the Asyphe Mountains, impossibly far away.
‘Well, well, well! I always hoped you’d turn up,’ Nibulus went on. ‘How’s Phalopaeia?’
‘Oh, still alive. Still spending all my money.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Same as ever: rank, sweaty and covered in jam.’
‘Come, have some wine. Or some porter? In fact, let’s get pissed!’
He turned to the others at the table. ‘Everyone, meet Methuselech Xilvafloese, a trusty old friend from way back. We used to ride together on my old man’s holy wars against the warriors of Frea-Vilyana.’ He gestured for Methuselech to take a seat in one of the vacant places, then went on with his introductions.
‘Uh . . . hullo,’ Gapp replied when it came to his turn. He wanted to say so much more, but this was the best he could manage in the presence of such sublime godliness. Just look at him! The gold of his boots and cummerbund shone like the flames on the highest temple altar, bringing with it the reflected warmth of hotter climes; the colour of his cloak’s lining was not merely red, but the scarlet of the blood of the gods themselves; while the dazzling white of his baggy shirt and trousers shone with a brilliance that surely no mortal bleacher anywhere on Lindormyn could match.
The black of his cloak, however . . . well, that wasn’t any superior to the local black. No, Aescals, he had to concede, were good at all things black. Why did everything have to be so drab up North? Gapp’s own varicoloured tunic seemed to him so washed out, faded and dull – even the hues that were meant to be showy.
The desert man merely scanned the boy up and down without a word. Gapp was summoning up courage to address the newcomer further but just then, with a strident fanfare, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus finally arrived. Flanked by two personal bodyguards, his scribe, his steward and his accountant, all arrayed in their finest livery, he strode towards them with a solemnity and pomp normally associated with royalty. Resplendent in green, white, black and gold, Artibulus bore upon his chest the xiphoid purple badge of Unferth, representing the sword of Pel-Adan himself and which could only be worn by a general. Armour that shone with the lustre of chrome glittered beneath every gap in his raiment, and his hair and even his face gleamed with a special radiance, as if he had just plunged his head into a tub of syrup.
Many immediately leapt up from their seats and began to cheer and clap, adding their throaty voices to the general cacophony of the ear-splitting fanfare. Others, however, just sat where they were with their fingers in their ears. Those at the head table rose as one, in greeting. Even Bolldhe tiredly got to his feet and expressionlessly imitated their salute.
‘My most noble warriors of Pel-Adan, and honoured guests from afar,’ announced the herald, though few could hear his words, ‘I present to you, the most High and Excellent, Splendid and Magnificent, the pre-eminent Peladane of the North, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus!’
The cheering waxed into an uproar as the Warlord grandly paraded through them. Holding his head high, he nodded left and right in gracious acknowledgement. A thousand heads strained forward to better view this near-god who now walked among them, almost swooning from the opiate charisma that emanated from his transcendent majesty. Even those who had suffered at his hands over the years now roared in jubilation, eyes moist with fervour. The heady aroma of herd instinct could be smelt for miles around.
Mounting the dais, Artibulus took his seat in the centre of the long table. Gapp, now that he saw him close at hand for the first time in his life, could not help feeling that the man looked more like a wealthy merchant or banker than a warrior.
Though Methuselech hastily faded into the throng, Artibulus noticed him immediately. His noble mien lightened for a moment as he smiled in surprise at his trusted comrade-in-arms. Meanwhile, the crowd
‘Well, well, well! I always hoped you’d turn up,’ Nibulus went on. ‘How’s Phalopaeia?’
‘Oh, still alive. Still spending all my money.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Same as ever: rank, sweaty and covered in jam.’
‘Come, have some wine. Or some porter? In fact, let’s get pissed!’
He turned to the others at the table. ‘Everyone, meet Methuselech Xilvafloese, a trusty old friend from way back. We used to ride together on my old man’s holy wars against the warriors of Frea-Vilyana.’ He gestured for Methuselech to take a seat in one of the vacant places, then went on with his introductions.
‘Uh . . . hullo,’ Gapp replied when it came to his turn. He wanted to say so much more, but this was the best he could manage in the presence of such sublime godliness. Just look at him! The gold of his boots and cummerbund shone like the flames on the highest temple altar, bringing with it the reflected warmth of hotter climes; the colour of his cloak’s lining was not merely red, but the scarlet of the blood of the gods themselves; while the dazzling white of his baggy shirt and trousers shone with a brilliance that surely no mortal bleacher anywhere on Lindormyn could match.
The black of his cloak, however . . . well, that wasn’t any superior to the local black. No, Aescals, he had to concede, were good at all things black. Why did everything have to be so drab up North? Gapp’s own varicoloured tunic seemed to him so washed out, faded and dull – even the hues that were meant to be showy.
The desert man merely scanned the boy up and down without a word. Gapp was summoning up courage to address the newcomer further but just then, with a strident fanfare, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus finally arrived. Flanked by two personal bodyguards, his scribe, his steward and his accountant, all arrayed in their finest livery, he strode towards them with a solemnity and pomp normally associated with royalty. Resplendent in green, white, black and gold, Artibulus bore upon his chest the xiphoid purple badge of Unferth, representing the sword of Pel-Adan himself and which could only be worn by a general. Armour that shone with the lustre of chrome glittered beneath every gap in his raiment, and his hair and even his face gleamed with a special radiance, as if he had just plunged his head into a tub of syrup.
Many immediately leapt up from their seats and began to cheer and clap, adding their throaty voices to the general cacophony of the ear-splitting fanfare. Others, however, just sat where they were with their fingers in their ears. Those at the head table rose as one, in greeting. Even Bolldhe tiredly got to his feet and expressionlessly imitated their salute.
‘My most noble warriors of Pel-Adan, and honoured guests from afar,’ announced the herald, though few could hear his words, ‘I present to you, the most High and Excellent, Splendid and Magnificent, the pre-eminent Peladane of the North, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus!’
The cheering waxed into an uproar as the Warlord grandly paraded through them. Holding his head high, he nodded left and right in gracious acknowledgement. A thousand heads strained forward to better view this near-god who now walked among them, almost swooning from the opiate charisma that emanated from his transcendent majesty. Even those who had suffered at his hands over the years now roared in jubilation, eyes moist with fervour. The heady aroma of herd instinct could be smelt for miles around.
Mounting the dais, Artibulus took his seat in the centre of the long table. Gapp, now that he saw him close at hand for the first time in his life, could not help feeling that the man looked more like a wealthy merchant or banker than a warrior.
Though Methuselech hastily faded into the throng, Artibulus noticed him immediately. His noble mien lightened for a moment as he smiled in surprise at his trusted comrade-in-arms. Meanwhile, the crowd
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