Fantasy fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Fiction
For awhile he sat without speech, his stark veined hands clenched on
the board before him; then rising, went without word to the door of
his pavilion to study the night. Then turned he back to Lord Juss, and
spake to him: “Know that when this moon now past was but three days
old I began to be troubled with a catarrh or rheum which yet troubleth
me; and well thou wottest that whoso falleth sick on the third day
of the moon’s age, he will die. To-night also is a new moon, and of
a Saturday; and that betokeneth fighting and bloodshed. Also the
wind bloweth from the south; and he that beginneth that game with a
south wind shall have the victory. With such uncertain blackness and
brightness openeth the door of Fate before me.”
Juss bowed his head, and said, “O Zeldornius, thy speech is sooth.”
“I was ever a fighter,” said Zeldornius.
Far into the night sat they in the tent of renowned Zeldornius,
drinking and talking of life and destiny and old wars and the chances
of war and great adventure; and an hour after midnight they parted, and
Juss and Spitfire and Brandoch Daha betook them to their rest in the
watch-tower on the ridge of Salapanta.
• • • • •
On such wise passed three days by, Zeldornius waiting with his army on
the hill, and the Demons supping with him nightly. And on the third
day he drew out his army as for battle, expecting Helteranius. But
neither that day nor the next nor the next day following brought sight
nor tidings of Helteranius, and strange it seemed to them and hard to
guess what turn of fortune had delayed his coming. The sixth night was
overcast, and mirk darkness covered the earth. When supper was done,
as the Demons betook themselves to their sleeping place, they heard
a scuffle and the voice of Brandoch Daha, who went foremost of them,
crying, “Here have I caught a heath-dog’s whelp. Give me a light. What
shall I do with him?”
Men were roused and lights brought, and Brandoch Daha surveyed that
which he held pinioned by the arms, caught by the entrance to the
fortalice: one with scared wild-beast eyes in a swart face, golden
ear-rings in his ears, and a thick close-cropped beard interlaced
with gold wire twisted among its curls; bare-armed, with a tunic of
otter-skin and wide hairy trousers cross-stitched with silver thread,
a circlet of gold on his head, and frizzed dark hair plaited in two
thick tails that hung forward over his shoulders. His lips were drawn
back, like a cross-grained dog’s snarling betwixt fear and fierceness,
and his white pointed teeth and the whites of his eyes flashed in the
torch-light.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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