He faced another devastating scene.

The pellets the royal apothecaries had constructed hit the Wolf-Men. Once the distillate of mint and phosphorus mixed with fumes of jealousy and the acids of hatred that brewed inside the Wolf-Men, they erupted into lethal explosions.

With thunderous groans the beasts fell. Their masks cracked at the seams and scattered about. Fragments of flesh, hot gravel, and splatters of amber blood flecked the surroundings.

The Shah recognized the tribe of the Wolf-Men, who had thin blood, wiry red hair, and sun-starved faces. Their green, bulging eyes had no whites to soften the violence in them. Snout-like noses and flared nostrils emitted noxious gasses. Sharpened teeth glared in the sun. They came from wet and cloudy climates, where women did not cover their faces and were permitted to roam freely among men. They came from a kingdom surrounded by water and without fertile land to till and cultivate fruits and grains, so they plundered and invaded other worlds to pillage and sack their goods.

These were resourceful soldiers, the Shah realized. They concealed their faces to hide their identity, aware of the disadvantages of fighting the unknown.

Once again, the Shah faced Teymour the Lame. The king saw that his favorite had recounted the fact. Tears splashed down the warrior’s face and further handicapped him. The anger of the past apparent on him, the Shah kneed his horse toward the Tartar, and lunged. Blades clanged and rang in a furious clash. The king aimed his sword at Teymour’s right stirrup and severed the leather straps.

Teymour the Lame lost his balance, swayed on his saddle, wiped his eyes. Tears flowed down his cheeks and darkened his leather breastplates. His leg dangled against his mount. Prone on his horse, he goaded his mount into a canter down the valley and away from the Shah, where the Persians had gathered force again.

From his vantage, the Shah glared at the leaders of the Mongols, Arabs, and Teymour the Lame. This was his moment. All three warriors faced him. The Shah’s bow bearer reined his mount to an easy trot next to the king.

With no more time than the fleeting seconds of thought to act, the Shah felt his heartbeat begin to mount. He thought of his empire, of the constant invasions that had robbed her dignity, of the tribe of the Wolf-Men and their insatiable greed, and of the many years of lost youth in the Cage. His heartbeat accelerated. The falcons bowed their heads to their master’s chest. They flapped their wings against the leather straps. In three fast motions, he lifted the hoods off the falcons’ heads. A soft tune he whistled kept them in place. He pulled the brails, freeing their claws. The bow bearer recognized his cue. He aimed his bow. Three scented arrows shot toward their targets.