Battledragon by Christopher Rowley
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CHAPTER ONE
In the land of the Kraheen, in the heart of the dark continent, three grim-faced men stood beside a long, ebony box in the temple of the God of Stone.
Their leader, a burly fellow of six foot or more, nodded to the high priests of the God of Stone, who stood before them clad in feathered headdresses and leather aprons studded with gold.
"Ye have come to see the miracle?" he said in heavily accented Kraht.
"We have come, O great Kreegsbrok, as ye commanded."
"Then ye shall see with thine own eyes and be enlightened. Know this, that the power of the Great One is beyond that of any other in this world, whether man or god or goddess."
The priests bobbed their heads at this, but their dark brown eyes reflected a lack of certainty. These men from beyond had brought many dread things to their land. Their master was indeed a mighty force. But to raise the Prophet from the dead? Surely this was impossible.
"Open the box," said Kreegsbrok.
The high priest snapped his fingers, and men lifted the lid that covered the sacred visage of "He Who Must."
Kreegsbrok looked within and smiled. He saw the body of a lean-fleshed man who had died in his early thirties, struck down by a sudden brain spasm during the height of a raging incantation. The black flesh was neither hard nor soft, the hair still curled in coiled locks about the massive head. The Kraheen had long excelled in the art of preserving the bodies of the dead. The body of the Prophet would be good material for the magic of the Great One.
"May I?" he asked in the same flat voice.
The feathered headdresses bobbed again, the eyes like black pebbles, unreadable.
Kreegsbrok nodded to Gulbuddin and Verniktun, who wore the same black uniform as he. They withdrew flasks of fluid and dust from the small packs they bore and took up a long-necked funnel of semirigid leather. Carefully Verniktun oiled it and made it flexible.
Under the intense gaze of the priests, they opened the mouth of the long-dead Prophet and forced apart the yellowed teeth that had been shut for a thousand years. Into the withered throat they eased the neck of the funnel.
From within his cloak, Kreegsbrok withdrew a small notebook.
They bowed together while he intoned a prayer to their Master. Then they began to chant the harsh syllables prescribed for the spell.
The priests stepped back, ashen-faced at the grating sounds that now came from the mouths of the pale men from beyond. The atmosphere in the tomb of the Prophet became thick and dark. A smoke was rising from the floor. The hair on arm, leg, and neck began to rise along with it. A smell of burning stone filled their nostrils.
Into the funnel Verniktun poured the sparkling black powder invigorated by the Great One. The first flask went down smoothly. Then followed a second.
Now Gulbuddin stepped up with a flask of blu...

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