The face of the Usurper was powerfully molded, with a square jaw and a heavy, scowling brow. His thick neck was sunk between burly shoulders, and his long, massive arms and deep chest were banded with thick sinews like heavy cables. He was no bandy-legged dwarf, like so many of the Chac Yuul, but a veritable Hercules of a man, no taller than myself, but much heavier and stronger.
His features―coarse, blunt, brutal―caught and held your attention. He had a swarthy complexion and a bullet-head covered with lank colorless hair of a peculiar consistency, unlike his son’s black hair. Gold baubles flashed in his earlobes and a chain of firerubies smoldered about his thickly corded neck. Under scowling black brows, his eyes were fierce yellow pits of somber, lion-like flame. This was no man to trifle with. This was a man born to command others. He wore simple warrior’s leather―the familiar highnecked tunic worn all over Thanator―open at the throat and displaying a thatch of body fur and the curve of heavy pectoral muscles. Emblazoned on the breast of his tunic was the dread emblem of the Black Legion, a black horned and fanged grinning skull with eyes of scarlet flame.
Flung loosely about his massive shoulders were magnificent robes of emerald and saffron velvet, heavily embroidered with stiff gold wire, falling to swish around his booted ankles.
Amid utter silence the Lord of the Black Legion took his place at the center of the half circle of ottomans, on a dais slightly raised above the level of the rest. His son, the Prince Vaspian, sat on his left hand. The ottoman to his right was unoccupied.
Now there entered into the chamber the last member of the high council of the Chac Yuul.
I had heard of him, but had never seen him before. Nevertheless, I recognized him the instant he entered the room. Ool the Uncanny, they called him, and among the conquering lords of the Black Legion he was a power to be reckoned with.
A fat, placid-faced little man in gray robes, his hands muffled in the long sleeves, came shuffling into the council chamber. A certain stillness came over the other occupants of the room.
The little man was bald as an egg, his face butter-yellow, his slitted eyes black and cold as frozen ink. A gentle smile hovered perpetually on his features. He looked as peaceful and harmless as a man could look. Why, then, did my nape hairs stiffen and a prickle of awe roughen the surface of my skin?
From the awkward silence of the others, I knew that my own almost instinctive loathing and fear of the harmless-looking little fat man was shared by them as well. About him, it seemed, blew a cold, ghastly wind from the hidden places of nature. The chill, dank breath of the Unknown … an icy, nameless wind from the dark abyss of the Ultimate Pit ….
Who he was, this little man who called himself Ool, and from whence he had come, was cloaked in mystery. No man knew his heart, and only the shadow gods he worshipped knew the secret recesses of his soul.
Some men called him wizard; others called him priest; and there were yet others, and they were not few in number, who called him a black-hearted devil in mortal flesh.
Such a being was Ool the Uncanny, warlock of the Chac Yuul, priest of the Dark Powers, servant of the Unknown.
CHAPTER SIX
THE SECRET COUNCIL
Now that the seven lords of the Black Legion were assembled, the council began.
Arkola spoke in a deep, strong voice.
“Lords, you have all seen the ultimatum delivered by the messenger of the Zanadarians, and you are all familiar with our present position. What say you to the threats of Prince Thuton?”
One of the senior commanders, a grizzled, sear-faced old warrior, growled: “I say let us cast his insolent demands back in his teeth!”
One or two of the other commanders added guttural agreements to this position. Arkola cleared his throat and silence fell.
“True enough. After all, when have the warriors of the Chac Yuul shrunk from war? Yet consider: the flying contraptions of Zanadar are powerful weapons. We have no defense against attack from the skies, for all the power our fighting men display on the land.”
My patron, Prince Vaspian, spoke up, silkily.
“Surely, my father, you do not intend paying the price I had almost said, the tribute―demanded by this affrontive Lord of the Sky Pirates?”
Arkola’s scowl deepened.
“Someday, if he lives long enough, it may be that the Prince, my son, will learn that gold may be given away without loss or harm to a man, and that more gold may be gotten to replace it. Whereas a man’s life, once he has parted with it, cannot be replaced. What is a few thousand pieces of gold to us? We shall wring many times that sum from the fat-gutted merchants of Shondakor before the year is out. And, I say again, we have no defense against the flying machines of the City in the Clouds!”
“All this is true, Arkola, but never yet has any foe forced the Black Legion to pay tribute to escape from the danger of battle,” growled the grizzled old warrior who had spoken up before―his name, I later learned, was Murrak. “How will the men take it? What will it do to their morale, and to the degree of confidence they place in us, their commanders? And will not the payment of one tribute without quarrel but spur this wily Thuton to demand yet further tribute at a later date? Perhaps we should take a firm stand now; and fight it we must, for later, when we are wrung dry, we shall have to fight after all!”
Arkola permitted his grim face to relax in a grin.
“Now, those are wise, shrewd arguments, and there is much good sense behind them,” he nodded. “If the Prince, my son, had but half the wits of my lord commanders of the Legion, he would make his father proud of him. Alas, I fear the hand of a woman has softened his manhood and beclouded his mind.”
A chuckle ran around the semicircle and the dark face of Prince Vaspian flushed angrily, but he wisely refrained from making a reply. I began to get the notion that the “enemy” Vaspian fancied he had among the council was his own father.
Flushed, sullen, Prince Vaspian made no reply. His father smiled, a cold hard smile.
“And since the root and cause of our present dilemma is that same love which has somewhat softened his manly strength, it behooves my son to think twice ere he impute the warriors of the Black Legion and slander their honor. Know that if we do indeed make payment, as demanded, it will not be `tribute’ but a calculated investment which will buy us valuable time.”
Then one of the warrior lords, a balding but burly shouldered old commander spoke up, and his words froze me with a shock of unbelieving astonishment.
“Since my lord has already raised the matter, may I ask when we shall celebrate the nuptials of the Prince Vaspian and the Lady Darloona?” he asked.
I started involuntarily. For a moment I could hardly believe my ears. Darloona and this puny Prince? It did not seem possible. I strained my every sense, following the conversation.
“The Princess demands that it be very soon,” Vaspian said, and he smirked a trifle as he said it, and at the suggestion of a sniggering leer in his tones I could cheerfully have strangled him on the spot.
Arkola snorted. “Never shall I understand how the Prince my son has managed to win the affections of so strong-willed and womanly a bride-to-be,” he said with a mocking half-smile. “However, this marriage will give the seal of legitimacy to our possession of the throne, and I oppose it not.”