centuries
past, the followers of the Death Goddess had practised bloody rites,
including human sacrifice. Over the years these practices had
moderated and the faithful of Lims-Kragma had entered the mainstream
of society. Still, past fears died slowly. And even now enough bloody
work was done in the Death Goddess’s name by fanatics to keep
her temple tainted by a patina of horror for most common men. Now a
band of such common men, with perhaps a few uncommon ones hidden
among them, was being marched into that temple.
Arutha stood
silently by the entrance to the inner sanctum of the Temple of
Lims-Kragma. Armed guards surrounded the antechamber while temple
guards in the black and silver garb of their order filled the inner
temple. Seven priests and priestesses stood arrayed in formal attire,
as if for a high ceremony, under the supervision of the High Priest,
Julian. At first the High Priest had been disinclined to participate
in this charade, but as his predecessor had been driven past the
brink of insanity by confronting the agent of Murmandamus, he was
sympathetic to any attempts to balk that evil. Reluctantly he had
agreed at the last.
The prisoners
were herded forward, toward the dark entrance. Most held back and had
to be shoved by spear-wielding soldiers. The first band contained
those judged most likely to be members of the brotherhood of
assassins. Arutha had grudgingly agreed to this sham, but had
insisted on having all suspected of being Nighthawks in the first
batch to be ‘tested’, in case the deception was revealed
and word leaked back to the other prisoners being held.
When the
reluctant prisoners were arraigned before the altar of the Goddess of
Death, Julian intoned, “Let the trial commence.” At once
the attending priests, priestesses, and monks began a chant, one that
carried a dark and chilling tone.
Turning to the
fifty or so men held by the silent temple guards, the High Priest
said, “Upon the altar stone of death, no man may speak
falsehood. For before She Who Waits, before the Drawer of Nets,
before the Lover of Life, all men must swear to what they have done.
Know then, men of Krondor, that among your number are those who have
rejected our mistress, those who have enlisted in the ranks of
darkness and who serve evil powers. They are men who are lost to the
grace of death, to the final rest granted by Lims-Kragma. These men
are despisers of all, holding only to their evil master’s will.
Now they shall be separated from us. For each who lies upon the stone
of the Goddess of Death will be tested, and each who speaks true will
have nothing to fear. But those who have sworn dark compacts will be
revealed and they shall face the wrath of She Who Waits.”
The statue
behind the altar, a jet stone likeness of a beautiful, stern-looking
woman, began to glow, to pulse with strange blue-green lights. Jimmy
was impressed, as he looked on with Laurie. The effect added a strong
sense of drama to the moment.
Julian motioned
for the first prisoner to be brought forward and the man was half
dragged to the altar. Three strong guards lifted him up onto the
altar, used ages past for human sacrifice, and Julian pulled a black
dagger from his sleeve. Holding it over the man’s chest, Julian
asked simply, “Do you serve Murmandamus?”
The man barely
croaked out a reply in the negative and Julian removed the dagger
from over the man. “This man is free of guilt,” intoned
the priest. Jimmy and Laurie exchanged glances, for the man was one
of Trevor Hull’s sailors, ragged and rough looking in the
extreme, but above suspicion and, judging from the performance just
given, not a mean actor. He had been planted to lend credibility to
the proceedings, as had the second man, who was now being dragged to
the altar. He sobbed piteously, yelling to be left alone, begging for
mercy.
Behind an
upraised hand, Jimmy said, “He’s overdoing it.”
Laurie
whispered, “It doesn’t matter; the room stinks
past, the followers of the Death Goddess had practised bloody rites,
including human sacrifice. Over the years these practices had
moderated and the faithful of Lims-Kragma had entered the mainstream
of society. Still, past fears died slowly. And even now enough bloody
work was done in the Death Goddess’s name by fanatics to keep
her temple tainted by a patina of horror for most common men. Now a
band of such common men, with perhaps a few uncommon ones hidden
among them, was being marched into that temple.
Arutha stood
silently by the entrance to the inner sanctum of the Temple of
Lims-Kragma. Armed guards surrounded the antechamber while temple
guards in the black and silver garb of their order filled the inner
temple. Seven priests and priestesses stood arrayed in formal attire,
as if for a high ceremony, under the supervision of the High Priest,
Julian. At first the High Priest had been disinclined to participate
in this charade, but as his predecessor had been driven past the
brink of insanity by confronting the agent of Murmandamus, he was
sympathetic to any attempts to balk that evil. Reluctantly he had
agreed at the last.
The prisoners
were herded forward, toward the dark entrance. Most held back and had
to be shoved by spear-wielding soldiers. The first band contained
those judged most likely to be members of the brotherhood of
assassins. Arutha had grudgingly agreed to this sham, but had
insisted on having all suspected of being Nighthawks in the first
batch to be ‘tested’, in case the deception was revealed
and word leaked back to the other prisoners being held.
When the
reluctant prisoners were arraigned before the altar of the Goddess of
Death, Julian intoned, “Let the trial commence.” At once
the attending priests, priestesses, and monks began a chant, one that
carried a dark and chilling tone.
Turning to the
fifty or so men held by the silent temple guards, the High Priest
said, “Upon the altar stone of death, no man may speak
falsehood. For before She Who Waits, before the Drawer of Nets,
before the Lover of Life, all men must swear to what they have done.
Know then, men of Krondor, that among your number are those who have
rejected our mistress, those who have enlisted in the ranks of
darkness and who serve evil powers. They are men who are lost to the
grace of death, to the final rest granted by Lims-Kragma. These men
are despisers of all, holding only to their evil master’s will.
Now they shall be separated from us. For each who lies upon the stone
of the Goddess of Death will be tested, and each who speaks true will
have nothing to fear. But those who have sworn dark compacts will be
revealed and they shall face the wrath of She Who Waits.”
The statue
behind the altar, a jet stone likeness of a beautiful, stern-looking
woman, began to glow, to pulse with strange blue-green lights. Jimmy
was impressed, as he looked on with Laurie. The effect added a strong
sense of drama to the moment.
Julian motioned
for the first prisoner to be brought forward and the man was half
dragged to the altar. Three strong guards lifted him up onto the
altar, used ages past for human sacrifice, and Julian pulled a black
dagger from his sleeve. Holding it over the man’s chest, Julian
asked simply, “Do you serve Murmandamus?”
The man barely
croaked out a reply in the negative and Julian removed the dagger
from over the man. “This man is free of guilt,” intoned
the priest. Jimmy and Laurie exchanged glances, for the man was one
of Trevor Hull’s sailors, ragged and rough looking in the
extreme, but above suspicion and, judging from the performance just
given, not a mean actor. He had been planted to lend credibility to
the proceedings, as had the second man, who was now being dragged to
the altar. He sobbed piteously, yelling to be left alone, begging for
mercy.
Behind an
upraised hand, Jimmy said, “He’s overdoing it.”
Laurie
whispered, “It doesn’t matter; the room stinks
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