driven by the winged figure of Fame, and behind her in the chariot
the huge form of Welleran, Merimna's ancient hero, standing with
extended sword. So urgent was the mien and attitude of Fame, and so
swift the pose of the horses, that you had sworn that the chariot
was instantly upon you, and that its dust already veiled the faces
of the Kings. And in the city was a mighty hall wherein were stored
the trophies of Merimna's heroes. Sculptured it was and domed, the
glory of the art of masons a long while dead, and on the summit of
the dome the image of Rollory sat gazing across the Cyresian
mountains towards the wide lands beyond, the lands that knew his
sword. And beside Rollory, like an old nurse, the figure of Victory
sat, hammering into a golden wreath of laurels for his head the
crowns of fallen Kings.

Such was Merimna, a city of sculptured Victories and warriors of
bronze. Yet in the time of which I write the art of war had been
forgotten in Merimna, and the people almost slept. To and fro and
up and down they would walk through the marble streets, gazing at
memorials of the things achieved by their country's swords in the
hands of those that long ago had loved Merimna well. Almost they
slept, and dreamed of Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory,
Akanax, and young Iraine. Of the lands beyond the mountains that
lay all round about them they knew nothing, save that they were the
theatre of the terrible deeds of Welleran, that he had done with his
sword. Long since these lands had fallen back into the possession
of the nations that had been scourged by Merimna's armies. Nothing
now remained to Merimna's men save their inviolate city and the
glory of the remembrance of their ancient fame. At night they would
place sentinels far out in the desert, but these always slept at
their posts dreaming of Rollory, and three times every night a guard