The great hand closed over the small white body of the bird. There was a flutter of tiny wings and a surprised chirp as the hand withdrew from the cage. The dove struggled weakly, its head poking through the circle formed by the giant thumb and forefinger. A small red-ringed eye stared in terror at the contorted face of the mighty Nin.
Nin the Immortal felt the swift beating of the tiny heart and the dove’s soft warm body filling his hand. Then he squeezed. The bird squirmed and cried out. Nin squeezed harder. The yellow beak opened wide; the tiny head rolled to the side. Nin, whose fleets stretched the breadth of Gerfallon, opened his hand slowly. The bundle of feathers in his hand shivered and lay still.
With a cry of delight, Nin the Destroyer flung the dead bird across the room where it landed with a soft plop near the door of his chamber. A flurry of white down floated gently to the floor to settle like snowflakes around the lifeless body.
As Nin sat gazing at his handiwork a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by the ludicrous sight of Uzla’s head peering around the edge of the door.
“Immortal One, I bring news.” The minister’s eyes strayed to the small white lump of feathers on the floor before him.
“Enter and speak.” Nin’s great voice rumbled.
Uzla tiptoed quietly in and prostrated himself before his master.
“Rise. Your god commands you. Speak, Uzla; let your voice utter pleasing words of worship to the Eternal One.”
“Who is like our Nin? How shall I describe his greatness? For it is more brilliant than the shining deeds of men, and his wisdom endures forever.” Uzla lifted his hands to his face at if to shade his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun.
“Your words please me. Tell me now, what is your news? Has Askelon been taken? I am becoming impatient with this waiting. Tell me what I wish to hear, Uzla.”
“My news is perhaps better suited to a different time and place, Most Noble Nin. I know not of Askelon, but may it be as you say.”
“What, then? Tell me quickly-I grow tired of your foolishness.”
“The commander of your fleet below Elsendor sends word of victory. The ships of King Troen have been destroyed, and the battle on land is begun.”
The great hairless face split into a wide smile of satisfaction; the flesh of his cheeks rolled away on either side like mountains forming alongside a deep chasm. His dark baleful eyes shrank away to tiny black pits, and his chin sank into the folds on his neck. “It is well! How many prisoners were sacrificed to me?” The room shook with the ringing joy of the thunderous voice.
Uzla’s look transformed itself momentarily into one of dismay. “I know not, Infinite Majesty. The commander did not say, but we may deduce, I think, that it was a very great number. It is ever thus.”
“True, true. I am pleased. I will have a feast to celebrate!”
“May I dare to remind the Supreme Light of the Universe that it is Hegnrutha? There is already a feast tonight; it is being prepared even now.”
“Ahh, yes. How suitable. Go then and bring me word when all is in readiness. And command the slaves to ready my oil bath; I will be anointed before the celebration begins. My subjects will fill their eyes with my splendor tonight. It is my will for them. Hear and obey.
Uzla fell on his face once more and then backed out of the room. His brittle cadence could be heard moments later calling the slaves together to prepare the fragrant oils in which to bathe their sovereign.
Nin raised his round moon of a face and laughed; the deep notes tumbled from his throat to reverberate to the furthest corners of the enormous palace ship. Those who heard it shuddered. Who among them would be asked to provide for the Immortal One’s amusement tonight? Whoever chanced to serve that honor on the night of Hegnrutha likely would not see another morning.
TWENTY-TWO
THE TOWER of flames leapt high into the night, pouring itself into the vast darkness above, blotting out the stars in the scarlet glow. Quentin and Toli, tethered to the wagon’s wheels, could feel the heat of the enormous bonfire on their faces, though they were well removed from the blaze. As the flames soared skyward, the wild revel rose on its own wicked wings, taking the form of a thing fevered and inflamed.
The tumult had grown steadily through the evening hours, and now the surrounding woods echoed with the crazed ravings of the celebrants. The raging mass seethed about the fire in gyrations of ever increasing frenzy. To Quentin and Toli, looking on in mute wonder, it seemed as if something had taken control of their spirits and played them as a maddened minstrel striking his instrument in tortured ecstasy.
Quentin saw, in the glare thrown out by the fire, something moving in the darkness beyond the perimeter. Through the shimmering sheets of heat loosed by the fire he could see it lumbering slowly like a colossal beast, a dark shape which seemed to form itself out of the darkness surrounding it.
“Look yonder-there across the way,” he whispered to Toli. Quentin did not know why he had bothered to whisper-their guards were not even making a show of watching them. They had given themselves over to the festivities of their comrades, though they still sat at their posts, longing to join in the turmoil.
“What is it? I cannot make it out.”
“Wait, it is coming closer.” No sooner had Quentin finished speaking than the creature emerged from its dark captivity into the roiling circle of light. It loomed large in the dancing light, the glow of the flames glittering on its hideous black skin. It was a creature of terrible beauty, awful and tremendous; it looked a very denizen of Heoth’s forsaken underworld, a thing distilled out of a thousand nightmares. And it came lurching out of the forest into the midst of the celebrants, as if it had been called up from the depths of its underworld home to reign as lord over the foul Hegnrutha.
At first Quentin believed it to be alive, but as the thing moved closer he saw that it was in fact pulled along with ropes by a hundred or so of its keepers, who clustered about its feet. At last they brought it to the fire’s brink, where it stood with hands outstretched in a perpetual blessing or curse.
It was a statue-an immense carven image of a beast with the legs and torso of a man, the head of a lion and the maw of a jackal. Two giant curving horns swept out from either side of its head, and its mouth was open in a snarl of rage.
“It is their idol,” said Toli, his eyes filled with the sight before him. He fairly shouted, for at the sight of the towering idol the frenzied scene below had erupted in a climax of insane exuberance. The ground fairly trembled with the pandemonium. Their two guards lumped up and began dancing where they stood, waving their arms and screaming with enravished abandon.
Now more wood was being thrown around the base of the statue, and it was being induced into the flames. As Quentin and Toli watched the flames encircle the monstrous idol, a shadow detached itself from among the myriad flickering projections and crept toward them along the perimeter. In a moment, without sensing anyone was there at all, Quentin heard a rasping whisper in his ear.
“I am going to cut your hands free. Do not move.”
Quentin did as instructed and felt his bonds fall away. His right arm swung limply down; he gathered it up with his left hand and held it close to his chest. Without waiting for further instruction, he rolled to cover beneath the wagon.
The three met, heads together, under the shelter of the wagon box. Toli rubbed his wrists and asked, “Why are you doing this?”
There was a brief flash of white in the darkness as the warlord’s emissary smiled. “They are my captors, too. I have long planned to escape, but if I am to survive I will need the help of those who know this country.” He looked at both of them, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Time is short. We must go.”