires ringing the city in their encampment of siege. So many, she

35
thought.
Yet Nahar was not unconfident as she faced the future. For the
Mrrrg were horse archers all and the Dragon Horde not fitted with engines
and sappers for siegecraft. Furthermore, the very size of their army limited
their power to lay siege to Samandal, for it must be supplied, and that
would not be easy and would grow harder as time passed. In her letters to
the city’s loyal tribes she had commanded them to harry and raid the Mrrrg
supply lines particularly. Samandal had three month’s food and more, and
water was not a concern: a great part of the reason for the city’s wealth was
that it was founded on a vast artesian aquifer which supplied near limitless
water to the city’s many wells. So it seemed to her that the Dragon Horde
could stay camped about the city for any length of time only with extreme
difficulty. It puzzled it her greatly, in fact. Having shown such superb
mastery of warcraft in the ambush of the Samandal host, how could the
chieftain of the Dragon Horde be now so unaware as not to know that he
laid siege to her city at great disadvantage?
She had posed this question to Lord Rashtra at the evening’s
council of war, but the old warmaster had no answer. Both he and Bahadur
were clearly still shaken by their defeat, and Bahadur had tried her patience
once more when she had given command of the city’s defense to the older
commander. Plainly, he had expected to receive that command himself.
Such childishness when the city was in danger angered her, and she
brought him sharply to heel with her rebuke, focusing them both on the
problems of their defense. Samandal was a great city, and the defeat of her
army had left barely enough men to man her walls in the face of the Mrrrg.
The queen had given command that levies were to be made among the
youths and old men of the city to provide enough armed men for the city’s
defense. Fortunately, there was plentiful equipage for them in the city’s
armories.
These and a thousand other details of the defense had kept her in

36
council late into the night. Now at last she stood alone in her tower, before
her bedchamber, in the warmth of the night air and the silver moonlight.
Suddenly from below her came a cacophony, as the Mrrrg once
more sounded their trumpets and drums, accompanied by cheers and
shouting and the ringing sound of steel as they clashed sword and shield.
A tremor of fear went up her spine, as it was meant to. She stood and tried
not to listen until the sounds died away into the soft welcome darkness of
the night. She stood exhausted and lonely from the day’s demands, and
finally she turned back to her chamber and the rich softness of her bed,
onto which she collapsed into deep, dreamless slumber.

37
Six
LIKE A SWIMMER RISING UP THROUGH WATER, her
consciousness lifted itself out of the peaceful, quiet depths of sleep.
Something was amiss. She grew increasingly aware. It was still night, but
she could not move her arms freely. They were tied together to the
bedstead above her head. It had been done smoothly and quietly, but
nonetheless it had awakened her. She opened her eyes to the soft torchlight
of her chamber and became aware of a presence, large and powerful,
looming over her. She opened her mouth to call out, but just as swiftly a
gag was thrust into it and tied about the back of her head. She struggled
with her body and legs but was utterly helpless against the massive strength
which held her. Then she heard a deep chuckle, as if the intruder took
pleasure in demonstrating how ineffective were her struggles.
Against the gentle light of the torches, she could make out his
darkened profile. To her utter horror, she saw it was a Mrrrg. She struggled
again wildly, but the same overwhelming strength held her helpless. She
felt a massive hand at her throat.
“Quiet, Majesty,” came his voice, filled with menace, “lest I break
thy pretty neck.”
She froze at once, having no doubt he meant what he said. Nor did
the irony in his voice as he addressed her as queen escape her. But how
had he come to be here? This was real, no dream or vision; the contours
of his heavy features were limned by the torchlight, and his hands upon
her were real. The Mrrrg was actually here; here in the heart of her palace—
and she was totally at his mercy.

38
Divining her thought, he chuckled again. “Thou wonderest how I
am here, and why, O Queen? Doubtless. As to the how of it, that will
remain my secret. As to the why—well, to be sure, it is merely to anticipate
my taking of thy fair city; to give to thee a taste of what awaits thee upon
my accomplishment of its conquest . . . and thine.”
The implication of his words hit her like a wash of cold water. By
his way of speaking, she knew that this must be none other than Timur
himself, the lord of the Dragon Horde.
The silken coverlets of the bedclothes were still bundled and
tousled about her. With a single gesture he tore them away. His eyes
gleamed as he looked down upon the lush beauties of her naked form. She
clenched her eyes shut as he reached forward to touch the outside of her
thigh. His hand was calm, gentle, powerful, certain. Through it she could
feel the power in his presence, like nothing she had ever known. For a
timeless time, he simply let his hand rest there on the round contour of
her thigh. Then he began moving it, touching her gently, softly, caressingly.
At first Nahar held herself rigid. Then, gradually and to her own mounting
horror, she felt herself beginning to respond. A long slow sigh escaped her,
ending with a little murmur from deep within her throat.
Now both of his hands were on her, and as they moved over her
she felt herself sinking into where he was urging her, taking her. What he
was doing felt good, soft, caressing, enticing her to let go of everything and
surrender to the compelling desire she felt emanating from him, a power
that overwhelmed her—and she wanted to be overwhelmed.
Suddenly his hands on her were like fire. She had never known
anything like this: an electric thrill that lifted and consumed her,
concentrating and condensing into a throbbing need rippling out from the
core of her body and soul. She shook her head from side to side. No! she
thought behind the gag, but the word was directed as much to herself as
to him.

39
She sucked in her breath as he moved his finger and rested it lightly
on the tip of the nipple of her breast. He circled it gently, then more firmly,
until it rose and hardened at his touch. He bent over her and his mouth
slid along the curve of her shoulder, then up her neck to take the lobe of
her ear between his teeth and softly bite down. A current of desire shot
down to her breast, arching her back and meeting with another current
snaking up from deep between her thighs.
What was happening to her? She had never felt anything like this,
a depth and completeness of response that swept away everything—her
position, her duty, her loyalties—and left only an indiscernible and
complete sense of opening to him in a total desire to be possessed by him.
His mouth closed over one dark nipple as Nahar at first struggled
and then, helplessly, arched her back and pressed her breast against his
searching, gently sucking mouth and licking tongue, her breathing growing
faster and deeper. He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth again and
bit down firmly and she lifted herself to press against him, seeking him,
her soft moans stifled by the gag. But he rose up so that, restrained by her
bonds, she could not reach him. She writhed as his fingers touched and
caressed her, then suddenly he gathered her into his arms and pulled her
body roughly against his. And then, with a casual certainty, he reached up
beneath the dark masses of her hair and deftly removed the gag. She gasped
as she pressed herself against him. Then his mouth found hers.
Her memories of all previous kisses vanished as her lips parted to
accept his probing tongue. The kiss seemed endless, drawing her into a
place of sweetness she had never imagined existed. Finally, he lifted his
mouth from hers.
“Thou art mine,” he said against her hair. “Thou and thy city both,
to do with as I please. I knew thee to be mine from the first moment I saw
thee, dancing.” She wondered over this. How could he have seen her
dance? Then his caresses drove all thought from her mind. He held her

40
breasts and then slowly ran his hand along her side to the inward curve of
her waist and lush swelling of her hip. Now he moved his hand to her inner
thigh, with its smooth special softness, and she lifted to him again, her
body willing him to touch her higher and then deeper, but instead he
caressed her mound, with the trimmed triangle of soft black hair. He now
bent to kiss her stomach, circling her navel with his tongue while his hands
reached for both breasts, and then his mouth followed to kiss both nipples;
one and then the other. His hands were still smooth, caressing, but
wherever they moved, they left traces of burning fire as her own passion
mounted and grew.
He kissed her on the mouth, lightly taking her lower lip between
his teeth, then slowly, softly, kissed her eyes and her cheeks. Such gentleness,
she thought. Is this in truth a savage Mrrrg? His mouth moved down over her
chin and jaw, his tongue finding the hollow of her throat and continuing
down once more to her breasts. She lost all thought as she pressed herself
up to him again, sinking into the sensations twisting their way through her
body and centered on some seat of ecstasy deep down within her. His
tongue found her navel again, and his mouth circled around the gentle
curve of her belly before dropping lower once more, to the soft hair of her
mound, and then suddenly, for an instant, plunging into the warm opening
of her yoni and the small bud of her clitoris there, now firm with her
arousal. Molten flame seemed to shoot through her and she cried out and
lifted herself, seeking him. But he withdrew and shifted position, quickly
now, settling himself between her legs facing her. She felt a powerful hand
moving beneath each thigh, then up and around, opening her legs to give
him full access to her. Her hands were tied; she could do nothing. He
paused for a moment, savoring the scent of her arousal, then he lowered
his head between her thighs.
Oh, sweet Goddess, she knew what was coming, and yes, yes, there
it was, his mouth and lips and teeth and tongue, everywhere, now that

41
every part of her yoni was singing with want and need; not just the special
places, her clitoris and just inside, but also the full lips around her opening
and her mound and the sensitive inner thighs and deep inside as well. And
he knew them all and just what to do, and he was sending her farther and
farther into a molten sea of ecstasy. She cried out and lifted, seeking to
press herself into that questing tongue that was moving in and up and
around. All her feeling was turned inward; there was nothing, no city, no
queenship, only the rising intensity brought on by what he was doing.
Then, with cool mastery of her body, just when he felt the
beginning of the final involuntary contractions, he drew back. And then,
maddeningly, he began again kissing and licking below her belly and on her
thighs, but only circling what was now the volcanic fire in her yoni, holding
her hips firmly so that she could not even writhe with desire. He slowed
and became gentler and more caressing, almost soothing, so that her
breathing began to slow a little and the writhing spasms of her hips and
thighs grew less urgent and intense, although the fire still burned within
her, the wanting and the need.
But just when that need was about to lessen, he plunged his tongue
again into her yoni, pushing her once more to the edge of the precipice of
her orgasm, then withdrawing again, leaving her almost weeping in
frustration. She tried to control or even still her response, but it was
hopeless. How many times more would he do this to her?
Then, just as she expected him to pull away again, suddenly he
wasn’t withdrawing, he was taking her over the edge. All the tension that
he had masterfully, even devilishly, kindled and stoked in her was now to
be released. He was driving it to be released, demanding that it be released,
his fingers thrusting savagely into the soft flesh of her buttocks and
opening her thighs so that his now ravaging tongue and lips could plunge
deep into her.
In all her experience of lovemaking, she had never felt anything

42
like this; had never known it was possible to feel anything like this. She
cried out again and again, her breath coming faster, the surging inside her
building and building. And suddenly it was there, a shuddering pillar of
molten fire that seized her and rose up her back, lifting her into a vast
space that seemed to burst out of her but was her, as she spasmed into a
total, absolute climax.
∞ ∞ ∞
In her chamber down the hallway from the queen’s rooms, Nahar’s
lady-in-waiting awoke to the sound of her cries. She smiled. Such sounds
were not unknown to her. She knew the depths of her mistress’s passion,
and it was not unusual for the young queen to pleasure herself in the hours
of the night. But seldom, if ever, had she heard cries like this. Poor thing,
she thought, it must be the strain of the siege and the burdens it places upon her. She
smiled again, glad that her queen could at least find this release.
∞ ∞ ∞
Nahar lay on the bed taking deep slow breaths as sensations
tumbled over her like the aftershocks of some cataclysm. Timur sat back
and looked down at all the lovely length of her, lying relaxed, completely
open in the afterglow of her orgasm; head to one side, lips slightly parted,
hair fanned out about her head. At the sight of her thus, he was tempted
to throw all restraint aside, but he held back. Here was a human female not
just to be enjoyed but to be savored in the enjoying. He brought a delicate
finger down one of her arms to trace the curve of her breast and was
rewarded with a slight shudder from her, a small sharp intake of breath.
She floated, suspended, but her body was still alive, still almost painfully
sensitive, still yearning. The fires of her passion were still smoldering, not

43
yet extinguished, ready to burst once more into flame.
He began touching her. Tremors rippled across her belly and loins,
accompanied by little gasps of breath. “My hands,” she whispered. “I want
to hold you.” With a few deft moves he released her. Her hands freed, she
clutched at him, pulling his mouth back to her breasts. When his lips
touched her again, she moaned, drowning in his mass and warmth. And
now there came an indescribable desire to feel his lingam inside of her. She
wanted him to take her and use her carelessly, for his own pleasure, to feel
him rising in excitement as she had done, feel him spasm into release inside
her.
Timur could sense what she wanted by the way she moved herself
against him. She raised herself up to meet him as he plunged himself into
her. How good, how wonderful it felt, to surrender to his power and its
urgency. But his caress remained still expert. He continued to play her body
like an instrument, varying his depth and rhythm, at times inciting her, at
others consuming her, until at last, when her second orgasm came, it was
as powerful as the first, although different in quality in the way she wanted,
his passion blending with hers this time. But still he was not finished with
her. He kept her going through the long watches of the night, ecstasy piled
upon ecstasy, until at last, spent himself, he lay quietly beside her.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered out of her half sleep, now far
beyond shame or caring. The Mrrrg laughed. “Dawn comes, and I must
take the road back whence I came, else thy servants will take me down
another one far less pleasant. But thou wilt see me again. That I promise.”
He laughed again, and then he was gone, and Nahar fell once more into
deep sleep.

44
Seven
IT WAS DAWN OF ONLY THE SECOND day of the siege. The people
of Samandal girded themselves for the demands of the day, but once the
Mrrrg army had encircled the city things became strangely quiet, almost
tranquil. The Mrrrg as yet had made no move. In the royal palace, Nahar’s
ladies left their queen to sleep late. They were sure the trials and exertions
of the prior days had exhausted her.
It was nearly noon when she finally stirred. Still mostly asleep, she
stretched languorously, a soft smile contouring her full lips. Then
consciousness returned, and with it, sudden memory. The queen shot
upright in her bed, clutching the silken sheets about her naked body. What
nightmare had she had? But wait, no, it was no dream! Her body and the
bedsheets gave material proof of that—and there was even the black silken
tie that had held her hands, dangling from the head of the bed.
A flood of emotions cascaded over her, confusing and
contradictory to the point of incoherence. She had betrayed her city, her
House, and her crown, she had yielded herself to the Mrrrg! By what
sorcery had he gained entrance to her palace chambers—for sorcery it
must surely have been? But more, what madness had seized her? Then, like
plunging into cold water, she realized the depth of her betrayal, even her
treason. She could have called out and, as simply as that, Timur, the
chieftain of the Dragon Horde, would have been slain or taken and

45
Samandal saved. Why had she not done so? Her body and her heart
answered: it was as the Mrrrg had said. She was already surrendered,
already his, beyond duty or loyalty or shame.
Above all, dwarfing all other considerations, was a realization that
was at once shattering and incomprehensible: somehow, she knew Timur—
knew him with a recognition that was absolute and undeniable. This was
something far beyond the alchemy of their physical intimacy, as
extraordinary as that had been. She knew him as well as she knew herself;
knew him, almost, as part of herself. This sudden but undeniable
recognition—a recognition that they somehow belonged to each other—
towered over everything else in her life and turned it on its head. Her
queenship, the duties of state, the web of relationships that defined her life
in Samandal, were as nothing compared to this.
What madness that this had all happened so quickly! Was this love
she felt? But that would be madness compounded, madness piled upon
madness! Love? That which she had sought and for the sake of which she
had denied her suitors? But with a Mrrrg? More, with this Mrrrg—a ruthless
conqueror of cities who was a mortal threat to everything she held dear
and for which she as queen was accountable? Who had taken her unawares
and ravished her in the night? No, she told herself. It was impossible! But
her heart said otherwise.
And how had he known? She marveled at the cool certainty of his
mastery over her, that he should so have left her free to call out. He was
an enemy, an enemy of her city and her race, and yet she knew she had
compromised and betrayed more than her city and crown. What would her

46
people think if they knew? What would Bahadur and the others think? She
knew, of course she knew! She was not only a traitor, she had been polluted
in their eyes as soon as she was taken by the Mrrrg, queen or no. She was
tainted, an affront to their honor. And how much more so if they knew
she had given herself completely, willingly, and wantonly to Timur’s
embrace? They would despise her, cast her out at the very least.
Then she thought, What if he should come again? She recalled his last
words. Full of threat, or promise? At the thought of his return, it was as if
the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Her hips made an involuntary
movement in remembrance of him. She knew that if he came again, she
would not call out. But still she struggled against the knowledge, just as she
struggled against the knowledge that she and Timur somehow belonged to
one another, a knowledge as certain as her knowledge of her own
existence.
“Majesty?” The sound of a voice startled her. She looked up,
confused, guilty. But it was only Selema, one of her ladies-in-waiting,
looking solicitous and concerned.
“Shall I prepare your bath, Majesty? There will surely be a council
of war called today.”
She nodded and stood, resolutely putting her thoughts and the
turmoil of her emotions aside. The demands of duty, so often burdensome,
now promised the comfort of being able to forget what had happened—
what was still happening—to her.

47
∞ ∞ ∞
Timur, paramount chief and warlord of the Mrrrg, twirled the
pommel of his great war sword in the thick fingers of his heavy, gnarled
hand. He had enjoyed the previous night as much as he had planned—but
there was a great deal more to it than that, something he had not planned
on and had never felt before. It had all come upon him so quickly that he
could not understand it. Even now, he could feel something that seemed
to be flowing back and forth between them, him and the queen,
intertwining them. He took hold of himself. He was Timur and must guard
himself against these emotions. These human women were for pleasure
only, he must remember. Above all, he must not appear weak before the
Horde.
He stood and strode to the side of his tent, where his wizard slept
the sleep of the dead. The Cloud Path, the magickal means which had
enabled Timur to enter Samandal through the hyperspaces that separated
and contained space and time, was among the most exhausting of
sorceries. Timur had meant to use it only once in this siege, but the queen’s
dance had changed his plans. Still, he must take care not to use up the
strength of his wizard entire. He pondered, thinking over the ways he could
reward Grihatsmad. But for now, let him rest.
∞ ∞ ∞
For Nahar, the day passed as if in a fog. Rashtra and Bahadur and

48
her other advisors, seeing her distraction, put it down to womanly
timorousness in the face of the threat of the Mrrrg and treated her with
patient sympathy. The Mrrrg remained strangely quiet. They undertook no
entrenchments, lines of circumvallation, or other techniques of siegecraft.
Rashtra, as Ketuman before him had, put this down to their
unsophistication as mere raiders.
The myriad details of administering to the welfare and defense of
Samandal under siege kept Nahar and her councils busy all of the day. For
the queen, it remained a useful distraction: by throwing herself into the
work she could forget her emotional and mental turmoil and uncertainty
for a time, keeping them at bay with the necessities of her tasks.
But finally, the workday drew to a close. She had dined—alone, by
choice—and with nightfall she was by herself. Then was all composure
gone. Standing on her ornate balcony, watching the moon rise, the young
queen felt her heart tossed by the turmoil of her emotions. The guilty secret
of the Mrrrg lord’s visit must remain that—a secret—so she was
heartbreakingly alone in the trouble of her soul.
As night drew on, the walls of duty and resolution threatened to
collapse before the flood of her insane exquisite longing for the Mrrrg. She
dreaded the thought of his return, but what horrified her was that her body
so yearned for it. From where she stood by the marble balustrade, she
could look over the surrounding desert where the purple-red glories of the
sunset illuminated the light-points of the campfires of the besieging Mrrrg
army. Standing there in a diaphanous nightgown that caressed the exquisite
contours of her body’s form, the midnight luxury of her hair cascading

49
down her back, she thought of him and what he had done to her, what he
had claimed of her, and what she had finally fully given him. She felt her
shoulders lift back and her sweet young back arch, as if offering herself to
him once more. Then, remembering herself as who she was, queen of
ancient Samandal, she turned from the edge in an agony of conflict, terror
and shame and desire rending her, forcing tears from her eyes. “No,” she
whispered, “No!” She could not, would not, submit to her body’s betrayal,
the betrayal of her House, of her city and people, of her own royal estate.
She turned back to her large canopied bed. The night was softly
warm and comfortable, so that her great bedchamber was open to the air—
open to him, she thought, then suppressed the thought. Then another
thought came, chilling her: What if he does come again? Once again, she
thought of ordering up guards. But how could she explain without
confessing her guilt? Again, as so often of late, her thoughts turned to the
lost figure of the dead minister, to whom she could always turn for wise
counsel. But then, she was not sure that she could confide this trouble,
with its weight of shame, even to him.
It seemed as if her soul was stretched to breaking between the two
poles: one her yearning that he should come again, the other the fear that
he should come, and on its side the ragged shreds of her better self, the
resolution that if he should come, she should call her guards and have him
taken.
She wept, until finally she slept.

50
Eight
DAWN CAME, and with it the second day of Nahar’s despair, for Timur
had not come to her in the night, and she was filled with hurt and yearning.
Is this love? she thought to herself, and she supposed in some sense it was.
And then, in misery, Does he no longer want me?
But the other part of her, the queenly part of her, the virtuous part,
rallied and, as it were, tried to turn her heart-longing back to sanity and
duty.
Seeing once more to the myriad tasks of maintaining Samandal
against the siege, the queen strove to put all thoughts from her mind but
duty. She conducted her work with a stoic dignity. And again the hearts of
her people and nobility went out to her, seeing her youthful beauty and
courage. They little suspected the true cause of her serious, almost stern
visage: the turmoil that seethed within her.
Bahadur, assiduously avoiding mention of his own feelings, sought
her out and with sympathy and care spoke to her, telling her that she
should not worry and offering to do what he could to help her bear her
burdens.
What can he know of my burdens? she thought bitterly after he had
bowed himself out of her presence. What would he think, what would any of
them think, if they knew the truth? That their brave young queen was coupling with a
creature of a non-human race? The Mrrrg are regarded as hideous. What would the
noble Bahadur think if he knew how his queen longed for one’s embrace? And what if
they somehow take the city? He said that they would. What of the fate of my people?
What of me, then, desiring their conqueror, the destroyer of Samandal and its freedom?

51
Yet when the darkness came, she called no guards to her room.
It was another warm night, and she dressed simply in a sheer white
robe open at the sides and gathered at the waist with a light silver chain.
She lay on her stomach on her richly appointed bed, resting on her elbows
as she looked out over the evening. Silence once more from the Mrrrg. She
stood and went to the balcony. Unbidden, her hands moved down over
her waist and lingered beneath the soft roundness of her belly. She closed
her eyes, remembering.
Then her hand dropped, and she turned around. There he was.
Squat, massive, his arms and legs thick like tree limbs displayed by the short
sleeves and knee-length tunic he wore. He had come again, as she had
known he would. He wore no weapon. How confident he was of her, and
of his power over her!
And she would not call for guards. All thoughts of duty were gone,
swept away by her feelings of, somehow, supremely and utterly being his.
She faced him, her expression still and composed. Her eyes gazed levelly
into his. Neither of them said anything, only the space between them was
filled with an energy of attraction and recognition that was almost tangible.
She opened her robe and let it fall to her feet, facing him in all her
naked splendor, as it had been written in the ancient books of praise to the
goddess—udyad bhanu sahasrabha—she who is as radiant as a thousand suns
rising together. So were the beauties of her face and body, uniting firm line
and lush curved contour in a perfection of harmonious balance. Her full
lips opened slightly as she took in a sighing breath. Her hands were held
loose at her sides, her back was erect and proud, and she concealed nothing
from him. But a vulnerable, searching look came into her marvelous eyes
as she watched the Mrrrg lord.
She crossed the space between them, step by step, until she stood
close before him, so that the warm dark nipples of her breasts barely
touched the massive planes and contours of his mighty, deep chest. He

52
stood without moving.
She placed her hands on his chest, and then, with a sudden motion
of fluid grace, she dropped to her knees before him. This he had not
expected. Conquest was one thing, this wholehearted surrender something
else again.
The queen’s slender fingers freed the rigid shaft of his lingam from
his clothing, and he gasped as she took the whole length of him into her
mouth and began working her head back and forth, clamping her lips
around the engorged shaft. In truth, Nahar had always enjoyed this way of
pleasuring a man, for it left her in full control. Now she took full revenge—
sweet for both of them—for the way he had tormented her on the first
night. She toyed with the Mrrrg warlord, sometimes licking the shaft, then
using lips and tongue on the hypersensitive head or suddenly taking him
deep. Finally, with a hoarse cry, Timur took hold of the heavy dark masses
of her hair in one big hand as he rammed his hips against her face. Nahar
could feel the throbbing urgency in his lingam, and his growing excitement
thrilled her and contributed to her own growing arousal. As his thrusts
grew more urgent, she knew he was approaching the point of no return.
But then all at once he withdrew himself from her mouth and, reaching
down, grasped her by her upper arms and lifted her to her feet.
She had not been mistaken. It was as unbelievably ecstatic as the
first time, sweetened even more for her by the uncertainty of waiting, and
also because this time she was more active in their love play, using her
hands and mouth and body in ways she had never imagined and that the
Mrrrg found astonishing. She gave herself completely, holding nothing
back, her position and place in life forgotten, all forgotten except that she
was loving this intruder, nay, this invader, with her entire heart and soul
and body.
She ended by straddling him. Driving herself onto him while her
hips writhed, her firm round thighs drove her up and down, her breasts

53
swung and bounced, and her marvelous hair swirled about her. Her
shamelessness was absolute, a high lady of the blood royal—a queen—
giving herself to a Mrrrg. For the nobles of her city, men and women both,
she had reached the ultimate degradation. Had they seen her, lush body
moving up and down on that of the Mrrrg, they would have responded
with disgust, contempt, and abhorrence. Surely it would have cost her
crown, if not her life. But she was long past caring. . .

54
Nine
. . . until morning came, when things took on a different hue. Perhaps that
other part of her, the part raised to honor and duty and service to her
House and people, rose up with redoubled force in the face of the
overwhelming passion for Timur which had suppressed it and brushed it
aside. Perhaps, but who can know the depths of a woman’s soul? In any
case, when she awoke alone, Timur having left her by whatever sorcerous
paths he traveled, her body filled with the delicious languor of a night of
surpassingly satisfying lovemaking, that other part rose within her with a
determination as hard as steel.
It was not that her impassioned thralldom to the Mrrrg was
banished from her heart or body. Rather it was as if locked in a cage forged
by her will and sense of duty, so that like an imprisoned bird it beat against
the bars of its confinement. Her heart seemed at times like to burst with
her longing, love, and desire, but she drew upon the resolve that came of
her warrior forebearers and kept it in its place, her face cold, stern, and
unsmiling. She was resolved. This madness that had overcome her was at
an end. No matter what the grief and heartbreak, she was Nahar, queen of
Samandal, and she would do her part.
And so, while that part which had capitulated totally to Timur
struggled within her, she called Bahadur to her. Assuming a somewhat
shamefaced attitude, she explained to the captain of her Guards that the
pressures of the siege were indeed leaving their mark upon her. She was
having trouble sleeping, and foolish though it seemed to be worried within
her palace, nonetheless she would feel reassured if guards were mounted

55
just outside her chambers. She likened it to a child’s wishing to have
candles burning in the night against the fear of the dark.
Bahadur was more than willing to obey this request, for it was
placed in that wise much more than as a command. That she, a woman,
would be thus fearful in these circumstances accorded well with his ideas
of femininity.
“I understand completely, Majesty,” he said. “Your Guards will
deem it a great honor to so provide for your precious sleep and make it
more restful. I myself will take the first watch.”
Nahar’s stomach went ice cold at the thought of it being Bahadur
who would answer her summons to take or (Gods, could she even think
it?) kill Timur when he came again. But holding to her iron determination,
she kept her feelings under control and smiled her thanks.
That night, sitting on her bed in the torchlight, she was unsure she
could even sleep. She was sure that Timur would come again, if not tonight
then surely within a few days. She thought he could not long forbear to
taste the sweetness that she had given them both. But now she dreaded his
appearance and sat with her knees pulled up against her sweet young body
under the bedclothes in an agony of divided feelings, loyalty against love,
duty against desire. Finally, in the late watches of the night, she drifted into
an uneasy slumber.
It seemed she had hardly fallen asleep when she awoke to tumult.
At first, her heart in her throat, she thought it was Timur somehow alerting
the guards, but then it came to her that the noise was more general, loud,
mixed, and chaotic. She heard cries from throughout the city, shouts of
fear and of battle, and the ringing clash of weapons. She leapt from her
bed and almost collided with one of her guards, not Bahadur.
“My Queen!” he cried, his eyes wide. “The Mrrrg are within the
city walls!”
At this incredible announcement, Nahar fell back, even as a

56
horrible suspicion began to form in her mind. Determined, however, to
meet what fate held as best she could, she called for her armor.
The sounds of battle and the cries of the fighting and the
conquered rose ever louder as she stood in the council chamber to take
the report of a bloodied Bahadur in rent armor, who had left the battle at
her summons to tell her how things stood. What he said confirmed her
worst fears. Like those of all cities and fortresses, Samandal’s great walls
were pierced in a few places by postern gates. Small and set in concealed
locations, these doors were designed to allow those within the city to come
and go inconspicuously or to serve as sally ports for sorties against
besiegers such as the Mrrrg. Though small, they were thick, iron shod, and
well-guarded as a matter of course. But because of the losses in the battle
before Astana, Samandal’s garrison was spread thin, and the postern gates
had been guarded by fewer men, and those drawn from among the ones
older or younger than the prime age of fitness for battle.
As far as Bahadur could tell from the confused reports of
survivors, in the depths of the night a single powerful Mrrrg warrior had
appeared suddenly inside the city wall next to one the postern gates. Some
even said that it had been Timur, the lord of the Dragon Horde himself.
Of course it was, thought Nahar with a sinking heart. Whoever he was, he
was a mighty and savage fighter and, coming on the postern guards
unawares as they lounged sleepily by the door, he cut them down in one
instant and had the heavy oaken door open in the next. Outside were
waiting a picked band of Mrrrg warriors, all as ferocious as the first. Swift
and silent as wolves, they sped along the city wall and its bordering streets
until the came upon the Great Gate of Samandal. There the scene at the
postern was repeated, the Mrrrg falling in fury upon the gate’s guards from
behind, taking them by surprise and slaughtering them almost before they
could take up their arms. In less time than it took to tell they had the Great
Gate open from within, and with a roar the main force of the Dragon

57
Horde waiting outside poured into the city.
The Mrrrg had already outnumbered Samandal’s army before the
battle at Astana. Against their furious numbers, the much-reduced garrison
of the city had no chance once they were within the walls. Bahadur looked
at his queen through eyes filled with shock and despair. “Majesty,” he said.
“I fear the city is lost.”
Yes, thought Nahar, and it is I who have lost it! A flood of bitterness
and shame overwhelmed her. Fool! she thought. Stupid, lovesick fool! Had it
never occurred to her that the same magicks that had brought him twice
to her bed could bring him anywhere inside the city walls? All her sense of
royalty and pride seemed to fall in pieces around her as she sensed the full
depth of her betrayal of duty and trust. The night was filled with cries, and
among them she could hear the wailings of women, women of her city
being forced already to the invading Mrrrg’s pleasures.
The young queen’s heart filled with bitterness. Yet, in truth,
beneath the bitterness, like an underground stream, ran the deep current
of her devotion to the Mrrrg. It ran beyond all sense and sanity, especially
now that she was forced to behold her own negligence, treason now,
against her city. Yet despite even that she felt herself belonging to Timur.
She began to don her armor. A useless gesture, she thought bitterly.
Even as she arrayed herself, she heard a booming at the palace gates, sure
sign that the Dragon Horde, having overrun the city, was now assaulting
her palace, the last central citadel. She went to the Great Presence
Chamber. There she found Bahadur and some three score of her Guards—
the picked young men of Samandal’s noblest families, battered now and
desperate, many with bandaged wounds, all with bloodied weapons.
Samandal’s best had obviously fought mightily in defense of their young
queen. And with that thought came another to her: Would that I were worthy
of their valor.
Before she could speak to them, the great doors to the hall burst

58
asunder and in came a wave of howling Mrrrg. The side doors, too, were
forced, admitting more from both directions. She and her guards were
outnumbered and trapped.
Bahadur turned to her. “Majesty, we will all sell our lives dearly in
your defense, but I am afraid all is lost and in the end we shall be overborne
by their numbers. Perhaps it would be better if you were to make certain
now that you do not fall into their hands. It would be my honor to serve
you in this, and I promise I will be swift. “
It took her a moment to understand what Bahadur was saying, that
he would himself kill her to prevent her falling alive into the hands of the
Mrrrg, and then he and the others would go down fighting, defending her
body. It would be an end in the finest traditions of Samandal. An end such
as her father would have made.
Having entered the great hall, the Mrrrg had stopped, facing in
silence the guardsman gathered around the dais with the High Seat and
their queen. Nahar looked across the room at the great figure who stood
at the head of the Mrrrg warriors. It was Timur. She searched out his face,
seeking to make contact. But his eyes within his great helmet were
expressionless as they looked upon her.
She realized that, no matter what, she did not want to die. And she
had proven herself unworthy of the sacrifice of these noble young men of
her Guards. They deserved better. More, they were the flower of
Samandal’s nobility, her pride and the promise of her future. If it were
possible, they should survive. She had already given Timur everything that
she could otherwise have used to bargain for their lives, and she sensed
that an offer of her body would be disregarded by the Mrrrg warlord in
any case. But he had loved her, and there was a chance, at least, that he
would spare her Guards and others of her city for her sake. She knew it
was a chance she must take. It was a possibility of survival for some of the
noble blood of her city against the certainty of its final destruction if she

59
did what Bahadur wanted. Resolution followed quickly upon her decision.
“No, Captain,” she said, “We will surrender. Lay down your arms.”
Bahadur stared at her in disbelief. The others of her Guards who
had heard stirred and turned to look back at her, equally aghast.
She spoke to them of her reasoning.
“You are the last of Samandal’s noble blood. You are the future of
our city and you must live to fight for that future, no matter what. One day
you must free our people from these Mrrrg, but you must live to do so. I
will find a way to keep you from harm.”
Bahadur stood still as stone, except for his head, which he shook
back in forth in bitter denial. “No, Majesty,” he said, “I cannot and will
not allow you to become—”
Her eyes blazed with anger, and all the royal command of her line
entered her voice. “You will not allow?!” she flared. “Captain Bahadur, I
am your queen, and I have given you a queen’s command, and you will
obey it!” She swept her glance over the encircling guardsmen. “All of you,”
she ordered, “lay down your arms!”
Without even looking to see if they obeyed, she strode through
their ranks to stand before them, directly facing Timur across the expanse
of the hall. At first they were shocked to immobility. Then, slowly, they
began to drop their weapons to the floor. From the waiting Mrrrg came a
low muttered growl.
Nahar faced Timur. His face was still unreadable.
“My Lord Timur!” she cried. “I, Nahar, queen of Samandal, yield
to you myself and my city, since we are overmastered in trial of arms. I beg
of your mercy that you spare the lives of my people, and of these my loyal
guardsmen!”
With a graceful, flowing movement she fell to her knees, then lifted
her arms before her the wrists crossed in the ancient token of submission
and surrender.

60
Timur’s face was still as if set in stone. The murmur among the
Mrrrg grew in volume. They sounded like beasts cheated of their prey.
Then Timur spoke.
“Silence!” he roared, and the hall grew still. Then: “Take them!”

61
Ten
THE CITY OF SAMANDAL HAD FALLEN, and Timur, paramount
chieftain and warlord of the Dragon Horde, had decreed that the Mrrrg
should celebrate with a great victory feast, and that this should be done in
the the High Presence Chamber of the kings and queens of Samandal. This
was the same great hall where Nahar had surrendered herself, and the
Mrrrg deemed it fitting to celebrate their triumph in the place where it had
been sealed by her submission.
The High Presence Chamber was renowned across the Inner
Regions for its beauty and grandeur. Its dimensions were fixed to the
sacred ratio that expresses the perfect beauty of the Great Goddess. That
ratio defines a spiral, and at the precise point on the floor where the
spiral would have its center was set a dais, and upon it stood the twinned
thrones of Samandal’s king and queen. Nahar had ruled alone, so only
one throne had occupied it during her reign. But for this night of festival
there would again be two, for Timur would sit upon one as Samandal’s
conqueror while Nahar occupied the other as his prize captive and the
trophy of his victory—and that of the Mrrrg.
The dais reposed amidst the sublime splendor of the Presence
Chamber. One wall opened onto the gardens and fountains of the
palace’s courtyard and was divided into sections of pink latticework stone
interspersed with fine blue tile, curiously worked and bearing inlay of
sacred words of power and protection inscribed in letters of gold. These

62
sections rose to three-quarters of the chamber’s height, where they were
surmounted by windows of stained glass. Down this side of the hall there
marched seven great pillars of rose-colored marble, one for each of the
Great Houses of the city, and it was partly in reference to these that the
Great Houses were also called the Seven Pillars of Samandal. Within the
veins of the marble were set small gemstones, each column bearing the
gem that was the sign of its House: citrine and diamond, ruby and
emerald and coral, pearl and garnet. When the sunlight, softened by the
stained glass and latticework of the facing wall, shone upon these pillars,
the reflected glow of the gemstones blended into a soft, clear light that
spread throughout the hall, touching everything and rendering it
luminous.
But now it was night, and illumination was provided by flames in
burnished bowls, some set on high stands and others suspended by
chains from the vaulted ceiling, and the ethereal beauty of the Presence
Chamber was placed in subjugation to the brutal and plundering hand of
the Mrrrg. Incense of cinnamon and musk, that incite to amorous display
and heated desire, wafted from the suspended braziers in shifting clouds,
harbingers of what form the celebrations of the victorious Mrrrg might
take.
Divans of cedar inlaid with coral and ivory and banked with rich
wine-colored cushions had been set out before long low tables. These
were thronged with chosen warriors of the Dragon Horde, those who
had distinguished themselves in the taking of Samandal or at the battle of
Astana. The best food and drink the city could offer weighed down the

63
tables, and the Mrrrg roared in delighted song. They were served by
chosen beauties of Samandal, girls drawn from the noblest families,
courtesans from the diyar al-awalim, and some even from among the
families of the merchants and guilds. These would try to shrink away
from their bestial conquerors whenever a heavy hand reached out to
stroke a passing thigh or bosom or encircle a lissome waist.
At one table, smaller than the others and set apart to give a view
of the entire hall, the Mrrrg had set Bahadur, loaded down with chains
but with enough play remaining that his hands could move freely to eat
and drink. A smoking platter heaped high with meat had been set before
him by a young noblewomen who dared not meet his eyes, along with a
goblet and a pitcher of wine. His privileged view of the hall was a
deliberate choice. Lord Rashtra had met a cruel end in the fighting and
Bahadur was now the ranking Samandal commander, so the Mrrrg had
thought to humiliate him by making him witness their feasting and
celebration. From time to time, one would approach his table and invite
him to eat and drink. Bahadur could do nothing but glare his hatred in
reply.
On one side of the chamber sat a group of female musicians,
glancing about in trepidation. A sick feeling grew in the pit of Bahadur’s
stomach as he began to sense what was planned here. His eyes were
drawn irresistibly to the dais that stood almost next to him, where Nahar
sat at Timur’s side. She was dressed in dark blue, but it was not her
accustomed sari. Instead she was wearing the simplest of costumes, one
that might be seen on any dancing girl of the city. Her hair was loose,

64
flowing in sea-waved black masses over her shoulders and down to her
lower back and arms, and curling about the breathing loveliness with its
sweet deep valley that was barely contained by a halter top. She wore no
jewelry but the snake bracelet on her arm and the golden circlet topped
by the phoenix symbol on her brow, the mark and sigil of the queen of
Samandal, though now marking her as spoil of victory for the Mrrrg. Her
belly curved enticingly down to the unadorned skirt riding low on her
hips, and the gap between its blue panels opened high up on her fine
rounded thigh. Bahadur had never seen so much of her lovely body
revealed. His heart constricted at the way the Mrrrg looked at her—at
how she, queen of Samandal, was shown half-naked to their gaze. He
ground his teeth in rage, shame, and frustration. Why had she not let
them all find an honorable death rather than this degradation?
On the dais, Timur and Nahar kept their faces impassive. But
each was intensely aware of the other’s presence and of the intertwining
energies that seemed to flow tangibly between them. Nahar had quickly
discerned how vital it was to make no sign that she was anything beyond
what these circumstances would dictate—a defeated queen forced to
endure the humiliation of her enemy’s triumph. Timur’s decision to
accede to her appeal and spare the lives of Samandal’s young warrior
aristocracy had not been without consequence. Hard upon her surrender,
word had gone out that fighting should cease throughout the city, and
this had caused consternation among Mrrrg and human alike, as both
were bent on a fight to the death. But they had obeyed.

65
For the Mrrrg especially this was hard to accept. Keeping alive
the mass of the population—the women and children along with the
skilled workers and tradesmen—was one thing: the Mrrrg had long been
accustomed to the taking, keeping, and trading of slaves. But the young
noblemen of Samandal were formidable fighters, and it would be they
who would instigate and lead any revolt, so it was simple prudence not to
leave them alive. Yet Timur had left them alive. He himself was not
certain why, but then he had no way of recognizing that he had fallen in
love with Nahar. Having lived the life of a Mrrrg warlord, how could he?
In any case, Timur had to avoid any suspicion of weakness of
feeling on his part toward the queen, as it had been at her entreaty that he
spared her followers. Nahar sensed what was planned here and the
reason for it: Timur needed to divert the bloodlust of the Horde away
from her warriors, and he needed to show that he was careless of her
fate. Above all, he needed to demonstrate that he had not spared them
out of any soft feelings for her. She guessed that she was to be given as a
trophy, her body to be used by select warriors of the Mrrrg. A part of her
even welcomed this as a fitting punishment for her treason.
Timur rose to his feet, commanding attention with a gesture. The
assembled Mrrrg quieted, looking toward their warlord with elated
anticipation. He spoke then, his powerful voice reaching to the ends of
the chamber as he lauded them for their victory. He was interrupted
often by cheers and laughter as he extolled the fighting prowess of the
Horde.

66
“The great lords of this city despised the Mrrrg,” he said, “and set
the might of the Dragon Horde at naught.” He was answered by a low,
rumbling growl. “But where are they now? Captive or slain all, and their
commander sitting prisoner at the victory celebration of the Mrrrg in the
great hall of their kings!” Here he gestured towards Bahadur, who glared
and clenched his jaw while the Mrrrg roared with approval, their heavy
hands pounding the tables.
“And behold, warriors of the Dragon Horde, their proud queen,
who has surrendered her city into our hands in recognition of our might
and power!” The uproar grew even louder. Nahar, in her exquisite
beauty, stared straight ahead, her face expressionless.
Timur motioned for quiet. The Mrrrg grew still, their eyes gleaming
in expectation. The warlord strode before his warriors, his every
movement redolent of arrogant pride and power. His eyes swept their
ranks and he lowered his voice.
“And consider, warriors. She has not only surrendered her city, but
herself.” The Mrrrg growled again, but now in anticipation.
Bahadur’s heart sank. He struggled uselessly against his chains.
Once more Timur’s eyes swept over the room.
“Gazbad!” he called out.
“Here, My Lord!, “ answered a deep voice. A huge Mrrrg warrior
stood. His face and limbs were scarred, and the wounds only intensified
the hideous savagery of his features. Like the rest of the Mrrrg at the
tables, he wore no armor for the celebration but was dressed in tunic and
full loose trousers, which nonetheless could not conceal the outsized

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