THIRTY-SIX

THE MASSIVE palace ship of Nin the Destroyer, Immortal Deity, Supreme Emperor, Conqueror of Continents, King of Kings, rocked in the gentle swell. The waves rose and fell like the rhythmic breathing of an enormous sea beast. They slapped against the broad beams of the palace ship’s sides and made soft gurgling noises along the mighty keel.

The ship was square-hulled with three towering masts and two great rudders amidships. It was truly a seagoing palace, outfitted with costly timbers and exotic trappings from the various countries Nin had subdued. The decks were of teak and rosewood from the Haphasian Islands. Brass fittings, which gleamed like red gold from every corner, came from Deluria and the Beldenlands of the east. Silks and shimmering samite fluttered from delicate screens on deck and in the honeycombed quarters below; these had come from Pelagia. Thick braided rope and the vast blue sails were made in Katah out of materials procured in Khas-I-Quair.

The ship itself had been built in the shipyards of Tarkus under the direction of master Syphrian shipbuilders. Its makers had anticipated every necessity, foreseen all desires of the ship’s chief inhabitant and had accommodated them in ingenious ways. Nin lacked nothing aboard his ship that would satisfy his many voracious appetites.

The ship rode low in the water. The slightest swell could rock it gently, but a raging tempest could not overturn it. And if it moved slowly and ponderously, like its master, what of that? Time meant nothing to the Immortal Nin.

The Emperor of Emperors lay stretched upon a bed of silk cushions listening to the even breathing of the sea, rocking with the slight roll of the deck. His immense bulk heaved and swayed dangerously, now tossed one way, now the next. The motion was making him feel ill and irritated. With each movement of the ship his huge, oxlike head lolled listlessly, dull eyes staring outward in mounting misery.

Nin, with a supreme effort of will, propped himself up on one elbow and grasped a mallet which hung on a golden thong near his head. With a backward flip of his wrist the mallet crashed into a gong of hammered bronze. As the reverberating summons filled the room, he collapsed back onto the pillows with a moan, dragging one huge paw across his forehead in a gesture of enormous suffering.

In a moment a timid voice could be heard, muffled as it was by its owner’s supine posture, saying, “You have summoned me, O Mighty One? What is your command?”

Nin, with an effort, turned his head to regard the pathetic form of his minister. “Uzla, you lowest of dogs! What kept you? I have been waiting for hours. I shall have you flayed alive to teach you haste.” The large eyes closed sleepily.

“May I say, Your Omnipotence, that I regret my tardiness and the blindness which prevented me from anticipating your summons. Still, I was but two steps away and now am here to do your bidding.”

“Arrogant swine!” roared Nin, coming to life. “I should have you lick the decks clean with your festering tongue for presuming to address me so.”

“As you wish, Most Generous Master. I will obey.” Uzla made a move as if to leave and begin scouring the decks of the palace ship.

“I will tell you when to go and when to come. Did I not summon you? Hear me.”

“Yes, Immortal One.” Uzla’s voice trembled appropriately.

“Has there been no word from my warlords?”

“I regret to inform Your Highness that there has been no such word. But as you yourself probably know, there is perhaps a message on the way even now.”

“Nin does not wait for messages. Nin knows all! You fool!”

“It is my curse, Great One. You would do me kindness to have my tongue torn out.”

Nin rolled himself up on his elbow once more and teetered there like a mountain ready to topple at the slightest touch. “Shall I send for your chair-bearers, Supreme Conqueror? They shall hoist you to your feet.”

“I grow weary of waiting, Uzla.” The sleepy eyes narrowed slyly. “I do not wish to remain here anymore.”

“Perhaps you desire to be somewhere else, Master of Time and Space. Shall I make your desires known to your commander?”

“I have been patient with this desolate country long enough. The conquest is taking far too long.” One pudgy hand rubbed a sleek jowl with impatience. “We will go up the coast to the north to make ready to enter Askelon, my new city. I have spoken. Hear and obey.”

“It shall be done, Master. I will tell the commander to set sail at once.”

“I feel like a common thief,” growled Lord Wertwin under his breath. “I would much rather lead the mounted assault of the camp.

“We have been all through that, my lord,” Theido explained patiently. “Ronsard is better suited than either of us for such duty. He has experience in the Goliah wars to aid him.”

“I was in the Goliah wars, too,” whined Wertwin.

“Yes, of course, However, before this night is through, and before our campaign is ended, we will both be thankful for Ronsard’s bold blade. I will tell you plainly that I would not welcome a ride into the camp of the Ningaal.”

“Hmph!” Wertwin snorted. He trudged off to his appointed station with his men, now armed with longbows and arrows and hidden in a brushy hollow.

The army of the Dragon King, such as it was, had been training with their new weapons and reclaiming rusty skills. They were now ready to try them in combat with the Ningaal and had, with extreme care and cunning, moved to within a stone’s throw from the camp of their enemy. The archers lay hidden behind trees and bushes, in hollows of furze and within gorse hedges. Despite the grumbling which had accompanied the announcement of the proposed change in tactics, there was a tingling of excitement in the air as the men readied themselves for the ambush.

“Theido, are your archers in place?” asked Ronsard, bending to whisper from his saddle. It was very late; the moon was low in the western sky, slightly above the horizon. The knight’s face shone faintly, but his features were barely discernible.

“They are.” The two men looked at one another briefly. Theido reached a hand out and gripped his friend by the arm. “Take no undue risks. This business is risky enough.”

“Do not worry. Surprise is on our side-this once, at least.”

“The Most High God goes with you, my friend.”

Ronsard cocked his head slightly. “Do you suppose he cares about such things as this?”

“Yes, I believe he does. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I have never prayed to a god before a battle. I did not consider it meet to invoke the aid of heavenly powers in earthly strife. It is man’s fight and should be settled by man’s own hands.”

“The Most High is concerned with the well-being of his servants. By his hand alone are we upheld in all we do.”

Ronsard straightened in the saddle, pulled the reins back and wheeled his steed around. “I have much to learn about this new god, Theido. I hope that I may have time to learn it!”

The knight returned to the place where his men were waiting, already mounted and eager to be about their task. He glanced around at all of them, checking each one for readiness. In order to move more quickly in the saddle and more nimbly, Ronsard had required his raiders to don only hauberk and breastplate, leaving the rest of their armor behind. They each carried their long swords and a small tear-shaped buckler upon their forearms.

Ronsard nodded, completing his inspection. “For honor! For glory! For Mensandor!”

With that he turned and led his men into the wooded grove wherein the Ningaal lay encamped.

Theido saw his friend disappear into the darkened wood; he thought he saw his right hand raised in salute. The fifteen horses and men, Ronsard’s bravest, slipped into the darkness. Theido offered a prayer for them as they passed, and then he took his place, sword in hand.