The villagers fanned out under the oak canopy, dappled with shadow and sun, and knelt. At the head of the approaching caravan were four lines of uniform-clad warriors with the same disconcertingly white complexions.
“Bow to his honor, Doctor Happy Face,” Chief Crowe told them, and the four off-worlders knelt.
Behind the lead contingent was a palanquin atop the shoulders of eight burly, well-coiffed men, their dress identical to the warriors but sans weapons. Sharif noted metal-edged weapons among them, their spear points glinting in the sun. A similarly-sized squad brought up the rear.
The palanquin was curtained, its woods a rich cherry with gold filigree tracing swirls down the posts, threads of gold intertwined in the fine silk curtains. The whole palanquin had a faint patina of dust
