“I will tell you why,” intoned the old man softly. “You came because you had to come. You had no other choice but to come and see for yourself if what you thought was true.”

The High Priest said nothing. The wind gusted and the torch flared. The tree branches above them creaked and groaned in the wind.

“You came because I summoned you.”

“You lying old fool!” said Pluell. “I will not listen to this.”

“Yon came because you know trouble approaches, and you know I can help.”

“You are insane. I have finished with you. Be gone!” he shouted.

“Very well,” said the old man evenly. He stood slowly as if he would leave at once. As he rose his hood fell back from his head, revealing long wispy locks of white hair framing a face as creased and lined as a furrowed field. Sharp black eyes shined out of the ravaged face. “I will go, but once there was a time when the name of Nimrood commanded a measure of respect.”

The High Priest stepped back involuntarily at the sound of the name. “Nimrood!” he gasped. “It cannot be!” There, you see? You do know me.”

“But-you are dead! Years ago… I was but a boy… I heard you were killed in the battle with the Dragon King…”

“Ah you see, I was not,” replied the old man.

“Nimrood! I dare not believe my eyes!”

“Believe them, sir! It is Nimrood and none other.”

Lightning streaked the sky, loosing thunder to march out in booming steps across the valley. Heavy drops of rain began thudding to earth, splashing against the stones in the temple yard.

“You spoke of trouble,” said High Priest Pluell. “How can you help?”

Nimrood turned his face to the sky. “The storm is come in force. Would you not rather invite me into your private chambers? I think we might have much to discuss.”

High Priest Pluell stood in momentary indecision. He glanced at Nimrood sharply, weighing the matter. Rain spattered down into his face. The torch on the pylon guttered out, hissing like a serpent in the dark.