He came to his feet heavily, his face grim and sallow in the flickering, dim light. Something about the quiet, cathedral-like air of the vast, murmurous, gently-lit Control Center, with its soft-spoken, robed and priest-like attendants moving about on mysterious errands of their own amid this hushed shadowy silence, obscurely annoyed him.
“Tonguth—Shaman! Attend me in my quarters: we have matters to discuss,” he said abruptly, and stalked from the room, his cloak belling behind him like great wings.
The Warlord’s quarters were adorned with barbaric splendor. The wealth of a score of shattered worlds had been ravished by bloody hands to ornament his suite. In the domed ceiling, a sparkling chandelier of six thousand blue-white diamonds hung like a glittering, miniature galaxy of jeweled lights. Fabulous tapestries of pure gold thread, spun soft as silk by a secret process, whose secret was jealously guarded by the Blind Weavers of 61 Cygni IV, draped the wall. The walls themselves were paneled in rare, expensive winewood from the Garden Worlds of Further Perseus.
Carelessly strewn over chairs and couches were rich, fantastic-hued furs from Arlomma the Ice Planet. Low tables and taborets of exquisitely-carven silverwood stood about, scattered casually. Every square inch of their surface was worked into microscopic, elaborately sculpted friezes and designs by the six-armed Spider Men of Golnoth and Beldanarba. They bore gorgeous goblets of rare fruits, glitteringly jeweled platters of cold meats and pastries, so delicately spiced and sauced as to tempt even the most sophisticated gourmet of half a score of worlds.
Drask paid no attention to these fabulous luxuries. Snatching up a haunch of boarmeat, he paced and prowled restlessly, gnawing it, then tossing it aside to stain the glowing carpets from Valdorm.
“Sit, sit,” he muttered irritably, as his companions entered behind him. Tonguth gingerly lowered his fur-clad bulk, to sit tailor-fashion on bright cushions before a low food-laden table.
“Eat—drink—we have matters to solve,” Drask said.
Tranquilly seating himself in a tall chair of organic crystal, the shaman tucked both hands in his wide sleeves and watched Drask’s restless pacing with calm eyes in which contempt flickered momentarily.
Tonguth carved off a slice of Chadorian venison with his belt-knife, wiped the blade clean on his fur kilt, and sheathed the blade, pouring a goblet of red-gold Netharna ale. He waited patiently for his Master to speak his thoughts. Tonguth’s mind, in some ways as simple and single-purposed as that of the Warlord, also shared something of the detachment and philosophic calm of the shaman. He had the true barbarian’s indifference to future worries … the problems of the moment, the troubles here and now, sufficed to occupy his thoughts. He had, also, the barbarian’s iron patience, content to wait for future worries to come, rather than nervously anticipating them long before their inevitable arrival.
The ale and venison were delicious, and his long hours of sweaty labor in overseeing the loading of the fleet had made him famished. His obvious gusto as he attacked the food clashed with the Warlord’s nervous temper, more than did Abdekiel’s impassive tranquility.
“If you can leave your swinish guzzling, oaf,” Drask snarled, “we’ll get down to the matters impending. Shaman! You were present when that green bitch of Malkh dared voice her threats to me. And you know that every passing second of time carries us closer to the limit she set on our roving.”
“Yes, Great One.”
“Yonder black dog was whimpering in his kennel somewhere in the maze of Djormandark at the time, but he has doubtless heard. Three and one quarter light-years from Xulthoom, that is the distance! If we venture that far, She will strike, or so the voice declared.”
Tonguth wiped his greasy jowls with the back of his hand. “Yet you are going on, Master?”
Drask laughed harshly.
“Aye, by all the gods! Space cannot have two Masters—either I am Lord, or that female witch is Mistress. But what nags and niggles at my mind is why … why does She now, after centuries of silence and indifference, lift Her hand against the Rovers?”
“Lord, are we wise to continue on in the face of Her anger … ?” Tonguth ventured.
Drask exploded. “Are you wise to flaunt your puling cowardice in the face of my anger, you black-bristled pig?”
Red-faced, the hulking Chieftain scrambled to his feet, going for his sword.
“No man questions my courage—” he roared.
“You dare draw your steel to me, insolent dog?” Drask thundered, livid to the lips, one hand clawing for the butt of his deadly laser-gun.
“Anger solves no problems, my Lords,” Abdekiel’s cold, suave voice interposed, icy contempt scathing in his purring tones. Drask whirled, panting.
“None of your gutless maxims, you croaking vulture!” He lifted the jewel-set laser, its cold black eye staring at Abdekiel’s imperturbable face. The shaman lifted one soft yellow hand.
“You see what your enemies have brought you to, Lord Drask? Think. One of your chieftains lies rotting in the vaults of Djormandark Keep, dead by his own hand, palsied with terror—terror induced by either Calastor’s clever science, or Niamh’s age-old magic. Now you have been goaded to the brink of slaying two more of your councilors. Think, Lord!”
Drask subsided slowly, sinking across a great, canopied bed. He let the pistol drop, and gestured wearily for wine. Tonguth slid his blade back into its sheath.
“I beg your pardon humbly, Sire,” he began.
“Enough,” Drask said. “Pour me wine—and guzzle some yourself. Let us conserve our strength for battling our enemies. I am short of temper … but I am possessed by the feeling we are walking into a trap! Yet I dare not—cannot permit myself to show fear of this green monster. Has She allied herself with the powers of Parlion? If so, why—in the name of the Eleven Hells?”
He gulped wine thirstily, staining his purple leather tunic. Sloshing the liquor about in the half-empty cup, he stared moodily into it, as if he hoped to read therein the face of future things.
In the thoughtful silence that ensued, Tonguth blundered.
“The shaman here claims all Calastor’s magic is illusion and mirage, and such-like shadows of the mind. This Green Lady … perhaps Her sorcery is the same, mind-shadows without substance. If this be so, Master, why should you fear to—”
“Fear? Never use that word to me, you spawn of slime-pits! I fear neither man, beasts, nor howling ghost—nor have I, since first my mother whelped me! Fear is for such as you, black dog, puking in your dirty beard at the first hint of something your dull wits cannot understand!”
Tonguth flushed, bristling, a growl starting in his great throat. Abdekiel’s keen wits noted that whatever master-psychologist was at work here had indeed worked his black arts well. Never before would Tonguth have dared show by word or sign the least token of anger against Drask’s lashing tongue, but now … He rose smoothly, to interpose an adroit, soothing word—
In that moment, the alarm shrieked.
Not the little bell that summoned the watch, or called men to stations—this was the great, iron-throated monster that called only when the fleet was under attack, and it was loud enough to wake the dead from their dusty sleep!
The three raced into the control dome, Drask and Tonguth cursing—and, on the threshold, they froze.