Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [31]
Holding his fiery steeds in check, Prince Garald was a magnificent sight, accoutered in silver armor that had been handed down among his family for generations; some said it came from the ancient world and that it was endowed with spells of victory and protection for the wearer. He carried his helm beneath his arm, his chestnut hair ruffled in the wind. Making a formal bow to the residents of Merilon, he turned his horses’ heads and began to drive his chariot around the walls of the city. As he galloped past, he caused banners of the kingdom of Sharakan to unfurl from out the air, until Merilon was ringed round by the sparkling colors of its enemy. So handsome was the Prince, so awesome was the sight of the black, fire-breathing steeds, and so beautiful were the banners that the inhabitants of Merilon gave the spectacular sight a rousing cheer.
Arriving back at the front Gate of the city, Prince Garald brought his chariot to a halt. Raising his hand, he caused the trumpet to sound again. Suddenly, savage centaur—their half-human, half-bestial faces twisted in rage, their hooves striking the ground—poured out from the Corridors. They rushed straight for the domed city, death burning in their eyes. In their hands they held spears—weapons of the Dark Arts.
Above them flew dragons, tearing the air with their talons, poisoning it with their foul breath. Giants appeared next, their huge heads on a level with City Above, leering at the tiny people below them with dumbfounded grins. Griffons, chimeras, satyrs, sphinxes—all manners and types of magical beasts—burst out of the Corridors, howling in rage, eager to taste human blood.
No one in Merilon applauded now. Children wailed in terror. Mothers grabbed their shrieking babes, men leaped to guard their families. The noblemen, furious at this effrontery, shouted out oaths, their lady wives rose to the occasion by decorously fainting dead away.
When the centaurs were within spears throw of the walls, when the giants were reaching down their huge hands, when it appeared that the dragons were prepared to crash through the magical dome, Prince Garald ordered the trumpet call to sound a final time.
One by one, with brilliant, multicolored starbursts and roaring explosions that shook the ground, the illusions vanished. Left behind, the exhausted warlocks and their equally weary catalysts who had created the illusions had just strength enough to bow proudly to the stunned people of Merilon.
Lifting his banner above his head, Prince Garald shouted in a voice that could be heard throughout the city.
“I call upon you people of Merilon to overthrow your evil leader and his toad of a Bishop. You live in a dream as tragically dead as your late Empress, a dream as sadly insane as your late Emperor. Destroy the dome that hides you from the real world. We, in Sharakan, offer you life. Return to the land of the living.
“If you refuse to rid yourself of these parasites that feed on your blood, then we will do so ourselves, in order that they do not infect the rest of the world. There will be war between our kingdoms.
“What is your answer?”
“War! War!” shouted the people of Merilon in a high state of excitement. “War! War!” the nobles chanted. The fainted ladies roused themselves in time to cry, “War!” Mothers coaxed their babies to crow the word, “War!” which they did with mimicking, uncomprehending delight. Children shrieked, “War!” and conjured up pointed sticks on the spot, imitating the spears they had seen the centaurs holding. University students yelled, “War!” and vowed to a man to enlist in the army as soon as possible. Several young catalysts chanting “War! War!” were rebuked by a passing Deaconess, who reminded them sternly that the Almin was opposed to bloodshed. But since the Deaconess was in a hurry—on the way to offer her aid to the warlocks—she did not have time to watch over the culprits, and