background, the funeral band played on. A mournful ballad rose through the caverns, drowning out everything else.
As if on cue, Bolrakei entered a side corridor, surrounded by her advisors. She was a sight to behold. She had refused to wear the official colors of mourning. Instead of gray or white, her vast bulk was squeezed into a shiny green dress, topped with a metallic cape. The whole outfit was decorated with peacock feathers. Her neck and wrists glittered with jewels. To complete the ensemble, she had chosen an enormous plumed headdress, which trailed silver ribbons that reached down to her waist.
It was the gaudiest attire that Skemtun had ever seen, especially at a funeral. But no one said anything out loud. Skemtun just shook his head. It wouldn’t be right to curse at a funeral.
A single trumpet sounded, and the band went silent.
The attendants walked down the stairs, carrying the funeral litter into the waiting crowd below. Everyone could see the body clearly; the king’s hands were folded, and his expression was peaceful. The spellcasters had done an excellent job covering the king’s scars and mottled skin. He looked like a younger version of himself, and it was as if he were merely sleeping.
Everyone waved their clan flags and stood aside while the two clan leaders positioned themselves at the front. Bolrakei and Skemtun stood side-by-side, not arguing for once. Theirs were places of honor. Skemtun glanced into the crowd. Kathir kept a respectful distance, but he was still in sight. Four other dwarves stepped forward to represent the remaining clans, but they stayed in the back, behind the king.
Skemtun raised his clan flag and stepped forward. The main gates were opened, and the king’s body was carried outside where it was immediately lowered to the ground for a prayer. He shot a disgusted look at Bolrakei, who was waving enthusiastically, as if she were in a carnival procession.
He realized then how glad he was to have Kathir with him. The man’s constant presence had taken some getting used to, but Skemtun was thankful for the extra protection. Especially with this overgrown peacock strutting around!
The chief spellcaster, a withered old dwarf in a black robe, approached the body, chanting loudly in an ancient language. His mouth was drawn in a somber frown. Skemtun recognized a few words here and there, but otherwise he couldn’t understand what was being said. It’s nothin’ but old wizard chatter anyway.
The crowd hushed as the wizard drew a small statuette from his robe. It started to glow, and the wizard placed it between Hergung’s clasped hands. The old spellcaster knelt over the body and pressed two fingers to the king’s forehead.
A smear of ash remained where the spellcaster had touched the king’s face. The old mage said a final prayer and tossed a handful of dirt onto the litter. It disappeared among the flowers and other offerings.
Carrying a bronze censer filled with incense, the mage went three times around the litter. Then, he stepped back and raised his hands to the heavens, his long robes swaying back and forth. “Return to the earth, dear king! Descend to your final sleep with my benediction upon your name! Farewell! Farewell!” he chanted.
“Farewell! Farewell!” The crowd repeated.
“May ye rest in peace for all eternity,” said the mage.
Once again, the crowd repeated, “For all eternity! For all eternity!”
The incense smelled strongly of medicinal herbs, and the fragrant smoke masked any odor from the body. The sun was high in the sky by the time the litter was placed on its carriage and hitched to the oxen. The carriage attendants settled into their positions, holding willow switches to spur the oxen.
The official procession began in the afternoon, in the orchards outside the gates. Slowly, the crowd lurched forward in its ritual march. Skemtun led the column, with Bolrakei at his side. Again he wished someone else were there standing next to
As if on cue, Bolrakei entered a side corridor, surrounded by her advisors. She was a sight to behold. She had refused to wear the official colors of mourning. Instead of gray or white, her vast bulk was squeezed into a shiny green dress, topped with a metallic cape. The whole outfit was decorated with peacock feathers. Her neck and wrists glittered with jewels. To complete the ensemble, she had chosen an enormous plumed headdress, which trailed silver ribbons that reached down to her waist.
It was the gaudiest attire that Skemtun had ever seen, especially at a funeral. But no one said anything out loud. Skemtun just shook his head. It wouldn’t be right to curse at a funeral.
A single trumpet sounded, and the band went silent.
The attendants walked down the stairs, carrying the funeral litter into the waiting crowd below. Everyone could see the body clearly; the king’s hands were folded, and his expression was peaceful. The spellcasters had done an excellent job covering the king’s scars and mottled skin. He looked like a younger version of himself, and it was as if he were merely sleeping.
Everyone waved their clan flags and stood aside while the two clan leaders positioned themselves at the front. Bolrakei and Skemtun stood side-by-side, not arguing for once. Theirs were places of honor. Skemtun glanced into the crowd. Kathir kept a respectful distance, but he was still in sight. Four other dwarves stepped forward to represent the remaining clans, but they stayed in the back, behind the king.
Skemtun raised his clan flag and stepped forward. The main gates were opened, and the king’s body was carried outside where it was immediately lowered to the ground for a prayer. He shot a disgusted look at Bolrakei, who was waving enthusiastically, as if she were in a carnival procession.
He realized then how glad he was to have Kathir with him. The man’s constant presence had taken some getting used to, but Skemtun was thankful for the extra protection. Especially with this overgrown peacock strutting around!
The chief spellcaster, a withered old dwarf in a black robe, approached the body, chanting loudly in an ancient language. His mouth was drawn in a somber frown. Skemtun recognized a few words here and there, but otherwise he couldn’t understand what was being said. It’s nothin’ but old wizard chatter anyway.
The crowd hushed as the wizard drew a small statuette from his robe. It started to glow, and the wizard placed it between Hergung’s clasped hands. The old spellcaster knelt over the body and pressed two fingers to the king’s forehead.
A smear of ash remained where the spellcaster had touched the king’s face. The old mage said a final prayer and tossed a handful of dirt onto the litter. It disappeared among the flowers and other offerings.
Carrying a bronze censer filled with incense, the mage went three times around the litter. Then, he stepped back and raised his hands to the heavens, his long robes swaying back and forth. “Return to the earth, dear king! Descend to your final sleep with my benediction upon your name! Farewell! Farewell!” he chanted.
“Farewell! Farewell!” The crowd repeated.
“May ye rest in peace for all eternity,” said the mage.
Once again, the crowd repeated, “For all eternity! For all eternity!”
The incense smelled strongly of medicinal herbs, and the fragrant smoke masked any odor from the body. The sun was high in the sky by the time the litter was placed on its carriage and hitched to the oxen. The carriage attendants settled into their positions, holding willow switches to spur the oxen.
The official procession began in the afternoon, in the orchards outside the gates. Slowly, the crowd lurched forward in its ritual march. Skemtun led the column, with Bolrakei at his side. Again he wished someone else were there standing next to
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