"Jeff Long - A Princess of Jasoom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Long Jeff)

A Princess of Jasoom: The Death of Kings




Chapter One: The Death of Kings

words by Jeff, art by David

The distance between the twin cities of Helium was never greater for me than
it was on the day of my brother's death.

As one hundred thoats carrying the highest ranking officers of my father's
Navy paraded in single file toward the capital, the Scarlet Tower of Greater
Helium grew on the horizon and the Yellow Tower of Lesser Helium shrank
behind us. At the procession's head was a golden chariot, bearing the body of
my brother. His mortal wounds remained undressed, as befit tradition. It fell to
me, the ranking officer of his command, to bear Mors Kajak to his Reward.

Silently I rode, directly behind that chariot. As I stared at it, my mind replayed
again and again the scene that had cost my empire its rightful heir and my
father, Moros Tar, his eldest son.

It had been my fault.

A nudge at my arm, and I turned to see an odwar gesturing toward the Gate of
Jeddaks. It was lined with faces, straining for a glimpse of the truth they had
been told, but could not believe without the testimony of their own eyes.

A thousand times had I passed beneath that yawning portal into the city of my
ancestors; but ever had it been at the head of a victorious army. Those same
faces had shouted my name in unbridled passion as anthems were sung to
Helium's honor. I often rode at the side of my brother in those happier days.

I wished now that it was he who was conducting this funeral march; that it
was my corpse in the chariot.

The streets that day were a grim affair I can barely stand to recall, even these
many years later. The journey through Lesser Helium, where my brother had
ruled as Jed, had been even more difficult. All of Helium loved Mors Kajak.


file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Nieuwe%20map/Long_Jeff__A_Princess_of_Jasoom/A_Princess_of_Jasoom/1.html (1 of 5)20-1-2007 17:30:55
A Princess of Jasoom: The Death of Kings



As we passed beneath somber balconies, barely a sound could be heard -- save
the soft padding of our thoats.