Free War of the Werelords by Curtis Jobling

parasol.
    When Djogo caught sight of Hayfa, it took his breath away. She was as beautiful as he recalled, their paths having crossed long ago. Her face was painted white, with dark hair piled atop her head, wrapped around and within a shining crown. A multitude of gems jingled and jangled from the crown, of all colors, shapes, and sizes, casting rainbows across her flowing white dress. Her court gathered at her back as she stood before Faisal, her executioner shifting nervously behind the kneeling Jackal, scimitar in hand.
    â€œHis crown, Your Majesty,” said one of the courtiers, stepping up to offer her the twined golden rope that a day ago had rested upon Faisal’s brow. Her look was dismissive, as if the Jackal’s crown were some beggar’s bauble.
    â€œI’m flattered that my impending death has drawn you out of your hole, Hayfa,” said Faisal, his rich, honey-toned voice commanding her attention. His toga was torn, his once-perfect face bloodied where the warriors of Ro-Shan had worked him over.
    â€œI’m a perfectionist, Faisal.”
    â€œYou’re a coward.”
    â€œI want to be sure you’re dead.”
    â€œSeeing my head on a longspear won’t be proof enough for you?”
    â€œIn a transitional time such as this for Azra, the last thing we need is your severed head for the people to rally behind. Your skull will be thrown into an unmarked pit in some sorry corner of Omir, along with your other body parts.”
    Djogo saw Faisal gulp. The Hyena turned to the former slaver and smiled.
    â€œAh, and here he is,” she said, stepping in front of him. “Kesslar’s puppet who fights for the Jackal. You’ve made quite an impression upon my army.”
    â€œI’m no longer Kesslar’s puppet,” replied Djogo, spitting into the sand at her feet. The Goatlord had dealt with the Hyena in the past. “I’m a free man, Hayfa.”
    She laughed, the sound musical and trilling as her courtiers joined her.
    â€œOf course you are.” She looked over his shoulder to the ropes that bound his hands together. “Freedom rather suits you.”
    â€œSave your breath, Djogo,” said another prisoner nearby. Vizier Barjin was Faisal’s closest adviser, a distant cousin to the king and much loved by all in Azra.
    Hayfa arched an eyebrow at him. “Vizier Barjin, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling as her executioner paced behind the row of prisoners.
    The old man sneered at her. “If you’re here to kill us, be done with it, and stop your infernal—”
    His words were cut short as the executioner’s scimitar descended, the vizier’s head tumbling into the sand at his knees. Gasps went up from the other prisoners, turning away from the horrific sight.
    â€œAll in good time, Vizier Barjin,” she said to the wide-eyed head in the sand. “All in good time.”
    â€œYour Majesty!”
    Both Hayfa and Faisal turned toward the greeting. A man in a bright green turban was waddling toward them, blue and emerald robes draped over fat arms as he waved and waggled his ring-laden fingers their way. Behind him a procession of armored men followed with a Denghi Longspear escort of Hayfa’s warriors flanking them on either side. They wore leather cuirasses that covered chest and upper thighs, an outfit Djogo recognized immediately.
    â€œQueen Hayfa, Light of Omir and Mother of the Sand!”
    Hayfa smiled smugly at Faisal as the colorful courtier approached, kicking up the sand and puffing his fat cheeks in his haste. Djogo heard the footsteps of the executioner behind him, saw the blood spatter the sand between himself and the king as the man flicked it from the blade.
Am I next?
    â€œWhat is it, Aldo?” said Hayfa, as the crowd approached under the watchful eye of her Longspears. “You would interrupt my business on this glorious day?”
    The man was groveling before he’d reached