MEN TURNED AND LOOKED in Morg's direction, and gasps of recognition were heard from soldiers and cultists alike. And then he heard a name spoken. "Alomoadil." And he realized they were not looking at him at all.

Turning, he looked at the nude slave girl at his side. He stepped back, momentarily startled. She looked the same as she had but moments ago, yet moments ago, he had known her only as Lali. Yet now, inexplicably, he too recognized her as the princess he had glimpsed once or twice at a distance while in the city's army.

Lali was Princess Alomoadil.

He clutched his head, struggling with what was transpiring. It must have been a glamour of some kind. The prince had ordered his sister overthrown, and the old crone had, instead, secretly cast a glamour over her so that none would recognize her, and then she had given her to Lord Felsteff for his amusement, after first wiping the girl's memory clean. Had Lali not cryptically told him that she had been in Lord Felsteff's household for "as long as she could remember"?

And in that state, with no memory of her true identity, and with her will broken daily as a helpless slave girl, it would not have been hard for the old woman to gradually use her powers to control the girl's actions totally, when it suited her. Which explained Lali's sudden, uncharacteristic, rush for the Bloodstone of All Souls. And why she now strode, haltingly, toward the old sorceress, as though but a puppet, still unself-conscious of her nudity before these hundreds of her subjects.

Morg's lips curled in a feral snarl. He saw now that he had been manipulated all along, along with the girl. But why? What was at the heart of it? It mattered not, he decided. He reached out and grabbed the girl's arm. "Ho, Lali, or Alomoadil, or whoever you are -- you aren't yourself. That old witch has you ensorcelled."

Lali turned on him, and her cloudy eyes momentarily blazed with rage. "Unhand me, unclean dog of a northern cur!"

Morg smiled, then casually tossed Lali behind him. There were gasps from the soldiery, but no one made a move to intercede despite his manhandling their princess. Hefting his blood-stained sword, Morg grinned wolfishly at the old woman and strode determindedly toward her. "I don't pretend to understand all that has occurred, but I understand enough to know you owe me an accounting for all I've been through."

"Infidel!" hissed the old woman. "Think you to match your puny steel against the power of the Holy Majarahbii? You shall live to see your error...but only briefly."

She raised her hands and dust exploded out from around her feet, as though a wind erupted from nowhere. Her scrawny arms began to shimmer, her tattered robe to ripple. It was as though Morg was trying to view her through the heat distortion of a desert plain. Men fell back, hardened soldiers and fanatical cultists alike.

Then the woman began to swell, to grow; her skin coarsened. Long strands of white hair began to blister free from her skin. Someone screamed in horror. Morg watched as the old woman shimmered into a distorted form that ressembled a variation of the subterranean beast-men he had encountered earlier, but much larger, twice the height of Morg, and more ferocious. More terrible.

Momentarily stunned into immobility, Morg just stood there as a mighty arm swung out, cracking him across the chest, and sending him flying backward. He hit the hot, blood stained sand, rolled over a couple of times, then dragged himself painfully to his feet. Why that form? he wondered.

Obviously the woman must have had knowledge of the subterranean men, since she knew the tunnels well enough to direct Lali through them. But was it possible that she was actually one of the beast men? The original Ahbii was a figure half out of myth -- could it be that his legend dated from before the city's current inhabitants settled here? Could even the city dwellers not have realized that the legendary Ahbii was not actually human?

Or was this just an illusion? Perhaps drawn from Morg's recent memories? It was hard to know what was real and what illusion when dealing with the practitioners of the Dark Arts, Morg knew.

Illusion or not, Morg ducked as the woman/creature swiped a huge, taloned hand at him, barely missing ripping his head from his body. He jabbed up with his sword, nicking the thing's wrist, but nothing more. The thing howled and slammed her other fist down. Morg dove out of the way moments before he would have been crushed to paste. He barely hit the earth when a kick from the creature sent him tumbling end over end, almost impaling himself on his own sword.

Gasping for breath, Morg whirled about, his ribs bruised, possibly even broken, and blood seeping from lacerations across his back. The huge creature was wheeling about, ready to strike again.

Over to one side, Lali lay sprawled upon the ground, her eyes wide with terror, no longer under the old crone's control. Then Morg's eyes narrowed as he saw the gleaming ruby still clenched in the girl's hand. That was the only answer! They had both been maneuvered into a position by the old woman to where Lali could steal the ruby. He still had no idea why, but he had enough familiarity with sorcery to know that, if a sorcerer went to a great deal of effort to claim something, the best course of action was to make sure they did not get it.

On his knees, clutching his chest, Morg watched as the creature bore down upon him. "Girl!" he shouted. "The ruby! Princess, toss me the ruby!"

She stared dumbly at the hulking monstrosity as it charged across the square.

"Lali!" he roared.

Stirred from her shock by that name, the girl he had known as Lali looked at him, then slowly at the ruby in her hand. Without stopping to question, she threw it with all her might. It hit the sand before him, bouncing once, twice. The hulking creature was almost upon him, roaring incoherently. Morg raised his mighty sword and brought it down upon the ruby. The stone cracked and shattered, tiny shards scattering in every direction.

Instantly the white-furred creature screamed, clutching at its head. The shriek was like the death cry of a sea bird. Suddenly verdant flame erupted about her, but to Morg, who was closest, it was a flame that felt cold, not hot. The self-proclaimed Majarahbii writhed and screamed as the green tendrils of fire consumed her.

Within moments, there was nothing left. Not even ash.

An eerie silence flooded into the square in the aftermath of so much fighting and death. A dry wind sighed, but that was all.

Then, as if stirred from a dream, the cultists of Shalli broke and ran, scattering in all directions, their cause, perhaps their very religion, lost this day. Some soldiers made to stop them, most, though, were still paralysed with indecision.

Slowly, Lali -- or rather, the princess Alomoadil -- rose to her feet and stood in the centre of the square. Her kinky black hair spilled about her face in a wild, unkempt state, her ebon skin gleamed with sweat mixed with dust. Her naked body was more likely to incite lust than patriotism.

But, almost as one, the soldiers fell to their knees before her. One man tore a crimson cloak from a dead cultist and, with cautious reverence, draped it over her shoulders so that it covered her nakedness. Another brought forth the Band of Office, its carved ivory red with the blood of the dead boy who had erroneously proclaimed himself the Majarahbii.

Morg stumbled forward, grinning. It was not every day that a man took a slave girl to his bed, only to have her become a princess the next morning. "Well, girl," he chuckled, "I must say that-" A spear butt slammed into his stomach, doubling him over and sending him back down upon his knees.

"Address the princess with respect, outlander!" ordered one of the soldiers.

Morg looked up, glaring. "Careful with that, lad," he growled dangerously. "Or I'll feed it to you, sideways. Your so-called princess and I have an understanding that-"

"Silence!"

Startled, Morg looked at the beautiful young woman.

"Do not presume familiarity, barbarian," she said haughtily. "I know you not at all. Whoever you knew was a girl that no longer exists. I will forgive your transgression once. Not again."

Morg stared at her, then frowned. 'Presume familiarity'? he thought. Were those really the words been uttered from the same mouth that had moaned beneath him but hours ago, whose strong thighs squeezed about him? And if that girl no longer truly existed, why was it that calling her 'Lali' finally stirred the princess to action but moments ago?

A soldier came and knelt before her. "Your brother is dead, as are the Lords Felsteff, Muuba, and Dakhir. Lord Elltharash has fled. The cultists too have scattered."

"Their power is broken," she said, "let them flee. However, this city has seen too much strife caused by the actions of outsiders and interlopers." She turned her eyes, cold and imperious, upon Morg. "Have the barbarian taken to the city limits and sent on his way."

"What?" Morg roared. Was that all the thanks he would get for saving their damnable city? But as soldiers encircled him, he sighed heavily, realizing he was in no condition to make a fight of it.

And Storim be damned, he thought bitterly.

Back to Episode 9: I am the True Majarahbii!

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