Bili the Axe

Epilogue

Crushed blossoms and herbs littered the carpeted floor of the high-ceilinged, dim chamber, while scented resins and other varieties of incense glowed atop the coals in the many braziers. But despite these, the stench of supperating flesh was easily detected. Three persons occupied the room—old Bili of Morguhn, Prince of Karaleenos, lay upon the massive bed, slowly dying of his infected wounds, while his overlords, the Undying High Lords Milo of Morai and Tim of Sanderz-Vawn, stood in a far corner talking in hushed tones.

The two High Lords thought old Bili completely comatose, but he was not. He had, for some hours now, been mentally reliving his tempestuous days of youth and love and war, now almost four score years in the past. The combination of drugs and posthypnotic suggestion by use of which the Zahrtohgahn physicians were easing his pain made such journeyings down the dim corridors of memory often far more real than the smoky, stinking chamber and the sweat-soaked bed upon which his old, torn, broken body now lay.

While the two low voices droned on—the baritone of Lord Milo, the tenor of Bili’s half-brother, Lord Tim—the dying prince thought, “New Kuhmbuhluhnburk. Well, we did see it again, the most of my squadron, but by then the king was dead along with his heir, and poor, brave, cursed Prince Byruhn gravely wounded. Sun and Wind be praised that that city was as good as invulnerable to attack, for King Mahrtuhn’s death-dealing stupidity left precious few of the New Kuhmbuhluhn heavy-armed, fighters alive or unwounded to defend it from the Skohshuns.

“Of course, as well-victualed and -watered as that city was, we could easily have sat up there until the Skohshuns starved or grew long, white beards in their siege-camps and lines. But with crawling, nameless horror stalking the streets of the city by night…”

“Aaarrgh!” The burning flash of agony struck the old man with such unexpected suddenness that he cried out before he could clamp down his worn teeth to stifle the cry. His wasted body involuntarily flexed, and this gave birth to more pain.

Abruptly, the speakers broke off their low-voiced conversation, and after a second, one hurried out, to return with a brace of dark-skinned men clad in flowing, white garments, the younger of them bearing a small, brass-bound leathern chest.

Dimly, seemingly floating above him, Bili recognized the wrinkled face of Master Ahkmehd, concern, pity and sorrow mingling in his brown eyes.

“Well, old friend,” rasped Bili hoarsely, from between his clenched teeth, “we’ve not many more rods to ride in company, you and I.”

The Zahrtohgahn nodded, sadly. “If only my lord had seen fit to allow me to remove the smashed, poisoned limbs…”

A fresh wave of pain caused old Bili to tighten his jaws until the knots of muscle stood out at the corners and beads of sweat popped from his forehead. When he again spoke, his voice was noticeably weaker. “I’d have died anyway and you well know it, Master Ahkmehd. Since Sacred Sun granted me the choice, I simply chose to die whole. Now, if it please you, I’ll have a bit more of that vile concoction you brew… that, and a sharp-pointed dagger, for I feel that it is about time that I commence another journey, one long-deferred. And, please, have your apprentice take my axe off yonder wall and lay it here, beside me. Who truly knows but what I may not need it on this new road I’ll so shortly ride?”