The Enchanter’s time has come, the time for which he has so long waited. The power to end the influence of his hated challenger has fallen into his hand, the time when he will send his rival into final exile, into death itself.
“To the Burning Place!” shouts the Enchanter.
His cry pierces the night, and heralds quickly echo the intense of doom. “Death!” they shout, “Death! Death!” at the drums beat in awful agreement, Oo-mb-pha….oo-mb-pha…oo-mb-pha-din. And the people standing in Traffic Court watch the proceedings and chant:
“Burn him! burn him!
There is no such thing as a King!
Death to Pretenders!
The flames! The flames!”
Then the Burners close round the man. Their eyes beneath their dark hoods glow like gruesome embers set in coal; their pokers flash, red hot, now prodding, now poking, thrusting, wounding,searing brands without mercy.
“Dear/9! Death!” cries the Chief Herald.
“Burn! Burn” jeer the people.
“To the Burning Place!” screams the Enchanter again……