Dreams of Steel - Part 5

What do you guys think?  Would you burn sandalwood in a cauldron (word in the dictionary), or an incense burner?  I only think about massive cooking pots when I hear cauldron, myself.

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At noon Hairón vomited again and this time expelled blood, some black and reeking clots that made the doctor shake his head.  While the head of the Horde writhed and bit the blanket, Nalobas gathered Aperión and the other captains and told them that the illness was more serious than he had imagined.

"What is it?  What does our chief have?" asked the captains, distressed.

"I suspect some hidden tumor," said the doctor.  "That kind of sickness slumbers a while and suddenly awakens to devour the entrails of its host.  I've seen similar cases, though none which manifested themselves so quickly as this."

By then, the rumor had spread among the men of the Horde.  Through all of Mígranz, that nest of eagles carved from living rock, there were huddled groups, bent heads, whispers, hands raised toward heaven offering vows to the gods, spirits and deities for the health of Hairón.  For the mercenaries of the Red Horde knew that without the Zemalnit they would no longer be such a powerful army, that they might even cease to exist.  None could guarantee that the Sword of Fire would fall into the hands of one of their captains, although many of them were grand masters.  There were many more Tahedoráns in the other realms of Tramórea; any of them could be destined to conquer the weapon of the gods.

At midafternoon the heralds announced the general’s illness.  They summoned all the men to form up on the parade grounds.  There, at the door of the tower, Hairón’s seat of honor was prepared.  Amongst some cushions, secured to the back with straps, and sedated with a potion, the head of the Red Horde held his last review.  The seven thousand soldiers paraded before him, incredulous.  Was that pale and sweaty man with sunken eyes the same one that they had seen riding like a youth just three days ago?

There had never been such silence in the courtyard of Mígranz.

Hairón’s last night was dreadful.  As much as Nalobas administered soothing potions, the head of the Horde twisted clutching his stomach and abdomen and moaned loudly that his bowels were rotting.  The ten captains watched over him all night, and when Hairón expired at the first light of dawn all breathed in relief.

Nalobas approached the body to close his eyes, but Aperión grabbed his wrist with his iron fingers.

"Let me."

And almost gently he closed his eyelids.  Kratos pulled back the curtain and opened the shutters.  Although sandalwood and cedar smoldered on an incense burner, the stench was so pervasive it was as if the body had spent days rotting in the sun.