Free The Warlords of Nin by Stephen Lawhead

but turned his horse and started slowly away. The messenger spurred his mount forward and drew up beside his departing commander. “Something has displeased you, my master?” The question betrayed apprehension.
    â€œNo, it is well. Our task is complete. I will return to the ships; you will accompany me. I may have need of a messenger.” He lifted himself in his saddle and called to several riders who waited a little distance apart. The riders held their helmets under one arm and stared impassively ahead at the smoke curling upward.
    â€œYou four”—the commander gestured with his gauntleted hand—“stay with the men and occupy this place. You others will come with me. We ride at once. Follow.”
    â€œBut what is to be done with the prisoners, Most Excellent One?” called the messenger after the dark retreating form. The warlord did not turn nor look around, but the messenger heard the words drifting back to him.
    â€œKill them,” his commander said.

    The room hung heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning incense, and clouds of aromatic vapor drifted about the great figure seated on a throne of silk cushions. Tiny colored birds fluttered and chirped in cages nearby, their songs accompanied by the soothing notes of a flute.
    Presently, the tinkling ring of a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by a rustle of clothing. The gigantic form seated on the throne appeared to be asleep, for he did not move or acknowledge the intrusion in any way; the huge head rested heavily on the thick neck rising from massive shoulders and a great barrel chest. The meaty hands clasping one another in the wide lap remained motionless, thumbs pressed together.
    â€œImmortal One, I have news,” said the minister who had just entered so quietly. He waited on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor, hands thrust before him, palms upward.
    â€œYou may speak, Uzla.” The voice seemed to fill the small room, even though the words had been spoken quietly.
    â€œYour warlords have returned. And they bring tidings of victory. The cities of the coast are subdued.”
    â€œHas a suitable residence been found for me?”
    â€œAlas, no, Immortal One, these were but small villages, and none possessed a dwelling worthy of your being. For this effrontery the villages have been burned and the ashes scattered, lest the sight of them displease you.”
    Nin the Destroyer looked darkly upon his most trusted minister. “This land will feel my wrath!” he shouted. The birds trembled in their cages, and the music stopped. Uzla, the prime minister, cowered below him on the floor.
    â€œThe wretches of this accursed land speak of many castles in the north, and one in particular which may serve your needs while you sojourn here to subject this land to your will.”
    â€œWhat is the name of this palace?”
    â€œIt is called Askelon. It is the city of the high king of this land—one known as the Dragon King.”
    â€œAh,” said Nin softly. “The sound of these words pleases me. Say them again.”
    â€œAskelon is the home of the Dragon King.”
    â€œIt will be my home, and I will be the Dragon King. This pleases me. I have never killed a dragon before—have I, Uzla?”
    â€œNo, my Deity. Not to my knowledge.” He hastened to add, “That is, unless in a previous life, of course.”
    â€œThen I will look forward to that event with anticipation, and I will savor the moment of its accomplishment.” He stood slowly. “Now, where are my warlords?” Nin asked, his deep voice booming.
    â€œThey await you on the beach,” replied Uzla. “I will summon them.”
    â€œNo, I will go to them. They have achieved my desires and will be rewarded by the sight of their god drawing near to them.”
    â€œAs you command, Great One.”
    Uzla bowed again and raised himself from the floor. He turned and withdrew