"Weak men, but strong in their ways," lazily answered the outlaw. Volmana--a shrewd man, bold, audacious, with kin in high places--but poverty stricken, and his barren estates loaded with debts. Gromel--a ferocious beast, strong and brave as a lion, with considerable influence among the soldiers, but otherwise useless--lacking the necessary brains. Kaanuub, cunning in his low way and full of petty intrigue, but otherwise a fool and a coward--avaricious but possessed of immense wealth, which has been essential in my schemes. Ridondo, a mad poet, full of hare-brained schemes--brave but flighty. A prime favorite with the people because of his songs which tear out their heart-strings. He is our best bid for popularity, once we have achieved our design. I am the power that has welded these men, useless without me. Who mounts the throne, then? "Kaanuub, of course--or so he thinks! He has a trace of royal blood in him--the old dynasty, the blood of that king whom Kull killed with his bare hands. A bad mistake of the present king. He knows there are men who still boast descent from the old dynasty but he lets them live. So Kaanuub plots for the throne. Volmana wishes to be reinstated in favor, as he was under the old regime, so that he may lift his estate and title to their former grandeur. Gromel hates Kelka, commander of the Red Slayers, and thinks he should have that position. He wishes to be commander of all Valusia's armies. As to Ridondo--bah! I despise the man and admire him at the same time. He is your true idealist. He sees in Kull, an outlander and a barbarian, merely a rough footed, red handed savage who has come out of the sea to invade a peaceful and pleasant land. He already idolizes the king Kull slew, forgetting the rogue-- vile nature. He forgets the inhumanities under which the land groaned during his reign, and he is making the people forget. Already they sing--he Lament for the King--in which Ridondo lauds the saintly villain and vilifies Kull as--hat black hearted savage----Kull laughs at these songs and indulges Ridondo, but at the same time wonders why the people are turning against him.----ut why does Ridondo hate Kull? Because he is a poet, and poets always hate those in power, and turn to dead ages for relief in dreams. Ridondo is a flaming torch of idealism and he sees himself as a hero, a stainless knight, which he is, rising to overthrow the tyrant. And you?-- Ascalante laughed and drained the goblet. Ihave ideas of my own. Poets are dangerous things, because they believe what they sing--at the time. Well, I believe what I think. And I think Kaanuub will not hold the throne seat overlong. A few months ago I had lost all ambitions save to waste the villages and the caravans as long as I lived. Now, well--now we shall see.
II
WHEN I WAS THE LIBERATOR
A room strangely barren in contrast to the rich tapestries on the walls and the deep carpets on the floor. A small writing table, behind which sat a man. This man would have stood out in a crowd of a million. It was not so much because of his unusual size, his height and great shoulders, though these features lent to the general effect. But his face, dark and immobile, held the gaze and his narrow grey eyes beat down the wills of the onlookers by their icy magnetism. Each movement he made, no matter how slight, betokened steel spring muscles and brain knit to those muscles with perfect coordination. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his motions--either he was perfectly at rest--still as a bronze statue, or else he was in motion, with that cat-like quickness which blurred the sight that tried to follow his movements. Now this man rested his chin on his fists, his elbows on the writing table, and gloomily eyed the man who stood before him. This man was occupied in his own affairs at the moment, for he was tightening the laces of his breast-plate. Moreover he was abstractedly whistling--a strange and unconventional performance, considering that he was in the presence of a king.
"This rule," said the king,"this matter of statecraft wearies me as all the fighting I have done never did. "--part of the game, Kull," answered Brule. "you are king--you must play the part. I wish that I might ride with you to Grondar," said Kull enviously. It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees--but Tu says that affairs at home require my presence. Curse him!
"Months and months ago," he continued with increasing gloom, getting no answer and speaking with freedom, "overthrew the old dynasty and seized the throne of Valusia'sof which I had dreamed ever since I was a boy in the land of my tribesmen. That was easy. Looking back now, over the long hard path I followed, all those days of toil, slaughter and tribulation seem like so many dreams. From a wild tribesman in Atlantis, I rose, passing through the galleys of Lemuria--a slave for two years at the oars--then an outlaw in the hills of Valusia'sthen a captive in her dungeons--a gladiator in her arenas--a soldier in her armies--a commander--a king!
--he trouble with me, Brule, I did not dream far enough. I always visualized merely the seizing of the throne--I did not look beyond. When king Borna lay dead beneath my feet, and I tore the crown from his gory head, I had reached the ultimate border of my dreams. From there, it has been a maze of illusions and mistakes. I prepared myself to seize the throne--not to hold it.
--hen I overthrew Borna, then people hailed me wildly--then I was The Liberator--now they mutter and stare blackly behind my back--they spit at my shadow when they think I am not looking. They have put a statue of Borna, that dead swine, in the Temple of the Serpent and people go and wail before him, hailing him as a saintly monarch who was done to death by a red handed barbarian. When I led her armies to victory as a soldier, Valusia overlooked the fact that I was a foreigner--now she cannot forgive me.
--nd now, in the Temple of the Serpent, there come to burn incense to Borna-- memory, men whom his executioners blinded and maimed, fathers whose sons died in his dungeons, husbands whose wives were dragged into his seraglio--Bah! Men are all fools.----idondo is largely responsible,--answered the Pict, drawing his sword belt up another notch.--e sings songs that make men mad. Hang him in his jester-- garb to the highest tower in the city. Let him make rhymes for the vultures.-- Kull shook his lion head.--o, Brule, he is beyond my reach. A great poet is greater than any king. He hates me, yet I would have his friendship. His songs are mightier than my sceptre, for time and again he has near torn the heart from my breast when he chose to sing for me. I will die and be forgotten, his songs will live forever.-- The Pict shrugged his shoulders.--s you like; you are still king, and the people cannot dislodge you. The Red Slayers are yours to a man, and you have all Pictland behind you. We are barbarians, together, even if we have spent most of our lives in this land. I go, now. You have naught to fear save an attempt at assassination, which is no fear at all, considering the fact that you are guarded night and day by a squad of the Red Slayers.-- Kull lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell and the Pict clanked out the room.
Now another man wished his attention, reminding Kull that a king-- time was never his own.
This man was a young noble of the city, one Seno val Dor. This famous young swordsman and reprobate presented himself before the king with the plain evidence of much mental perturbation. His velvet cap was rumpled and as he dropped it to the floor when he kneeled, the plume drooped miserably. His gaudy clothing showed stains as if in his mental agony he had neglected his personal appearance for some time.