As Drask stood, sword-hilt in hand, a dim shadow of terror seemed to pass from the hall … and was gone. The torch-flames brightened perceptibly. Sounds became clearer, as if the very presence of the voice had muffled all other audition. But, although the ghostly shadow was gone, the heart had gone out of the feast. Frozen in their places, with eyes that glinted fear, the barbarians had no stomach for meat or drink.
Drask shrugged. “Words cannot frighten us, brothers! Nor can deeds. If this cowardly ghost dares show his face, we’ll feed him Rim-world steel. What say you?”
His words rang out like a fierce trumpet-call, rousing fire in the chilled spirits of his men. The shaggy chieftains grinned, and as one man they ripped their swords out and let them flash in the torch-light, giving him the victor’s salute.
“Hai-King!”
The warlord relaxed, grinning down at his men with a wolfish leer of bared teeth. And if the salute had not been as full-throated as he was used to, if some of the warriors unobtrusively signed their breast with the Sigil of Maryash, Lord of Protection, he gave no sign that he had noticed.
“Now am I done with feasting, and would sleep. First, I need a wench to warm my bed. You—Gurthan!—drag that corpse thither. Fling it to the kogors—the Princess of Argion shall share their pens instead of my bed this night.”
His eye flashed over the dancing girls, and lingered on one slim maiden with hair of ashen silver. Perion recognized the slim, fawn-eyed girl as the one who had stood too near the dais, and who had shrieked when the blood of the Princess had besplattered her nude thighs with scarlet.
“You!” Drask commanded, pointing at the girl.
She paled, then blushed fiery-red. Her large, limpid eyes flashed desperately about the hall from side to side, as if seeking a means to escape. Guards stood at every door with crossed axes. She bowed her head, and mounted the dais quietly. Perion grinned impishly.
Now Drask turned to the scrawny little Piper. He plucked a fat purse from his girdle, clinked it between his fingers, and tossed it at the Piper, who deftly snatched it from the air.
“There, Piper, a purse of iridium dahlers for your service. No reward is fitting to fully reward one who saves the life of a King, but fear not. You are in my service from this hour, and a fair share of our future booty will be yours. Take heart—there are many fat worlds in the wide Galaxy, waiting to be won!”
Perion bowed, speechless. There was a Prince’s ransom in the purse! He tried to stammer out his thanks, glib tongue paralyzed for once, but Drask cut him off with a short gesture.
“Enough. Leave me—all of you. Come, girl!”
Drask bent and caught the girl’s white shoulder in one lean hand, but she writhed from his grasp. He laughed and grasped her about the slim waist with brawny arms. She struck at his chest with small fists—and in one fist there was the sudden flash of steel!
Drask mouthed an oath and cuffed her hand away. A slim, small blade tinkled against the marble steps of the dais. The blade was broken: the miniature dagger she had held concealed in her fist had shivered against the massive iridium-and-cairngorm brooch that fastened the Warlord’s furry cloak about his throat.
Drask stared at the blade, astonished. The Rover growled, Tonguth surging near, shouldering his way through his comrades to hover protectively by his Lord.
“Again?” Drask rumbled. “Twice in one night a wench attempts my life?”
His burly chieftain moaned, eyes rolling.
“Wh-what did I say, M-Master?” Tonguth muttered. “A feast of knives, in very truth—the words of the Book—”
The Warlord shrugged irritably. “Swallow that superstitious drivel, fool. You’ll be turning priest next, and foreswearing manhood.” He turned to the girl, who stood panting, disheveled, wide-eyed, and cuffed her sharply. With a little cry she sank to her knees, huddling before him. Drask stooped to pick up the tiny dagger—then froze, snatching his hands away from the weapon as if it were red-hot and he feared to singe his fingers.
“Look!”
Those standing near—Perion, Abdekiel and Tonguth among them—saw that in the dagger’s hilt a strange green stone glimmered. It flashed like a cat’s eye in the silver setting, pulsing weirdly as if animated with some luminous pseudo-life.
The bland shaman drew in his breath sharply.
“You recognize it, shaman?” the Warlord asked sharply.
Abdekiel nodded. “Yes, Lord … although it has been years since last I saw its like.”
“What is it—speak, sorcerer!” Tonguth urged.
In the fat yellow mask that was his face, the shaman’s eyes gleamed with alert, reptilian intelligence. “The talisman of Niamh of Malkh, the World of Green Magic. It denotes that the girl is a member of Her sisterhood.”
“The Green Goddess!” Drask mused, rubbing his jaw. “First this White Wizard, this skulking shadow, Calastor— and now the Lady of Malkh. Is She against me, too? Has the Emerald Queen joined forces with the Adepts of Parlion to unseat me? Speak, girl!”
Ringed in with her enemies, the slender dancing girl gazed up at him with wide, frightened eyes. And standing behind the others, still clutching his purse of coins, Perion thought swiftly, shrewd eyes dancing with mischief.
“Answer me, wench!” Drask seized the girl’s wrist, crushing it with iron fingers. White teeth bit into a lush lower lip, but the girl remained silent, wincing against the pain of his vise-like grip. Her firm, round breasts rose and fell as she panted.
“Great Master—beware the emerald talisman!” Perion cried suddenly, pointing a trembling finger at the pulsing gem.
“What?”
“I have heard of the Lady of Green Magic, and somewhat of Her powers,” the Piper said swiftly. “All of Her agents bear one of these stones—they are Her eyes and ears among the stars! Some sort of magical sympathy exists between the Goddess and each of these talisman-gems. Through them She observes Her agents at work—sees what they see—hears what they hear—and through that stone She may be watching us at this moment!”
With a hoarse oath, Drask snatched his hands away from the kneeling girl. Tonguth and Abdekiel recoiled from the gem, which pulsed like a clot of verdant flame there on the marble step.
For a moment they hovered, watching the lambent, shifting fires of the magic emerald. Then Perion said breathlessly, “Shatter it! Smash the jewel, Lord! She may come to the aid of Her maid and strike with magic fires through the stone!”
From Tonguth’s leathern girdle, Drask caught up an iron mace with a spiked ball for a head. He brought it down on the throbbing jewel—crushing it with brutal, smashing blows. The silver hilt bent into a smear of shapeless metal, flattened beneath the mace’s hammer-blows. The jewel itself shattered into powder with a brief, blinding flash of intense emerald light that made them cry out. There was a puff of oily smoke from the dagger-hilt, as whatever cunningly-miniaturized micro-components the hilt contained shorted out beneath the mace’s stroke … and then the throbbing fires of the shattered gem died, like a burning coal crushed beneath a bootheel into a smear of coal. Naught remained to fear, only a dull green powder. Tonguth released a long-pent breath and Drask relaxed.
“My thanks for your warning, Piper. Again you have served me well.” He turned away. “Leave me now, Piper, Tonguth—all of you, save for the shaman. Out!”
They bowed out of the hall, leaving the girl alone with the Warlord and his first chieftain. Muttering between themselves, the remaining few barbarians slunk out, Perion scampering behind them, clutching his purse to his bony chest, glancing back at the pitiful figure of the kneeling girl with bright, malicious and inquisitive eyes. And when all were gone, the Warlord fixed his stern gaze on her. Beside him, the bald shaman eyed her curiously.