9

The Dark Lord Awakes

Elmas, Chief Interrogator of the Sanhedrin, stood before a large map examining various marks in the form of small black crosses. From time to time a look of satisfaction gleamed in his small eyes, and his lips curled upward in a ruthless smile. His office was circular, studded with torches that cast a flickering glow over the thick form of the Chief Interrogator.

Back in the shadows a dark form lurked. This was Malon, the lieutenant of Elmas. He had learned long ago to read the countenance of his chief, and when the brow of the thickset figure wrinkled, he flinched slightly.

“What is it, Sire?” he asked quickly.

Elmas turned and put a baleful stare on Malon. “We are not making enough progress,” he grunted. His face was fat and creased with thick folds, and there was an elephantine clumsiness in him as he suddenly slapped the wall with his fist. “Goél's forces seem to be surviving. I want them stamped out!”

“But, Sire, we have slain many in the past weeks—”

“I don't want many, I want all of them dead. Why didn't you—”

The stone door slid to one side, its rollers creaking, and a red-robed figure came in quickly. “Sire,” he said, “you are summoned to the castle of the Dark Lord.”

The face of Elmas was pale in any case, but it grew even more pasty at this word.

“What did he say exactly?”

“Just for you to come quickly.”

Elmas pulled himself together. Reaching toward a hook he withdrew a cape, threw it about his shoulders, and left his office. A journey to the castle of the Dark Lord was not a pleasant thing to contemplate. He settled himself inside his private carriage, and the horses began driving forward as he commanded the coachman, “Be quick to the castle!”

The horse hooves thundered over the road, and the carriage swayed from side to side. As the miles rolled by, Elmas sat hunched inside, wondering what would be awaiting him when he arrived. He was not a man without courage, but a visit to the Dark Lord always seemed to drain him of all strength.

It was growing dark when the carriage pulled up in front of the castle, a rising stone structure without ornament that seemed to cover the sky as he dismounted from his carriage. Ignoring the coachman, he advanced toward the door, which was a steel grate. A dark-cloaked warrior appeared from nowhere and cried, “What is your business?”

“The Dark Lord commands my presence. I am Elmas, Chief Interrogator of the Sanhedrin.”

“Enter.”

At the word, the gate rose creaking and grinding. The screech of its passage grated on the nerves of Elmas, and as he passed under he saw the sharp teeth along the lower edge and shivered to think what it would be like to be caught under them. He passed over a moat and, looking down, saw the waters stir with long, serpentine forms. Once a head emerged, filled with what seemed to be hundreds of razor sharp teeth. He shuddered, drew his cloak about him, and passed quickly over.

He was intercepted by another guard, who took him at once down a series of labyrinthine passageways. He passed many cell doors, and from some of them he heard the pitiful crying of the victims imprisoned inside. Once again he wished that he were anywhere except in the service of the Dark Lord. It paid well, but it was dangerous work!

“Wait here.”

As the guard left him outside a huge door, guarded by four stalwart ruffians, Elmas thought, I see now how little power I have. I make men tremble with my commands, but when the Dark Lord calls, it is I who am filled with terror.

His guard reappeared, motioned silently, and stepped aside.

Elmas entered the room filled with memories of other visits. It was an enormous room with a cathedral ceiling, and torches lit the gloom, casting flickering shadows over a huge table that was big enough to seat a hundred men. The walls were draped with black, all bearing a strange silver device like a broken cross. At one end sat a throne on an elevated dais.

On the throne, a figure sat. The Dark Lord wore a black cloak with a hood that covered his features. Nevertheless, Elmas could see the burning red eyes that glittered in the murky darkness.

“Come closer, fool.”

Elmas moved forward, his knees feeling weak as water. He fell on them at once, bowed, and said, “I come at your command, Most Dread Lord.”

Silence filled the room, and Elmas was afraid to look up. Finally he lifted his eyes, and as he did the Dark Lord said, “As usual, you have failed. I do not know why I have allowed you to live so long.”

“If Your Majesty will be more specific—”

“ I speak of the Seven Sleepers!” The Dark Lord rose and came down the steps. He was tall and forbidding, and the hand that extended from the robe was strong and like an eagles talon. Lifting one arm, he cried, “I have commanded you to kill them all, and you have failed!”

The hand closed around Elmas's throat. He felt the air leaving his body and cried out in a gurgling plea, “Stop! Please! Your Majesty!” The air seemed to grow hot, and he fell forward on his face, gagging and choking.

The tall figure slowly let his hand drop and waited until Elmas was able to sit up. “You have failed me, but the others are even bigger fools. I have word of the Seven Sleepers.”

Elmas got to his feet shakily, and his voice quavered as he said, “Tell me where they are, Sire.”

“Little good it will do. You always fail where they are concerned.” Nevertheless, the Dark Lord turned to say, “They are in the desert country at a place called the Citadel.”

“Yes, Sire, I know the place. I will send at once to have them killed.”

“You have sent before and never have found them.”

“This time we will not fail, Your Majesty.” Elmas spoke with more assurance than he felt. Somehow, when the Seven Sleepers were mentioned, he always felt a quake of fear. He well knew the prophecies that, when the Seven Sleepers woke, the darkness would be rolled back. Nevertheless, he knew better than to speak his thoughts before the Dark Lord. Instead he said, “I have one who knows that country. His name is Jalor, and he was chief of the Shadow Wings before I sent him on an undercover mission to the Winged Raiders. He is acting as my spy there even as we speak.”

“Then use him. Many of the Shadow Wings are fierce warriors. Surely they can kill seven children.”

“Yes, Sire, I will go at once, if there is nothing else.”

The Dark Lord nodded and gestured with imperial disgust. “Get out! And see that you do not fail.”

Elmas scrambled to his feet and moved backward, bowing as he went. Finally he turned, and the door slammed shut behind him. He drew a shaking hand across his forehead, then glanced up to see the guards grinning at him. With a grunt he drew his robe about him and stalked out of the room. His guard was waiting, and then he was in his carriage headed back for the home of the Sanhedrin.

As soon as he arrived, he commanded, “Send word to Jalor that I must speak with him.”

“Yes, Sire, at once!”

Two days later the door opened, and a red-robed priest announced, “Jalor—my lord Elmas.”

A small man entered and stood before the Chief Interrogator. “You sent for me, my lord?” he asked. He was undersized, yet there was strength in his trim body. He had hawklike features and a pair of penetrating eyes. His mouth was thin and cruel.

“Yes, I have a mission for you, Jalor.”

“Command me, Sire!”

“It concerns your kinsmen, the Shadow Wings. I have work for them to do. It concerns the Winged Raiders.”

An expression of hatred flashed across the face of Jalor. “Chief White Storm is a strong warrior but a fool.”

“He may be a fool, but his band is fierce. Can you engage the Shadow Wings in a battle against the Winged Raiders?”

Jalor hesitated. “It would be difficult, Sire. We would have to use trickery, but … but wait—I have a plan.” He hesitated, then said, “The Dark Lord himself has commanded this?”

“Yes, and he also commands that you slay the Seven Sleepers. They have escaped time and time again. I cannot explain it. They are mere children, and they have eluded our most powerful attempts.”

“They are the servants of Goél.” Jalor nodded. “This time they will die. Let me explain my plan …”