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Authors: Christopher Rowley
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the Great One himself. The Master, great Heruta, commended his servant. Kreegsbrok had done well and had repaid the faith shown in him by his Master.
He was given a new task in life. He was to manage the Prophet, to control the strange thing that Heruta had created from the long-dead flesh of "He Who Must."
"He lives, but he knows in his heart that he is dead," said the Master in that eery rasping voice. "This makes him vulnerable to the suicidal impulse. Death is generally sweeter than life for such as he."
"Yes, Master," said Kreegsbrok.
"You must keep him alive, good Kreegsbrok. With him alive, we shall have an army of a hundred thousand Kraheen who will willingly fight to the death. Such a host will be necessary for the next steps in our mission."
Kreegsbrok said nothing, his eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to gaze too long on the whorls of sparkling horn that covered the Great One. Heruta floated a few inches from the floor in utterly inhuman form. He understood the effect his appearance had on his servants, and he relished the fear it grew in their hearts. ' "Kreegsbrok, good Kreegsbrok, you are a creature of war.
You have served our power faithfully for many years. You understand something of the great struggle we are engaged in."
"Yes, Master."
"Since the disaster of two years ago, we have been on the defensive. It is imperative that we regain the initiative and gain enough time to rebuild our strength. That is our mission here. We must succeed!"
Kreegsbrok clenched his fists. "We shall win!" he said in a tight voice. The Great One smiled for a moment.
"Of course we can expect our enemies to take some action. Our presence here is now known. It was inevitable that they would find out somehow, they always do. Still, it will take them years to mount a response, and even then I doubt they will be able to take effective action. We are too far from the coasts they dominate with their filthy fleets. But I expect the hags of the Witch Isle to try their best. They will come in various guises. You will need to be very alert. They will try to subvert our work upon the old Prophet. You will notify me at once if you detect the slightest sign of witch magic!"
"Yes, Master."
And thus Kreegsbrok had become the keeper of the Prophet. A strange business, watching over a man who was not a man, alive but not alive.
At times Kreegsbrok detected a definite personality within the husk, a glimmer of the ancient man who had been consumed by his ascension to "He Who Must." It came alive when he spoke to the crowds. He was a captivating speaker, imbued with an energy that moved people to ecstasies. Afterward there would be a light in his eyes, and he would speak to Kreegsbrok in broken Verio, which ancient tongue he had known something of in bygone times. Kreegsbrok was conversant in Verio, along with several other languages learned during the campaigns of his youth. The Prophet would question him about the world as he knew it. The answers always excited the Prophet, and at times he would rage off in Kraht, completely unintelligible for a while. At other times he would simply laugh and ask more questions.
And then the eyes would go out and the body would stiffen. Though it moved and even spoke, it seemed to have no life within it.
When it slept, it was as if it were truly dead. To waken it, Kreegsbrok forced black drink into its mouth. The black drink had a powerful effect on the thing. It always wanted more and Kreegsbrok had to be careful to keep it from intoxicating itself.
"You don't understand man-who-still-lives," said the Prophet one time. "You don't understand a thirst built over a thousand years."
But the Prophet lived enough to speak to the people, and that was all that was required of him. Every day the heralds went forth from the new temple to summon the crowds.
And they rose up and came to see him, in their tens of thousands. They came with the thunder of drums and the ululation of the multitude. They came with
He was given a new task in life. He was to manage the Prophet, to control the strange thing that Heruta had created from the long-dead flesh of "He Who Must."
"He lives, but he knows in his heart that he is dead," said the Master in that eery rasping voice. "This makes him vulnerable to the suicidal impulse. Death is generally sweeter than life for such as he."
"Yes, Master," said Kreegsbrok.
"You must keep him alive, good Kreegsbrok. With him alive, we shall have an army of a hundred thousand Kraheen who will willingly fight to the death. Such a host will be necessary for the next steps in our mission."
Kreegsbrok said nothing, his eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to gaze too long on the whorls of sparkling horn that covered the Great One. Heruta floated a few inches from the floor in utterly inhuman form. He understood the effect his appearance had on his servants, and he relished the fear it grew in their hearts. ' "Kreegsbrok, good Kreegsbrok, you are a creature of war.
You have served our power faithfully for many years. You understand something of the great struggle we are engaged in."
"Yes, Master."
"Since the disaster of two years ago, we have been on the defensive. It is imperative that we regain the initiative and gain enough time to rebuild our strength. That is our mission here. We must succeed!"
Kreegsbrok clenched his fists. "We shall win!" he said in a tight voice. The Great One smiled for a moment.
"Of course we can expect our enemies to take some action. Our presence here is now known. It was inevitable that they would find out somehow, they always do. Still, it will take them years to mount a response, and even then I doubt they will be able to take effective action. We are too far from the coasts they dominate with their filthy fleets. But I expect the hags of the Witch Isle to try their best. They will come in various guises. You will need to be very alert. They will try to subvert our work upon the old Prophet. You will notify me at once if you detect the slightest sign of witch magic!"
"Yes, Master."
And thus Kreegsbrok had become the keeper of the Prophet. A strange business, watching over a man who was not a man, alive but not alive.
At times Kreegsbrok detected a definite personality within the husk, a glimmer of the ancient man who had been consumed by his ascension to "He Who Must." It came alive when he spoke to the crowds. He was a captivating speaker, imbued with an energy that moved people to ecstasies. Afterward there would be a light in his eyes, and he would speak to Kreegsbrok in broken Verio, which ancient tongue he had known something of in bygone times. Kreegsbrok was conversant in Verio, along with several other languages learned during the campaigns of his youth. The Prophet would question him about the world as he knew it. The answers always excited the Prophet, and at times he would rage off in Kraht, completely unintelligible for a while. At other times he would simply laugh and ask more questions.
And then the eyes would go out and the body would stiffen. Though it moved and even spoke, it seemed to have no life within it.
When it slept, it was as if it were truly dead. To waken it, Kreegsbrok forced black drink into its mouth. The black drink had a powerful effect on the thing. It always wanted more and Kreegsbrok had to be careful to keep it from intoxicating itself.
"You don't understand man-who-still-lives," said the Prophet one time. "You don't understand a thirst built over a thousand years."
But the Prophet lived enough to speak to the people, and that was all that was required of him. Every day the heralds went forth from the new temple to summon the crowds.
And they rose up and came to see him, in their tens of thousands. They came with the thunder of drums and the ululation of the multitude. They came with
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