One glance at him showed me that the man was frantic with fear, or rage, or both.
"Look upon your work, magicians!" he said in a terrible voice, pointing first to the dead priest, then to the diviner's wounded foot.
"It is no work of ours, King Simba," answered Marut.

"It is your own work.

You stole the magic weapon of the white lord and made it angry, so that it has revenged itself upon you." "It is true," said Simba, "that the tube has killed one of those who took it away from you and wounded the other" (here was luck indeed).
"But it was you who ordered it to do so, magicians.

Now, hark! Yesterday I promised you safety, that no spear should pierce your hearts and no knife come near your throats, and drank the cup of peace with you.

But you have broken the pact, working us more harm, and therefore it no longer holds, since there are many other ways in which men can die.
Listen again! This is my decree.