The King rose with some difficulty and dismissed them, asking his two warriors, “How soon will you ride?”
“We will leave at once, Sire,” said Toli.
“It is well; but stay and share at my table tonight at least. I want to see my friends all together before…” He did not finish the thought.
The three arose, bowed and went quietly out. At the door Quentin turned and was about to speak. He looked at Eskevar, and his eyes filled with tears; no words would come. He bowed quickly and then went out, too overwhelmed to say what he felt in his heart.
EIGHT
“THE VILLAGE has been subdued, Most Excellent One.” The rider bowed low in his saddle. Behind him black smoke ascended in a thick, dark column to be scattered by the wind blowing in from the sea. His sorrel pony jerked its reins and tossed its head, its hide besmeared with soot and dried blood. “There was no resistance.”
Savage eyes watched the messenger from beneath the rim of an iron helm ornamented with black plumes which fluttered like wings in the wind. The warlord said nothing but turned his horse and started slowly away. The messenger spurred his mount forward and drew up beside his departing commander. “Is there something that has displeased you, my Master?” The voice trembled anxiously.
“No, it is well. Our task is complete. I will return to the ships; you will accompany me. I may have need of a messenger.” He lifted himself in his saddle and called to several riders who waited a little distance apart. The riders held their helmets under one arm and stared impassively ahead at the smoke curling upward.
“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 the 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 the 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 remained resting on the great barrel of a 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 affrontery 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 prone 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 and 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 which 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 into 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 which 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; they knelt 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, a member of the yellow race, advanced. His gleaming head was shaved completely bald, except for a short bob of hair which 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.”