Sword of Doom by James Jennewein Page B

his kingdom. By any measure, this prospect should have given him reason to smile. But Eldred suffered such moody fits of melancholy, it was often said a team of oxen would be hard pressed to lift his spirits.
    That morning he had conferred with his team of oracles. They had arrived wearing their filthy cowled robes, stinking of the various methods they employed to divine the future.One of them read the omens found in the reeking entrails of chickens. Another counted the maggots on sun-baked slabs of rotting meat. A third seer, having long forsaken his former technique of studying squirts of ox urine, now read the irises of sheep’s eyes floating in sour milk. Even though their prognostications often proved of dubious value, Eldred knew that a king’s power and prestige was measured by how many paid consultants he had on staff. So he suffered the strange odors and gave ear to their pronouncements, if only to sustain his regal aura with the commonfolk. But the king himself was not without his superstitions. Once, believing the lumps in his oatmeal to be an omen that he would die of hiccups, he issued an edict requiring that all visitors to his court hop on one leg when in his presence. Another time, a wolverine appeared to him in a dream and told him to eat nothing but mud. This he did for an entire week until, tiring of his diet, he took a dozen bowmen into the forest and for months hunted nothing but wolverines. He put on weight that winter eating nothing but wolverine stew.
    â€œWell, what have you divined?” the king asked the three seers gathered before him. “What have the fates foretold?”
    The Chief Oracle, whose name was Sandarr the Seer, stepped forward. His gaunt visage, fiery green eyes, and forked beard gave him a daunting look. And as he prepared to speak, he angled his head backward in such a way as to make it seem as if the twin points of his beard were aimed directly at the king. The king found this habit highlyannoying, hating it almost as much as the sulfurous odors that followed the seer around, but he desperately needed the talents his seers possessed and so indulged their many eccentricities. “Lord,” said Sandarr, “we have labored day and night to read the signs, going without sleep or nourishment—”
    â€œYes, yes, I know predicting the future is such hard work,” Eldred said irritably. “Just give me the results!”
    Sandarr turned to his subalterns, exchanging hushed whispers. Then he faced the king again and said, “It is as you wish. The party that nears the gates brings you promise of a worthy heir.”
    â€œBrings me promise ? What precisely does that mean? Is this Dane the Defiant the one or not?”
    â€œMy lord, the fates speak in obscurities. Perhaps he is. Then again—”
    â€œWould you care to be roasted on a spit?”
    The three exchanged whispers, and then Sandarr said, “No, my lord, we would not.”
    â€œSpare me the weasel words. Will a worthy heir to my kingdom soon show himself?”
    Again the oracles bowed their heads in conference. It irked Eldred no end that they never gave clear answers to his questions, always spouting convoluted pronouncements that were open to interpretation. And the king well knew why. In this way, if their prediction proved wrong, the oracle could blame his boss for the misinterpretation. They believethemselves so clever, thought Eldred the Moody, but I am the king and I can have each of their heads delivered to me on a pike if I so choose , and he made a mental note to see about having it done someday soon. Or should he have them drawn and quartered? Hmm. Decisions, decisions.
    At length the soothsayers ended their conference and Sandarr faced the king. “The answer to your question, my lord,” intoned the seer, raising his eyebrows, “will be written in blood.”
    Further angered by the obfuscations, Eldred picked up a gold drinking cup to throw at them.