“You four”—the commander gestured with his gauntleted hand— “stay with the men and occupy this place. You others will come with me. We ride at once. Follow.”
“But what is to be done with the prisoners, Most Excellent One?” called the messenger after the dark retreating form. The warlord did not turn nor look around, but the messenger heard the words drifting back to him.
“Kill them,” his commander said.
The room hung heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning incense, and clouds of aromatic vapor drifted about the great figure seated on a throne of silk cushions. Tiny colored birds fluttered and chirped in cages nearby, their songs accompanied by the soothing notes of a flute.
Presently, the tinkling ring of a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by a rustle of clothing. The gigantic form seated on the throne appeared to be asleep, for he did not move or acknowledge the intrusion in any way; the huge head rested heavily on the thick neck rising from massive shoulders and a great barrel chest. The meaty hands clasping one another in the wide lap remained motionless, thumbs pressed together.
“Immortal One, I have news,” said the minister who had just entered so quietly. He waited on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor, hands thrust before him, palms upward.
“You may speak, Uzla.” The voice seemed to fill the small room, even though the words had been spoken quietly.
“Your warlords have returned. And they bring tidings of victory. The cities of the coast are subdued.”
“Has a suitable residence been found for me?”
“Alas, no, Immortal One, these were but small villages, and none possessed a dwelling worthy of your being. For this effrontery the villages have been burned and the ashes scattered, lest the sight of them displease you.”
Nin the Destroyer looked darkly upon his most trusted minister. “This land will feel my wrath!” he shouted. The birds trembled in their cages, and the music stopped. Uzla, the prime minister, cowered below him on the floor.
“The wretches of this accursed land speak of many castles in the north, and one in particular which may serve your needs while you sojourn here to subject this land to your will.”
“What is the name of this palace?”
“It is called Askelon. It is the city of the high king of this land— one known as the Dragon King.”
“Ah,” said Nin softly. “The sound of these words pleases me. Say them again.”
“Askelon is the home of the Dragon King.”
“It will be my home, and I will be the Dragon King. This pleases me. I have never killed a dragon before—have I, Uzla?”
“No, my Deity. Not to my knowledge.” He hastened to add, “That is, unless in a previous life, of course.”
“Then I will look forward to that event with anticipation, and I will savor the moment of its accomplishment.” He stood slowly. “Now, where are my warlords?” Nin asked, his deep voice booming.
“They await you on the beach,” replied Uzla. “I will summon them.”
“No, I will go to them. They have achieved my desires and will be rewarded by the sight of their god drawing near to them.”
“As you command, Great One.”
Uzla bowed again and raised himself from the floor. He turned and withdrew to the hall, clapped his hands, and shouted, “The Deity walks! Kneel before him, everyone!” He went before his sovereign, clapping his hands and shouting the warning. Nin followed slowly, balancing his immense bulk upon ponderous legs.
As they reached a short flight of stairs that led upward to the deck of the palace ship, Uzla clapped his hands again, and eight attendants brought a throne on poles. They placed the throne before their king, and he lowered himself onto it. Then, straining every muscle, the chair bearers climbed the steps, careful to keep the throne level, lest they incur the wrath of their temperamental god. Soon they moved out upon the deck.
Two more attendants waited on deck with large shades made of brilliant feathers. As soon as Nin’s chair emerged out upon the deck, the huge, burly head was shaded from the bright sunlight of a beautiful summer day. The attendants swayed under the weight of their burden, but proceeded down a long ramp that had been erected out over the shallow water from the palace ship to the shore. The ramp terminated in a platform on the beach, forming a dais from which Nin the Destroyer could command his subjects.
At the sight of this procession moving slowly down the ramp, the four warlords dismounted and drew near to the dais, prostrating themselves in the sand. The chair bearers reached the platform and placed the mobile throne squarely in the center of the dais, beneath a broad canopy of rich blue silk. Then they withdrew to await their king’s command, kneeling with their faces touching their knees.
The blue silk ruffled in the soft sea breeze. Above the dais, gulls wheeled in the air and shrieked at the spectacle below. Nin raised his hands and said, “Arise, my warlords. You may look upon your Deity.”
The warlords, clad in their heavy armor, rose stiffly to their feet and stood shoulder to shoulder before their patron.
“I have seen your victory from afar,” Nin continued. “With my own eyes I witnessed the flames of destruction. I am well pleased. Now tell me, my commanders, what is the strength of this land? Is there an army to stand before the Destroyer’s blade?” He looked at the four fighting men and nodded to one of them who stepped forward slowly. “Gurd?”
The warrior struck his heart with his closed hand; the mailed fist clanked dully upon the bronze breastplate. His long straight black hair was pulled tightly back and bound at the back of his head in a thick braid.
Quick black eyes set in a smooth, angular red face watched Nin closely. “I have seen no soldiers in the south, Immortal One. The peasant villages were unprotected.”
“Amut.”
The warrior advanced. His gleaming head was shaved completely bald, except for a short bob of hair that he wore tied in a tight knot. On his cheeks and forehead were strange blue tattoos, and a ragged scar streaked from the corner of one almond-shaped eye to the base of a thick, muscular neck. “In the north we encountered no soldiers, Great One. The cowardly populace fled before our arrows like leaves before the storm.”
“Luhak,” called Nin, and the third warlord stepped forward.
Luhak touched his bearded chin with a brown hand. His head was covered in a helm of white horsehide that sprouted a short plume made from a horse’s tail at its crest. He was tall and lean, and when he opened his wide mouth to speak, a row of pointed white teeth flashed.
“I encountered but one village in the mountainous interior of this land, named Gaalinpor,” the warrior said. “No army could cross those mountains in surprise. We may turn our eyes elsewhere.”
“Boghaz.”
The last warlord, a towering black man whose features were hidden beneath the veil that covered the lower part of his face, revealing only his large, dark eyes, took his place beside the others. His head was encased in a horn-covered leather helmet, and he wore a breastplate made of flat disks of horn that had been linked together with iron rings. A long red cape fell from his shoulders to the heels of his black boots. At his side he carried, as they all did, a curious curved sword with a thin, tapering blade honed dagger-sharp on both edges.
“And I, too, have seen no soldiers. The villages offered no resistance, the blood of the stubborn ran red upon the ground, and their ashes ascended to heaven in your honor, Immortal Nin.” With that the black warrior touched his forehead and bowed low.
“What land is this which builds no walls around its cities and leaves the small villages unprotected? Here is wealth for the taking, my warlords. We will push north to Askelon, and there I will establish my palace, so that I may be comfortable while bringing this land under my rule.
“Go now and bring me word when the castle is mine, that I may come at once and take possession of what I desire. But do not make sacrifice of the king. I will have that pleasure for my own; his blood will flow for me a
lone. Hear and obey.”
The four commanders saluted Nin and backed away a few paces. Then they turned, mounted their horses, and galloped off together. Nin clapped his hands, and the attendants sprang forward to begin the laborious process of carrying their god back up the ramp and into the magnificent palace ship.
9
Heavy dew still clung to the leaves as the first rays of golden morning broke upon the countryside. Near the sea such dew was common, but it never ceased to delight Quentin when the sun struck each tiny droplet of moisture and turned it into a glimmering gem. Each hillock and bush seemed to acquire inestimable value.
Toli’s high-spirited horses, now well rested, pranced and jogged in the cool morning air. Quentin himself lifted his voice in a hymn to the new day. Toli, too, joined in, and their voices rang in the dells.
“Ah, it is good to be alive!” shouted Quentin, more for the joy of shouting than for the sake of conversation.
“This morning the saddle seems a friend to you,” called Toli, bouncing along behind. “That is not the impression you gave me last night.”
“In the morning the world is re-created. All things are made new— including saddles.”
“It is good to see you in such high humor. For the last three days one would have mistaken you for a growling bear—not that I noticed.”
Quentin seemed to ignore the remark, and they continued on as before, the trappings of the horses jingling brightly as they cantered along. “I have been under a shadow,” Quentin said at length. “It is good to be doing something—at least, I feel better for moving.”
“That is well for both of us,” replied Toli in his usual elliptic style.
The two riders approached and mounted the crest of a long, sloping hill. Here they paused for a short while and contemplated the road before them and the valley beyond, in the center of which lay the village of Persch.
“See how quiet it is,” remarked Quentin as he gazed at the scene below. “So peaceful. This is how it has been for a thousand years . . .” His voice trailed off.
“We will pray that it may remain so for another thousand,” answered Toli. He flicked the reins and started down the road, a thin dirt trail barely scratched in the long, thick green grass of the hills.
As they drew nearer to the seaside village, Toli grew tense with concentration. Quentin noticed the change in his companion’s attitude and asked, “What is it? What do those eagle eyes of yours see?”
“Nothing, Kenta. And that is what worries me. I see no one—no activity in the village at all.”
“Perhaps the people of Persch are late abed and late to rise,” Quentin said carelessly, attempting to maintain the mood of tranquillity that had just been shattered by Toli’s observation.
“Or maybe they have a reason for remaining behind doors on such a day as this, though that reason is certain to be born of fear.”
Quentin sighed. “It will not be the first time we have encountered such this trip.” He placed his free hand on the hilt of his sword and shifted it slightly to bring it into readiness. His eyes scanned the breadth of the town drawing slowly closer with each step. He saw not a sign of life, either human or animal, in the streets or on the road before them. Certainly that was strange. Ordinarily, the first rays of morning light would find the narrow little streets busy with citizens going about their daily chores. The merchants would be opening their stalls in the marketplace and the craftsmen their awnings. Farmers would be offering cheese and melons and eggs in exchange for cloth and various metal utensils. Wives would be carrying water from the well in the town square, and children would be scampering around corners and darting to and fro in noisy play while the village dogs barked and dodged their bare, sun-browned legs.
But this morning there was no such bustle and fuss. The empty streets seemed haunted by the echoes of childish laughter and the eerie absence of the villagers.
The riders entered the main street of the town, and Quentin heard the soft crush of horses’ hooves upon the tiny fragments of shells with which the people of Persch paved their streets. Quentin always thought that this gave all the seaside towns a fresh, clean appearance. This day, however, the whitened streets looked desolate, sepulchral.
No face appeared even fleetingly in a doorway or a darkened window. No sound could be heard, except the soft sea breeze blowing among the eaves; it whispered a note of utter loneliness.
“Everyone is gone,” observed Toli. His voice seemed to die in the empty air.
“I do not believe it. Everyone cannot have left. Someone must have remained behind. A whole village does not disappear—not without good cause.”
They reached the village square. It was an irregular rectangle formed by the fronts of Persch’s principal buildings: the inn, which was rumored to serve a most remarkable fish stew; the communal hall (since no noblemen dwelt in Persch, the citizens had erected their own great hall in which to observe feasts and holy days); the marketplace and the stalls of the vendors; the small temple and shrine to the god Ariel; and the dwellings of the craftsmen.
In the center of this rectangle stood a large well, and on a mound beside it an immense old cedar tree spread forth its shaggy limbs to offer shade to all who gathered there. Quentin and Toli drew up to the well and dismounted. Toli picked up a shallow wooden bucket which lay beside the stone rim of the well and dipped out water for the horses. Quentin filled a gourd and drank his fill of the cold, fresh water and then offered some to Toli.
“Hmmm,” Quentin mused, “not a sound, nor a sight. And yet, I feel that we are not alone.”
“Yes, I feel someone close by. I also feel their fear.” Toli replaced the gourd carefully and then motioned for Quentin to mount up again. Quentin did so with a questioning look, and the two rode the rest of the way through the village.
When they reached the last dwelling, Toli led them aside and whispered, “We were not entirely alone back there. I felt someone’s eyes upon us. Let us leave the horses here and go back by another way.”
They crept quietly along a pinched alleyway between buildings and soon made their way back to the square. There was nothing to be seen; it all looked just as it had only moments before.
“Well, it appears we should look elsewhere. Perhaps we should try one of the dwellings.”
“Wait but a moment and I will join you.”
Toli had no sooner finished speaking when they heard a slight scrabbling hiss, like that of a snake moving through dry sand. It stopped and started with a measured pace. They listened for a moment, and the sound seemed to diminish rapidly. It was then Quentin realized that someone had been very close to them, perhaps just around the corner of the same wattle-and-daub abode where they now crouched waiting in the shadows. The sound was the light, shuffling footfall of someone treading gently, cautiously along the shell-strewn path.
“He is getting away!” whispered Quentin harshly, and he dived around the edge of the dwelling in time to see a leg and a hand disappear behind an overgrown yew thicket.
“He is making for the basin!” shouted Toli. “We will catch him this way.” He pulled on Quentin’s arm and pointed behind them to where the narrow alleyway turned and started down as it became a path, like so many in the sea town, which led to the waterfront where the villagers kept their fishing boats.
Toli bounded away, and Quentin followed in his fleet steps. They tumbled down the path together and jumped down the rock steps placed in the side of the sandy hill that separated the town from the strand below. Ahead of them lay the basin, the small cove that formed the harbor of Persch; there, between two fishing boats resting with their black hulls skyward, a small skiff with a white, triangular sail had been thrust upon the sand. And hurrying nimbly along the sand toward the skiff ran the slight figure of a young man.
Quentin darted out onto the beach in pursuit. He ran a few paces, then stopped, raised his hand, and shouted, “Hold, sir! Stop! We mean you no harm! We only wish to talk.”
The figure half t
urned and only then saw the two men watching him. Though Quentin and Toli were still too far away to make out the features of his face, the effect of Quentin’s words was quite obvious. “You have frightened him!” called Toli as the figure on the beach lurched forward, stumbled, fell, picked himself up, and ran deerlike for the skiff. “Come on!” cried the quick-footed Jher, skimming over the sand.
The young stranger had reached the skiff and was shoving the boat into the water with all his might. It seemed to have caught on something, thought Quentin, or perhaps the tide had withdrawn somewhat since the boat had been left here, making it harder to push free.
But with the strength of desperation, the stranger succeeded in launching the small sailing boat and was thrashing through knee-deep water to turn the boat around before clambering in, fishlike, over the side.
Toli reached the water’s edge first and jumped in. Quentin plunged in after him, and both waded toward the boat. The stranger, paddling furiously with a long oar, cast a terrified look over his shoulder. Quentin noticed the compact frame and slim shoulders dressed in the leather vest and coarse-woven brown trousers worn by fishermen. The shapeless, floppy, soft hat, also traditional among the seaside dwellers of southern Mensandor, was pulled down low over the young face.
Quentin waded toward one side of the boat, and Toli splashed toward the other. The boat, despite the prodigious thrashings of its occupant with the oar, was not moving into the deeper water rapidly, and they had no trouble reaching it in quick strides.
Once they were within range, the oar whistled above their heads. Quentin tried to reassure the stranger, saying, “Be still, good sir! Desist! Ow!” as the wildly flailing oar came dangerously close. “We mean you no harm.”
As Quentin occupied the boy’s attention, Toli moved behind him toward the bow. The youngster turned and brought the oar down on the gunwale with a crack in the exact spot where Toli’s fingers had been only an instant before. Quentin, seeing the stranger momentarily off balance following the delivery of the blow, seized the stern with both hands and gave the boat a mighty, twisting shove. The young stranger gave a surprised yelp and, with arms flung wide and fingers clawing the air, toppled over the side headfirst into the water, the oar clattering to the bottom of the boat.
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