Then he leaped on the horse and they rode away.
As they clattered past the startled villagers there was a thunderclap from the hill. A moment later there was another clapfrom a great distance, but louder, as loud as if the gods themselves had awakened.
Then the whole northern sky was a sheet of flame so hot the Demon Moon vanished in the brightness.
But they didn't look back. They didn't pause and wait for the sky to clear and see the molten place where the Grand Palace of Zanzair had once stood. Where kings had come and kings had gone since times most ancient.
And where the last kingthe King of KingsIraj Protarus, Lord Imperator of Esmir, greater even than the Conqueror Alisarrian, abode his destined hour and went his way.
Home was a thousand miles or more distant. But Safar could see it beckoning, a hazy, welcoming vision hanging just before his eyes.
He led them hard and fast across deserts and grasslands and wide rocky plains sprawling to the mountains of his birth.
To far Kyrania.
Where the snowy passes carry the high caravans to clear horizons.
The place he should never have left.
The place where this tale ends.