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.”
“Luhak,” called Nin and the third warlord stepped forward.
Luhak touched his bearded chin with a brown hand. His head was covered in a helm of white horsehide which sprouted a short plume made from a horse’s tail at its crest. He was tall and lean, and when he opened his wide mouth to speak, a row of pointed white teeth flashed.
“I encountered but one village in the mountainous interior of this land, named Gaalinpor,” the warrior said. “No army could cross those mountains in surprise. We may turn our eyes elsewhere.”
“Boghaz.”
The last warlord, a towering black man whose features were hidden beneath the black veil which covered the lower part of his face, revealing only the large, dark eyes, took his place beside the others. His head was encased in a horn-covered, leather helmet, and he wore a breastplate made of flat disks of horn which had been linked together with iron rings. A long red cape fell from his shoulders to the heels of his black boots. At his side he carried, as they all did, a curious curved sword with a thin, tapering blade honed dagger-sharp on both edges.
“And I, too, have seen no soldiers. The villages offered no resistance, the blood of the stubborn ran red upon the ground, and their ashes ascended to heaven in your honor, Immortal Nin.” With that the black warrior touched his forehead and bowed low.
“What land is this which builds no walls around its cities and leaves the small villages unprotected? Here is wealth for the taking, my warlords. We will push north to Askelon and there I will establish my palace, so that I may be comfortable while bringing this land under my rule.
“Go now and bring me word when the castle is mine, that I may come at once and take possession of what I desire. But do not make sacrifice of the King. I will have that pleasure for my own; his blood will flow for me alone. Hear and obey.”
The four commanders saluted Nin and backed away a few paces. Then they turned, mounted their horses and galloped off together. Nin clapped his hands, and the attendants sprang forward to begin the laborious process of carrying their god back up the ramp and into the magnificent palace ship.
NINE
HEAVY DEW still clung to the leaves as the first rays of golden morning broke upon the countryside. Near the sea such dew was common, but it never ceased to delight Quentin when the sun struck each tiny droplet of moisture and turned it into a glimmering gem. Each hillock and bush seemed to acquire inestimable value.
Toli’s high-spirited horses, now well-rested, pranced and jogged in the cool morning air. Quentin himself lifted his voice in a hymn to the new day. Toli, too, joined in and their voices rang in the dells.
“Ah, it is good to be alive!” shouted Quentin, more for the joy of shouting than for the sake of conversation.
“This morning the saddle seems a friend to you,” called Toli, bouncing along behind. “That is not the impression you gave me last night.”
“In the morning the world is re-created. All things are made new-including saddles.”
“It is good to see my master in such high humor. For the last three days one would have mistaken you for a growling bear-not that I noticed.”
Quentin seemed to ignore the remark and they continued on as before, the trappings of the horses jingling brightly as they cantered along. “I am sorry if I have been out of sorts,” said Quentin after some time. “I have had much on my mind these past days. It is like a shadow has been hovering over me. But now I can see clearly again.”
“That is well for both of us,” replied Toli in his usual elliptic style.
The two riders approached and mounted the crest of a long, sloping hill. Here they paused for a short while and contemplated the road before them and the valley beyond, in the center of which lay the village of Persch.
“See how quiet it is,” remarked Quentin as he gazed at the scene below. “So peaceful. This is how it has been for a thousand years…” His voice trailed off.
“We will pray that it may remain so for another thousand,” answered Toli. He flicked the reins and started down the road, a thin dirt trail barely scratched in the long, thick green grass of the hills.
As they drew nearer to the seaside village, Toli grew tense with concentration. Quentin noticed the change in his companion’s attitude and asked, “What is it? What do those eagle eyes of yours see?”
“Nothing, master. And that is what worries me. I see no one-no activity in the village at all.”
“Perhaps the people of Persch are late abed and late to rise,” Quentin said carelessly, attempting to maintain the mood of tranquillity which had just been shattered by Toli’s observation.
“Or maybe they have a reason for remaining behind doors on such a day as this, though that reason is certain to be born of fear.”
Quentin sighed. “It will not be the first time we have encountered such this trip.” He placed his free hand on the hilt of his sword and shifted it slightly to bring it into readiness. His eyes scanned the breadth of the town drawing slowly closer with each step. He saw not a sign of life, either human or animal, in the streets or on the road before them. Certainly that was strange. Ordinarily, the first rays of morning light would find the narrow little streets busy with citizens going about their daily chores. The merchants would be opening their stalls in the marketplace and the craftsmen their awnings. Farmers would be offering cheese and melons and eggs in exchange for cloth and various metal utensils. Wives would be carrying water from the well in the town square, and children would be scampering around corners and darting to and fro in noisy play while the village dogs barked and dodged their bare, sun-browned legs.
But this morning there was no such bustle and fuss. The empty streets seemed haunted by the echoes of childish laughter and the eerie absence of the villagers.
The riders entered the main street of the town, and Quentin heard the soft crush of the horses’ hooves upon the tiny fragments of shells with which the people of Persch paved their streets. Quentin always thought that this gave all seaside towns a fresh, clean appearance. This day, however, the whitened streets looked desolate, sepulchral.
No face appeared even fleetingly in a doorway or darkened window. No sound could be heard, except the soft sea breeze blowing among the eaves; it whispered a note of utter loneliness.
“Everyone is gone,” observed Toli. His voice seemed to die in the empty air.
“I do not believe it. Everyone cannot have left. Someone must have remained behind. A whole village does not disappear-not without good cause.”
They reached the village square. It was an irregular rectangle formed by the fronts of Persch’s principal buildings: the inn, which was rumored to serve a most remarkable fish stew; the communal hall (since no nobleman dwelt in Persch, the citizens had erected their own great hall in which to observe feasts and holy days); the marketplace and the stalls of the vendors; the small temple and shrine to the god Ariel; and the dwellings of the craftsmen.