Read Online Flame Winds by Norvell W. Page - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norvell W. Page
Tags: Fantasy, Sword & Sorcery
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and alabaster and sweet-smelling cedar. About them writhed golden, fire-tongued dragons. Beneath them, the thick-pressed ranks of people were dwarfed. Wan Tengri’s eyes followed the sweep of the columns and widened to the shock of the figure that filled the entire end of this great hall. A great, many-armed body rose from a robe of cloth-of-gold that glittered with jewels, and the face was a horror of burning blue and scarlet. Tusks thrust out between blood-dripping lips, and the horns that jutted from the temples were tipped in flame. He stood— Christos, he stood before Ahriman for judgment!
Weakness flowed through the marrow of his bones and a great cry swelled his chest. He held it down with an effort that made the veins swell in his temples and suffused his eyes so that he saw through a dancing, reddened veil. He was Prester John. No man, not even Ahriman amid his hell fire, should see him show fear. He clenched his giant’s fists and became aware of the brass that manacled him. Slowly, his vision cleared and he looked down at his weathered, scar-wealed body. He had been stripped to a loincloth, and the thews of his legs, like his arms, were festooned with chains that tinkled like silvery bells to his every movement, like the silvery bells that graced the throat of bulls sacrificed to Isis. Every muscle stood out in rigid relief as he strained his wrists apart against the grip of those chains. They seemed so light, a mockery of captivity, yet his utmost strength served not to strain a link. Enchantment again. Ah, to Ahriman with all of them! They could do no more than kill him!
Prester John’s fiery red head lifted and his crimson beard bristled in defiance. He set his gray eyes, under lowered brows, against the fire-dancing eyes of the god, Ahriman. The fragment of the True Cross lifted with the surge of his great chest.
“I await,” his mighty voice boomed. “I await the judgment of Ahriman. And may the wind-devils who sired me fly away with you.”
A murmur ran over the waiting throng as the echoes of his challenge died out in the groined vaults above. Robed priests were filing out from black doorways and, like the soldiers who surrounded the enchanted fountain, their robes were of seven colors, and each file was led by a man in the livery of a different wizard. Despite the certainty of approaching death, Wan Tengri’s lips twitched in a smile. Even here, in the temple of the Ahriman, the wizards did not trust each other. He wondered, absently, which of those priests were the men of Tsien Hui? His humor came to the aid of his courage. What was that Ahriman there but a fabric of man-made wood or stone, draped in man-wrought cloth-of-gold? It was true mat men said the spirit of a god came to inhabit the figures men made in his worship. Only Christos forbade all that. Some of his followers had been crucified for smashing the little terracotta home gods of the Romans. It was comforting to remember that it had been the hands of men, and not the gods, that had punished the Christians for that.
Prester John jangled his wrist chains in time to the slow, chanting march of the priests, and they made a sound like light laughter. He saw that they were fastened to a block of stone in the floor. Despite their enchantments, the wizards were taking no chances with him! Wan Tengri allowed his eyes to roam over the waiting crowds. A saucy wench peered at him from behind an alabaster column; a brass-cuirassed guard glared at him from beneath his helmet’s brim. From a litter, a wealthy merchant in his silks and furs lifted himself on a languorous elbow to peer beneath incurious lids.
A sudden rumble, like distant thunder, whipped Wan Tengri’s eyes back to Ahriman. Sparks were flying from those awful eyes and, as Wan Tengri stared, those evil-tusked jaws began to champ. There was a wail of terror from the crowd. The priests were on their knees and, as one man, the waiting throng hurled itself prone, drummed foreheads
Weakness flowed through the marrow of his bones and a great cry swelled his chest. He held it down with an effort that made the veins swell in his temples and suffused his eyes so that he saw through a dancing, reddened veil. He was Prester John. No man, not even Ahriman amid his hell fire, should see him show fear. He clenched his giant’s fists and became aware of the brass that manacled him. Slowly, his vision cleared and he looked down at his weathered, scar-wealed body. He had been stripped to a loincloth, and the thews of his legs, like his arms, were festooned with chains that tinkled like silvery bells to his every movement, like the silvery bells that graced the throat of bulls sacrificed to Isis. Every muscle stood out in rigid relief as he strained his wrists apart against the grip of those chains. They seemed so light, a mockery of captivity, yet his utmost strength served not to strain a link. Enchantment again. Ah, to Ahriman with all of them! They could do no more than kill him!
Prester John’s fiery red head lifted and his crimson beard bristled in defiance. He set his gray eyes, under lowered brows, against the fire-dancing eyes of the god, Ahriman. The fragment of the True Cross lifted with the surge of his great chest.
“I await,” his mighty voice boomed. “I await the judgment of Ahriman. And may the wind-devils who sired me fly away with you.”
A murmur ran over the waiting throng as the echoes of his challenge died out in the groined vaults above. Robed priests were filing out from black doorways and, like the soldiers who surrounded the enchanted fountain, their robes were of seven colors, and each file was led by a man in the livery of a different wizard. Despite the certainty of approaching death, Wan Tengri’s lips twitched in a smile. Even here, in the temple of the Ahriman, the wizards did not trust each other. He wondered, absently, which of those priests were the men of Tsien Hui? His humor came to the aid of his courage. What was that Ahriman there but a fabric of man-made wood or stone, draped in man-wrought cloth-of-gold? It was true mat men said the spirit of a god came to inhabit the figures men made in his worship. Only Christos forbade all that. Some of his followers had been crucified for smashing the little terracotta home gods of the Romans. It was comforting to remember that it had been the hands of men, and not the gods, that had punished the Christians for that.
Prester John jangled his wrist chains in time to the slow, chanting march of the priests, and they made a sound like light laughter. He saw that they were fastened to a block of stone in the floor. Despite their enchantments, the wizards were taking no chances with him! Wan Tengri allowed his eyes to roam over the waiting crowds. A saucy wench peered at him from behind an alabaster column; a brass-cuirassed guard glared at him from beneath his helmet’s brim. From a litter, a wealthy merchant in his silks and furs lifted himself on a languorous elbow to peer beneath incurious lids.
A sudden rumble, like distant thunder, whipped Wan Tengri’s eyes back to Ahriman. Sparks were flying from those awful eyes and, as Wan Tengri stared, those evil-tusked jaws began to champ. There was a wail of terror from the crowd. The priests were on their knees and, as one man, the waiting throng hurled itself prone, drummed foreheads
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