had spat. The flame
gnawed at the amulet; it glowed and seemed to grow white-hot and presently
shivered in pieces.
There was uproar in the king’s hall. Men, freed from the spell of stone,
leaped to their feet and collided. Only the king lay in his chair like an old
man sick with fever.
The stranger of course was gone.
That night
there were many wonders. In the palaces of sixteen kings, sixteen omens. Many,
lying asleep, woke up with a start to shout for their priests to read a dream.
Ten spoke of a huge bird which, flying into their chambers, murmured to them in
a musical voice. In five kingdoms a serpent sprang out of the flaming hearth
like a coal and called aloud its message. And in the north, a young and very
handsome king, walking sleepless in his garden under the moon, met a man in a
black cloak, whose bearing was princely and who talked to him like a friend or
a brother and kissed him before leaving him, with a touch as fearful and as
thrilling as fire. And the substance of all these miracles on the night of the
sixteen kings was this: The sorcerous amulet of Zorashad the Tyrant is
destroyed, and his power is ended.
Vassalage to Zorashad had not been sweet to them. The heavy tributes had
worn them out; their pride ached like an old wound. They banded together and
soon fought with Zorashad a colossal battle on an eastern plan. No longer was
Zorashad a god. His hand shook, his face was white as paper. His brazen army
slunk away and left him and presently he was slain. But his old cruelties were
not forgotten. Like vultures the sixteen kings swooped on Zojad and razed it.
The palace burned, the treasure chambers were sacked, and the Chair of
Uncertainty itself was broken into splinters. The household of Zorashad they
put to the sword, as he had put to the sword so many households. Seven sons and
twelve daughters and all the wives of Zorashad perished on that night, even his
hounds and his horses they slew, even the birds that nested in his trees, such
was their hatred and their fear. Afterwards they rejoiced that they had slaughtered
every living thing that had belonged to the god-king of Zojad. But one living
thing had escaped them.
There was a child born that night, the thirteenth daughter of Zorashad.
The mother the soldiers found and slew, but an old woman, a nurse, had snatched
up the baby and run out with it. She ran along the great highway which led out
of Zojad, between the statues of Zorashad the god. And as she ran, she cursed
him. Near dawn her fragile heart cracked inside her and she fell dead. The
child dropped from her hands upon the paving of the road. Both its arms were
broken at the blow, and its soft face, scarcely formed, was ruined by the sharp
stone and the brambles that speared at it as it went rolling down among them.
By chance merely, its eyes were spared. It set up a feeble thin scream of
agony, but only the wind heard, the wind and the jackals creeping towards the
smouldering city.
2. King
Zorashad’s Daughter
A man lived
in the hills above Zojad. He was a hermit, a priest. His dwelling was a cave,
furnished with simple things, woven hangings of coarse plain cloth and a bed of
matting, and some magic too. The people of the villages round about brought him
their sick to heal, or came to ask his counsel. Once or twice a year he would
travel from place to place to speak words over their crops and pray for rain or
sun, whichever they required. In return they gave him such small things as he
needed—a bit of rope, an earthenware bowl, and every few days something would
be left a little way from his home, a pot of honey or a loaf or a basket of
fruit. No one came close to the cave. If they wished to speak to him, they
would stand on the slope nearby and call, for, although he was a hermit, he did
not live quite alone. Beasts would sometimes share his cave, the wolf, the
bear, even the lion. He had no fear of them, the holy man, nor they of him.
They came and went as they
gnawed at the amulet; it glowed and seemed to grow white-hot and presently
shivered in pieces.
There was uproar in the king’s hall. Men, freed from the spell of stone,
leaped to their feet and collided. Only the king lay in his chair like an old
man sick with fever.
The stranger of course was gone.
That night
there were many wonders. In the palaces of sixteen kings, sixteen omens. Many,
lying asleep, woke up with a start to shout for their priests to read a dream.
Ten spoke of a huge bird which, flying into their chambers, murmured to them in
a musical voice. In five kingdoms a serpent sprang out of the flaming hearth
like a coal and called aloud its message. And in the north, a young and very
handsome king, walking sleepless in his garden under the moon, met a man in a
black cloak, whose bearing was princely and who talked to him like a friend or
a brother and kissed him before leaving him, with a touch as fearful and as
thrilling as fire. And the substance of all these miracles on the night of the
sixteen kings was this: The sorcerous amulet of Zorashad the Tyrant is
destroyed, and his power is ended.
Vassalage to Zorashad had not been sweet to them. The heavy tributes had
worn them out; their pride ached like an old wound. They banded together and
soon fought with Zorashad a colossal battle on an eastern plan. No longer was
Zorashad a god. His hand shook, his face was white as paper. His brazen army
slunk away and left him and presently he was slain. But his old cruelties were
not forgotten. Like vultures the sixteen kings swooped on Zojad and razed it.
The palace burned, the treasure chambers were sacked, and the Chair of
Uncertainty itself was broken into splinters. The household of Zorashad they
put to the sword, as he had put to the sword so many households. Seven sons and
twelve daughters and all the wives of Zorashad perished on that night, even his
hounds and his horses they slew, even the birds that nested in his trees, such
was their hatred and their fear. Afterwards they rejoiced that they had slaughtered
every living thing that had belonged to the god-king of Zojad. But one living
thing had escaped them.
There was a child born that night, the thirteenth daughter of Zorashad.
The mother the soldiers found and slew, but an old woman, a nurse, had snatched
up the baby and run out with it. She ran along the great highway which led out
of Zojad, between the statues of Zorashad the god. And as she ran, she cursed
him. Near dawn her fragile heart cracked inside her and she fell dead. The
child dropped from her hands upon the paving of the road. Both its arms were
broken at the blow, and its soft face, scarcely formed, was ruined by the sharp
stone and the brambles that speared at it as it went rolling down among them.
By chance merely, its eyes were spared. It set up a feeble thin scream of
agony, but only the wind heard, the wind and the jackals creeping towards the
smouldering city.
2. King
Zorashad’s Daughter
A man lived
in the hills above Zojad. He was a hermit, a priest. His dwelling was a cave,
furnished with simple things, woven hangings of coarse plain cloth and a bed of
matting, and some magic too. The people of the villages round about brought him
their sick to heal, or came to ask his counsel. Once or twice a year he would
travel from place to place to speak words over their crops and pray for rain or
sun, whichever they required. In return they gave him such small things as he
needed—a bit of rope, an earthenware bowl, and every few days something would
be left a little way from his home, a pot of honey or a loaf or a basket of
fruit. No one came close to the cave. If they wished to speak to him, they
would stand on the slope nearby and call, for, although he was a hermit, he did
not live quite alone. Beasts would sometimes share his cave, the wolf, the
bear, even the lion. He had no fear of them, the holy man, nor they of him.
They came and went as they
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