# Written by Dragonovith
#
#title:Last Feast of Timur
#author:Rakhim the Poet
#types:rhun
#reward
#
In the palace of Karakun, royal seat of Timur Khan the Proud, king of the Rhúdel-men, the three most powerful warlords of the realm - Yerbolat, Serik and Aslan - drink in feigned merriment, waiting for the last pronouncement of their dying king.

'Where is this wine from? Certainly not from Rhúdel. From Dorwinion perhaps?' asks Yerbolat Noyan, lord of Ariskala.

'Yes, it tastes like Dorwinion wine,' says Serik Noyan, lord of Beybek.

'Elvish waste-water, that's what it is,' says Aslan Noyan, lord of Munbat.

Timur Khan, a king without heir, enters his majestic feast hall through the upper floor, which gives him a wide view of all the guests present in his court. The Khan, weakened by old age, his face a deathly pale, arrives upon on a wheeled chair, pushed by two of his golden guards. Yet he remains proud: and so, refusing help, he stands up from his wheeled chair and holds himself against the rail of the balcony; letting his colourful kaftan, ornamented with gleaming gold, fall to his feet.

The music stops and the slaves, who were serving food and drinks, leave the scene. In the lower floor, the noble vassals of the Khan look up to their lord, who addresses them thus:

'My good and loyal vassals, it is indeed a delight to have you all here tonight,' says Timur Khan. 'I hope the wine is to your liking, and the food as well.'

'Wine so flavourful as this could have only been made by the able hands of your personal winemakers, my great king,' says Yerbolat Noyan, lord of Ariskala.

'Oh, Yerbolat the Wise! It is a great pleasure to have you here in my palace. Now please, tell me, wiselord Yerbolat: the gold mines, which I personally granted you - are they yielding a satisfactory profit? Are they effectively contributing to the treasury of Ariskala?' says Timur Khan.

Yerbolat Noyan says yes and, feeling unworthy of the Khan's generosity, lowers his head in shame.

'My lips have never touched such stupendous wine, great king,' says Serik Noyan, lord of Beybek.

'I am assured they have before, humble Serik of Beybek! Certainly the five hundred slaves, which I gifted to you in your marriage with Princess Anara, are raising the necessary profits to purchase the best wines that this world could offer?' says Timur Khan.

Serik Noyan nods his head and, feeling unworthy of the Khan's generosity, lowers his head in shame.

'Such marvellous wine! My throat shall never taste its like again, great king,' says Aslan Noyan, lord of Munbat.

'My dear Aslan, always a bulwark of honesty! Your presence here is as a beam of light which shines upon all our souls. Please, satisfy the curiosity of an old man. Are the wide steppe-lands of Munbat, which I granted you last year, to your liking? Are the people of Munbat hard-working? Do they pay you their taxes at the end of each month?'

Aslan Noyan says yes and, feeling unworthy of the Khan's generosity, lowers his head in shame.

And now whispering to his guards, Timur Khan gives a strange order. He is promptly lifted up and placed above the balcony's rail, where he stands up, held firmly by both of his guards. No one dares speak on the lower floor; the vassals only watch in awe, and anxiety.

Slowly, Yerbolat Noyan places his hand on the grip of his scimitar, crafted by a master smith of Harad; Serik Noyan grasps the dagger hidden beneath his kaftan; Aslan Noyan whispers to the captain of his household guard, a famed warrior-champion. Meanwhile, the other nobles in attendance, all of them lords of wide lands and mighty hosts - yet weaker and lesser men than Yerbolat, Serik and Aslan - reach nervously for their own weapons.

'My vassals, my lords, my friends, to whom I have faithfully listened for many long years. Hear me now, for no living man in this palace has fair reason to complain about my rule,' says Timur Khan. 'All that I see before me now is a pack of hungry dogs, waiting for an old man to die, ready to fight in the mud for the least scrap of his dirty bones! In truth, I should let you all slay yourselves and defile my palace with your filthy blood! But no; here you all sit, waiting so eagerly for death - for my death - so that is what I shall give to you! For wrath and fury, come and claim your inheritance!'

Timur Khan opens his arms and casts himself in strength from the balcony's rail.

And beneath the balcony there stands a great pile of wine jars - at least, that is what his vassals think they are - though they are not wine jars. For as Timur Khan falls into the pile of jars, they break open at once under the sheer weight of the impact. But no wine leaks out from the jars. No, what leaks from the jars is a sea of writhing blue flames, ghastly and sorcerous, and in the blink of an eye the flames swallow first the wretched vassals - then the whole of the majestic feast hall - and spreading throughout countless hallways and rooms, at last the entire palace is consumed in fire.

The people of Karakun are awoken by a terrible sound like the cracking of thunder upon earth. Looking outside, as one voice they cry out in terror; for where there once stood a palace mighty and magnificent, the seat of their great king, now in its place burns a roaring inferno of diabolical blue fire, devouring wood and stone alike with an unquenchable hunger.

When the sun rises up in the Uttermost East, the great palace is no more. Only a black stain of ashes upon the ground bears witness to the last feast of Timur Khan.