Winged Raiders of the Desert by Gilbert L. Morris

Author:Gilbert L. Morris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Moody Publishers
Published: 2011-01-29T05:00:00+00:00

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.

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