DWELLERS IN THE MIRAGE [Part 2]

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE BLACK CITADEL

The bars that held the gate crashed down behind us. The passage through the walls was wide and long and lined with soldiers, most of them women. They stared at me; their discipline was good, for they were silent, saluting us with upraised swords.

We came out of the walls into an immense square, bounded by the towering black stone of the citadel. It was stone-paved and bare, and there must have been half a thousand soldiers in it, again mostly women and one and all of the strong-bodied, blue-eyed, red-haired type. It was a full quarter-mile to the side—the square. Opposite where we entered, there was a group of people on horses, of the same class as those who rode with us, or so I judged. They were clustered about a portal in the farther walls, and toward these we trotted.

About a third of the way over, we passed a circular pit a hundred feet wide in which water boiled and bubbled and from which steam arose. A hot spring, I supposed; I could feel its breath. Around it were slender stone pillars from each of which an arm jutted like that of a gallows, and from the ends of them dangled thin chains. It was, indefinably, an unpleasant and ominous place. I didn’t like the look of it at all. Something of this must have shown on my face, for Tibur spoke, blandly.

“Our cooking pot.”

“No easy one from which to ladle broth,” I said. I thought him jesting.

“Ah—but the meat we cook there is not the kind we eat,” he answered, still more blandly. And his laughter roared out.

I felt a little sick as his meaning reached me. It was tortured human flesh which those chains were designed to hold, lowering it slowly inch by inch into that devil’s cauldron. But I only nodded indifferently, and rode on.

The Witch-woman had paid no attention to us; her russet head bent, she went on deep in thought, though now and then I caught her oblique glance at me. We drew near the portal. She signalled those who awaited there, a score of the red-haired maids and women and a half-dozen men; they dismounted. The Witch-woman leaned to me and whispered:

“Turn the ring so its seal will be covered.”

I obeyed her, asking no question.

We arrived at the portal. I looked at the group there. The women wore the breast-revealing upper garment; their legs were covered with loose baggy trousers tied in at the ankles; they had wide girdles in which were two swords, one long and one short. The men were clothed in loose blouses, and the same baggy trousers; in their girdles beside the swords—or rather, hanging from their girdles—were hammers like that of the Smith, but smaller. The women who had gathered around me after I had climbed out of Nanbu had been fair enough, but these were far more attractive, finer, with a stamp of breeding the others had not had. They stared at me as frankly, as appraisingly, as had the soldier woman and her lieutenant; their eyes rested upon my yellow hair and stopped there, as though fascinated. On all their faces was that suggestion of cruelty latent in the amorous mouth of Lur.

“We dismount here,” said the Witch-woman, “to go where we may become—better acquainted.”

I nodded as before, indifferently. I had been thinking that it was a foolhardy thing I had done, thus to thrust myself alone among these people; but I had been thinking, too, that I could have done nothing else except have gone to Sirk, and where that was I did not know; and that if I had tried I would have been a hunted outlaw on this side of white Nanbu, as I would be on the other. The part of me that was Leif Langdon was thinking that—but the part of me that was Dwayanu was not thinking like that at all. It was fanning the fire of recklessness, the arrogance, that had carried me thus far in safety; whispering that none among the Ayjir had the right to question me or to bar my way, whispering with increasing insistence that I should have been met by dipping standards and roll of drums and fanfare of trumpets. The part that was Leif Langdon answered that there was nothing else to do but continue as I had been doing, that it was the game to play, the line to take, the only way. And that other part, ancient memories, awakening of Dwayanu, post-hypnotic suggestion of the old Gobi priest, impatiently asked why I should question even myself, urging that it was no game—but truth! And that it would brook little more insolence from these degenerate dogs of the Great Race—and little more cowardice from me!

So I flung myself from my horse, and stood looking arrogantly down upon the faces turned to me, literally looking down, for I was four inches or more taller than the tallest of them. Lur touched my arm. Between her and Tibur I strode through the portal and into the black citadel.

It was a vast vestibule through which we passed, and dimly lighted by slits far up in the polished rock. We went by groups of silently saluting soldier-women; we went by many transverse passages. We came at last to a great guarded door, and here Lur and Tibur dismissed their escorts. The door rolled slowly open; we entered and it rolled shut behind us.

The first thing I saw was the Kraken.

It sprawled over one wall of the chamber into which we had come. My heart leaped as I saw it, and for an instant I had an almost ungovernable impulse to turn and run. And now I saw that the figure of the Kraken was a mosaic set in the black stone. Or rather, that the yellow field in which it lay was a mosaic and that the Black Octopus had been cut from the stone of the wall itself. Its unfathomable eyes of jet regarded me with that suggestion of lurking malignity the yellow pygmies had managed to imitate so perfectly in their fettered symbol inside the hollow rock.

Something stirred beneath the Kraken. A face looked out on me from under a hood of black. At first I thought it the old priest of the Gobi himself, and then I saw that this man was not so old, and that his eyes were clear deep blue and that his face was unwrinkled, and cold and white and expressionless as though carved from marble. Then I remembered what Evalie had told me, and knew this must be Yodin the High Priest. He sat upon a throne-like chair behind a long low table on which were rolls like the papyrus rolls of the Egyptians, and cylinders of red metal which were, I supposed, their containers. On each side of him was another of the thrones.

He lifted a thin white hand and beckoned me.

“Come to me—you who call yourself Dwayanu.”

The voice was cold and passionless as the face, but courteous. I seemed to hear again the old priest when he had called me to him. I walked over, more as one who humours another a little less than equal than as though obeying a summons. And that was precisely the way I felt. He must have read my thought, for I saw a shadow of anger pass over his face. His eyes searched me.

“You have a certain ring, I am told.”

With the same feeling of humouring one slightly inferior, I turned the bevel of the Kraken ring and held my hand out toward him. He looked at the ring, and the white face lost its immobility. He thrust a hand into his girdle, and drew from it a box, and out of it another ring, and placed it beside mine. I saw that it was not so large, and that the setting was not precisely the same. He studied the two rings, and then with a hissing intake of breath he snatched my hands and turned them over, scanning the palms. He dropped them and leaned back in his chair.

“Why do you come to us?” he asked.

A surge of irritation swept me.

“Does Dwayanu stand like a common messenger to be questioned?” I said harshly.

I walked around the table and dropped into one of the chairs beside him.

“Let drink be brought, for I am thirsty. Until my thirst is quenched, I will not talk.”

A faint flush stained the white face; there was a growl from Tibur. He was glaring at me with reddened face; the Witch-woman stood, gaze intent upon me, no mockery in it now; the speculative interest was intensified. It came to me that the throne I had usurped was Tibur’s. I laughed.

“Beware, Tibur,” I said. “This may be an omen!”

The High Priest intervened, smoothly.

“If he be indeed Dwayanu, Tibur, then no honour is too great for him. See that wine is brought.”

The look that the Smith shot at Yodin seemed to me to hold a question. Perhaps the Witch-woman thought so too. She spoke quickly.

“I will see to it.”

She walked to the door, opened it and gave an order to a guard. She waited; there was silence among us while she waited. I thought many things. I thought, for example, that I did not like the look that had passed between Yodin and Tibur, and that while I might trust Lur for the present—still she would drink first when the wine came. And I thought that I would tell them little of how I came to the Shadowed-land. And I thought of Jim—and I thought of Evalie. It made my heart ache so that I felt the loneliness of nightmare; and then I felt the fierce contempt of that other part of me, and felt it strain against the fetters I had put on it. Then the wine came.

The Witch-woman carried ewer and goblet over to the table and set them before me. She poured yellow wine into the goblet and handed it to me. I smiled at her.

“The cup-bearer drinks first,” I said. “So it was in the olden days, Lur. And the olden customs are dear to me.”

Tibur gnawed his lip and tugged at his beard at that, but Lur took up the goblet and drained it. I refilled it, and raised it to Tibur. I had a malicious desire to bait the Smith.

“Would you have done that had you been the cup-bearer, Tibur?” I asked him and drank.

That was good wine! It tingled through me, and I felt the heady recklessness leap up under it as though lashed. I filled the goblet again and tossed it off.

“Come up, Lur, and sit with us,” I said. “Tibur, join us.”

The Witch-woman quietly took the third throne. Tibur was watching me, and I saw a new look in his eyes, something of that furtive speculation I had surprised in Lur’s. The white-faced priest’s gaze was far away. It occurred to me that the three of them were extremely busy with their own thoughts, and that Tibur at least, was becoming a bit uneasy. When he answered me his voice had lost all truculency.

“Well and good—Dwayanu!” he said, and, lifting a bench, carried it to the table, and set it where he could watch our faces.

“I answer your question,” I turned to Yodin. “I came here at the summons of Khalk’ru.”

“It is strange,” he said, “that I, who am High Priest of Khalk’ru, knew nothing of any summons.”

“The reasons for that I do not know,” I said, casually. “Ask them of him you serve.”

He pondered over that.

“Dwayanu lived long and long and long ago,” he said. “Before—”

“Before the Sacrilege. True.” I took another drink of the wine. “Yet—I am here.”

For the first time his voice lost its steadiness.

“You—you know of the Sacrilege!” His fingers clutched my wrist. “Man—whoever you are—from whence do you come?”

“I come,” I answered, “from the Mother-land.”

His fingers tightened around my wrist. He echoed Tibur.

“The Mother-land is a dead land. Khalk’ru in his anger destroyed its life. There is no life save here, where Khalk’ru hears his servants and lets life be.”

He did not believe that; I could tell it by the involuntary glance he had given the Witch-woman and the Smith. Nor did they.

“The Mother-land,” I said, “is bleached bones. Its cities lie covered in shrouds of sand. Its rivers are waterless, and all that runs within their banks is sand driven by the arid winds. Yet still is there life in the Mother-land, and although the ancient blood is thinned—still it runs. And still is Khalk’ru worshipped and feared in the place from whence I came—and still in other lands the earth spawns life as always she has done.”

I poured some more wine. It was good wine, that.

Under it I felt my recklessness increase…under it Dwayanu was stronger…well, this was a tight box I was in, so let him be…

“Show me the place from whence you came,” the High Priest spoke swiftly. He gave me a tablet of wax and a stylus. I traced the outline of Northern Asia upon it and of Alaska. I indicated the Gobi and approximately the location of the oasis, and also the position of the Shadowed-land.

Tibur got up to look at it; their three heads bent over it. The priest fumbled among the rolls, picked one, and they compared it with the tablet. It appeared like a map, but if so the northern coast line was all wrong. There was a line traced on it that seemed to be a route of some sort. It was overscored and underscored with symbols. I wondered whether it might not be the record of the trek those of the Old Race had made when they had fled from the Gobi.

They looked up at last; there was perturbation in the priest’s eyes, angry apprehension in Tibur’s, but the eyes of the Witch-woman were clear and untroubled—as though she had made up her mind about something and knew precisely what she was going to do.

“It is the Mother-land!” the priest said. “Tell me—did the black-haired stranger who fled with you across the river and who watched you hurled from Nansur come also from there?”

There was sheer malice in that question. I began to dislike Yodin.

“No,” I answered. “He comes from an old land of the Rrrllya.”

That brought the priest up standing; Tibur swore incredulously; and even the Witch-woman was shaken from her serenity.

“Another land—of the Rrrllya! But that cannot be!” whispered Yodin.

“Nevertheless it is so,” I said.

He sank back, and thought for a while.

“He is your friend?”

“My brother by the ancient blood rite of his people.”

“He would join you here?”

“He would if I sent for him. But that I will not do. Not yet. He is well off where he is.”

I was sorry I had said that the moment I had spoken. Why—I did not know. But I would have given much to have recalled the words.

Again the priest was silent.

“These are strange things you tell us,” he said at last. “And you have come to us strangely for—Dwayanu. You will not mind if for a little we take counsel?”

I looked in the ewer. It was still half-full. I liked that wine—most of all because it dulled my sorrow over Evalie.

“Speak as long as you please,” I answered, graciously. They went off to a comer of the room. I poured myself another drink, and another. I forgot about Evalie. I began to feel I was having a good time. I wished Jim was with me, but I wished I hadn’t said he would come if I sent for him. And then I took another drink and forgot about Jim. Yes, I was having a damned good time…well, wait till I let Dwayanu loose a bit more! I’d have a better one…I was sleepy…I wondered what old Barr would say if he could be here with me…

I came to myself with a start. The High Priest was standing at my side, talking. I had a vague idea he had been talking to me for some time but I couldn’t remember what about. I also had the idea that someone had been fumbling with my thumb. It was clenched stubbornly in my palm, so tightly that the stone had bruised the flesh. The effect of the wine had entirely worn off I looked around the room. Tibur and the Witch-woman were gone. Why hadn’t I seen them go? Had I been asleep? I studied Yodin’s face. There was a look of strain about it, of bafflement; and yet I sensed some deep satisfaction. It was a queer composite of expression. And I didn’t like it.

“The others have gone to prepare a fitting reception for you,” he said. “To make ready a place for you and fitting apparel.”

I arose and stood beside him.

“As Dwayanu?” I asked.

“Not as yet,” he answered urbanely. “But as an honoured guest. The other is too serious a matter to decide without further proof.”

“And that proof?”

He looked at me a long moment before answering.

“That Khalk’ru will appear at your prayer!”

A little shudder went through me at that. He was watching me so closely that he must have seen it.

“Curb your impatience,” his voice was cold honey. “You will not have long to wait. Until then I probably shall not see you. In the meantime—I have a request to make.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“That you will not wear the ring of Khalk’ru openly—except, of course, at such times as may seem necessary to you.”

It was the same thing Lur had asked me. Yet scores had seen me with the ring—more must know I had it. He read my indecision.

“It is a holy thing,” he said. “I did not know another existed until word was brought me that you had shown it on Nansur. It is not well to cheapen holy things. I do not wear mine except when I think it—necessary.”

I wondered under what circumstances he considered it—necessary. And I wished fervently I knew under what circumstances it would be helpful to me. His eyes were searching me, and I hoped he had not read that thought.

“I see no reason to deny that request,” I said. I slipped the ring off my thumb and into my belt pocket.

“I was sure you would not,” he murmured.

A gong sounded lightly. He pressed the side of the table, and the door opened. Three youths clothed in the smocks of the people entered and stood humbly waiting.

“They are your servants. They will take you to your place,” Yodin said. He bent his head. I went out with the three young Ayjirs. At the door was a guard of a dozen women with a bold-eyed young captain. They saluted me smartly. We marched down the corridor and at length turned into another. I looked back.

I was just in time to see the Witch-woman slipping into the High Priest’s chamber.

We came to another guarded door. It was thrown open and into it I was ushered, followed by the three youths.

“We are also your servants. Lord,” the bold-eyed captain spoke. “If there is anything you wish, summon me by this. We shall be at the door.”

She handed me a small gong of jade, saluted again and marched out.

The room had an odd aspect of familiarity. Then I realized it was much like that to which I had been taken in the oasis. There were the same oddly shaped stools, and chairs of metal, the same wide, low divan bed, the tapestried walls, the rugs upon the floor. Only here there were no signs of decay. True, some of the tapestries were time-faded, but exquisitely so; there were no rags or tatters in them. The others were beautifully woven but fresh as though just from the loom. The ancient hangings were threaded with the same scenes of the hunt and war as the haggard drapings of the oasis; the newer ones bore scenes of the land under the mirage. Nansur Bridge sprang unbroken over one, on another was a battle with the pygmies, on another a scene of the fantastically lovely forest—with the white wolves of Lur slinking through the trees. Something struck me as wrong. I looked and looked before I knew what it was. The arms of its olden master had been in the chamber of the oasis, his swords and spears, helmet and shield; in this one there was not a weapon. I remembered that I had carried the sword of Tibur’s man into the chamber of the High Priest. I did not have it now.

A disquietude began to creep over me. I turned to the three young Ayjirs, and began to unbutton my shirt. They came forward silently, and started to strip me. And suddenly I felt a consuming thirst.

“Bring me water,” I said to one of the youths. He paid not the slightest attention to me.

“Bring me water,” I said again, thinking he had not heard. “I am thirsty.”

He continued tranquilly taking off a boot. I touched him on the shoulder.

“Bring me water to drink,” I said, emphatically.

He smiled up at me, opened his mouth and pointed. He had no tongue. He pointed to his ears. I understood that he was telling me he was both dumb and deaf. I pointed to his two comrades. He nodded.

My disquietude went up a point or two. Was this a general custom of the rulers of Karak; had this trio been especially adapted not only for silent service but unhearing service on special guests? Guests or— prisoners?

I tapped the gong with a finger. At once the door opened, and the young captain stood there, saluting.

“I am thirsty,” I said. “Bring water.”

For answer she crossed the room and pulled aside one of the hangings. Behind it was a wide, deep alcove.

Within the floor was a shallow pool through which clean water was flowing, and close beside it was a basin of porphyry from which sprang a jet like a tiny fountain, She took a goblet from a niche, filled it under the jet and handed it to me. It was cold and sparkling.

“Is there anything more, Lord?” she asked. I shook my head, and she marched out.

I went back to the ministrations of the three deaf-mutes. They took off the rest of my clothes and began to massage me, with some light, volatile oil. While they were doing it, my mind began to function rather actively. In the first place, the sore spot in my palm kept reminding me of that impression someone had been trying to get the ring off my thumb. In the second place, the harder I thought the more I was sure that before I awakened or had come out of my abstraction or drink or whatever it was, the white-faced priest had been talking, talking, talking to me, questioning me, probing into my dulled mind. And in the third place, I had lost almost entirely all the fine carelessness of consequences that had been so successful in putting me where I was—in fact, I was far too much Leif Langdon and too little Dwayanu. What had the priest been at with his talking, talking, questioning—and what had I said?

I jumped out of the hands of my masseurs, ran over to my trousers and dived into my belt. The ring was there right enough. I searched for my old pouch. It was gone. I rang the gong. The captain answered. I was mother-naked, but I hadn’t the slightest sense of her being a woman.

“Hear me,” I said. “Bring me wine. And bring with it a safe, strong case big enough to hold a ring. Bring with that a strong chain with which I can hang the case around my neck. Do you understand?”

“Done at once, Lord,” she said. She was not long in returning. She set down the ewer she was carrying and reached into her blouse. She brought out a locket suspended from a metal chain. She snapped it open.

“Will this do, Lord?”

I turned from her, and put the ring of Khalk’ru into the locket. It held it admirably.

“Most excellently,” I told her, “but I have nothing to give you in return.”

She laughed.

“Reward enough to have beheld you, Lord,” she said, not at all ambiguously, and marched away. I hung the locket round my neck. I poured a drink and then another. I went back to my masseurs and began to feel better. I drank while they were bathing me, and I drank while they were trimming my hair and shaving me. And the more I drank the more Dwayanu came up, coldly wrathful and resentful.

My dislike for Yodin grew. It did not lessen while the trio were dressing me. They put on me a silken under-vest. They covered it with a gorgeous tunic of yellow shot through with metallic threads of blue; they covered my long legs with the baggy trousers of the same stuff; they buckled around my waist a broad, gem-studded girdle, and they strapped upon my feet sandals of soft golden leather. They had shaved me, and now they brushed and dressed my hair which they had shorn to the nape of my neck.

By the time they were through with me, the wine was done. I was a little drunk, willing to be more so, and in no mood to be played with. I rang the gong for the captain. I wanted some more wine, and I wanted to know when, where and how I was going to eat. The door opened, but it was not the captain who came in.

It was the Witch-woman.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAKE OF THE GHOSTS

Lur paused, red lips parted, regarding me. Plainly she was startled by the difference the Ayjir trappings and the ministrations of the mutes had made in the dripping, bedraggled figure that had scrambled out of the river not long before. Her eyes glowed, and a deeper rose stained her cheeks. She came close.

“Dwayanu—you will go with me?”

I looked at her, and laughed.

“Why not, Lur—but also, why?”

She whispered:

“You are in danger—whether you are Dwayanu or whether you are not. I have persuaded Yodin to let you remain with me until you go to the temple. With me you shall be safe—until then.”

“And why did you do this for me, Lur?”

She made no answer—only set one hand upon my shoulder and looked at me with blue eyes grown soft; and though common sense told me there were other reasons for her solicitude than any quick passion for me, still at that touch and look the blood raced through my veins, and it was hard to master my voice and speak.

“I will go with you, Lur.”

She went to the door, opened it.

“Ouarda, the cloak and cap.” She came back to me with a black cloak which she threw over my shoulders and fastened round my neck; she pulled down over my yellow hair a close-fitting cap shaped like the Phyrgian and she tucked my hair into it. Except for my height it made me like any other Ayjir in Karak.

“There is need for haste, Dwayanu.”

“I am ready. Wait—”

I went over to where my old clothes lay, and rolled them up around my boots. After all—I might need them. The Witch-woman made no comment, opened the door and we went out. The captain and her guard were in the corridor, also a half-dozen of Lur’s women, and handsome creatures they were. Then I noticed that each of them wore the light coat of mail and, besides the two swords, carried throwing hammers. So did Lur. Evidently they were ready for trouble, whether with me or with someone else; and whichever way it was, I didn’t like it.

“Give me your sword,” I said abruptly to the captain. She hesitated.

“Give it to him,” said Lur.

I weighed the weapon in my hand; not so heavy as I would have liked, but still a sword. I thrust it into my girdle, and bunched the bundle of my old clothes beneath my left arm, under the cloak. We set off down the corridor, leaving the guard at the door.

We went only a hundred yards, and then into a small bare chamber. We had met no one. Lur drew a breath of relief, walked over to a side, and a slab of stone slid open, revealing a passage. We went into that and the slab closed, leaving us in pitch-darkness. There was a spark, produced I don’t know how, and the place sprang into light from torches in the hands of two of the women. They burned with a clear, steady and silvery flame. The torch-bearers marched ahead of us. After a while we came to the end of that passage, the torches were extinguished, another stone slid away and we stepped out. I heard whispering, and after the glare of the flambeaux had worn away, I saw that we were at the base of one of the walls of the black citadel, and that close by were half a dozen more of Lur’s women, with horses. One of them led forward a big grey stallion.

“Mount, and ride beside me,” said Lur.

I fixed my bundle on the pommel of the high saddle, and straddled the grey. We set off silently. It was never wholly dark at night in the land under the mirage; there was always a faint green luminescence, but to-night it was brighter than I had ever seen it. I wondered whether there was a full moon shining down over the peaks of the valley. I wondered if we had far to go. I was not as drunk as I had been when Lur had come in on me, but in a way I was drunker. I had a queer, light-headed feeling that was decidedly pleasant, a carefree irresponsibility. I wanted to keep on feeling that way. I hoped that Lur had plenty of wine wherever she was taking me. I wished I had a drink right now.

We were going through the city beyond the citadel, and we went fast. The broad street we were on was well paved. There were lights in the houses and in the gardens and people singing and drums and pipes playing. Sinister the black citadel might be, but it did not seem to cast any shadow on the people of Karak. Or so I thought then.

We passed out of the city into a smooth road running between thick vegetation. The luminous moths like fairy planes were flitting about, and for a moment I felt a pang of memory, and Evalie’s face floated up before me. It didn’t last a second. The grey went sweetly and I began to sing an old Kirghiz song about a lover who rode in the moonlight to his maid and what he found when he got there. Lur laughed, and put her hand over my mouth.

“Quiet, Dwayanu! There still is danger.” Then I realized that I hadn’t been singing the Kirghiz at all, but the Uighur, which was probably where the Kirghiz got it from. And then it occurred to me that I had never heard the song in the Uighur. It started the old problem going in my mind—and that lasted no longer than the memory of Evalie.

Now and then I caught a glimpse of the white river. And then we went over a long stretch where the road narrowed so that we rode single file between verdure-covered cliffs. When we came out of them, the road forked. One part of it ran right on, the other turned sharply to the left. We rode along this for three or four miles, apparently directly through the heart of the strange forest. The great trees spread their arms out far overhead; the candelabras and cressets and swaying ropes of blooms gleamed like ghosts of flowers in the pallid light; the scaled trees were like men-at-arms on watch. And the heady fragrances, the oddly stimulating exhalations were strong—strong. They throbbed from the forest, rhythmically, as though they were the pulse of its life-drunken heart.

And as we came to the end of that road and I looked down upon the Lake of the Ghosts.

Never, I think, in all the world was there such a place of breath-taking, soul-piercing, unearthly beauty as that lake beneath the mirage in which Lur the Witch-woman had her home. And had she not been Witch-woman before she dwelt there, it must have made her so.

It was shaped like an arrow-head, its longer shores not more than a mile in length. It was enclosed by low hills whose sides were covered with the tree-ferns; their feathery fronds clothed them as though they were the breasts of gigantic birds of Paradise; threw themselves up from them like fountains; soared over them like vast virescent wings. The colour of its water was pale emerald, and like an emerald it gleamed, placid, untroubled. But beneath that untroubled surface there was movement—luminous circles of silvery green that spread swiftly and vanished, rays that laced and interlaced in fantastic yet ordered, geometric forms; luminous spirallings, none of which ever came quite to the surface to disturb its serenity. And here and there were clusters of soft lights, like vaporous rubies, misted sapphires and opals and glimmering pearls—witch-lights. The luminous lilies of the Lake of the Ghosts.

Where the point of the arrow-head touched, there were no ferns. A broad waterfall spread itself like a veil over the face of the cliff, whispering as it fell. Mists rose there, mingling with the falling water, dancing slowly with the falling water, swaying toward it and reaching up with ghostly hands as though to greet it. And from the shores of the lake, other wraiths of mist would rise, and glide swiftly over the emerald floor and join those other dancing, welcoming wraiths of the waterfall. Thus first I saw the Lake of the Ghosts under the night of the mirage, and it was no less beautiful in the mirage day.

The road ran out into the lake like the shaft of an arrow. At its end was what once, I supposed, had been a small island. It lay two-thirds of the way across. Over its trees were the turrets of a small castle.

We walked our horses down the steep to the narrowing of the road where it became the shaft of the arrow. Here there were no ferns to hide the approach; they had been cleared away and the breast of the hill was covered with the blue flowerets. As we reached the narrow part, I saw that it was a causeway, built of stone. The place to which we were going was still an island. We came to the end of the causeway, and there was a forty-foot gap between it and a pier on the opposite shore. Lur drew from her girdle a small horn and sounded it. A drawbridge began to creak, and to drop down over the gap. We rode across that and into a garrison of her women. We cantered up a winding road, and I heard the creak of the lifting bridge as we went. We drew up before the house of the Witch-woman.

I looked at it with interest, not because it was unfamiliar, for it was not, but I was thinking I had never seen a castle of its sort built of that peculiar green stone nor with so many turrets. Yes, I knew them well. “Lady castles,” we had called them; lana’rada, bowers for favourite women, a place to rest, a place to love after war or when weary of statecraft.

Women came and took the horses. Wide doors of polished wood swung open. Lur led me over the threshold.

Girls came forward with wine. I drank thirstily. The queer light-headedness, and the sense of detachment were growing. I seemed to have awakened from a long, long sleep, and was not thoroughly awake and troubled by memories of dreams. But I was sure that they had not all been dreams. That old priest who had awakened me in the desert which once had been fertile Ayjirland—he had been no dream. Yet the people among whom I had awakened had not been Ayjirs. This was not Ayjirland, yet the people were of the ancient breed! How had I gotten here? I must have fallen asleep again in the temple after—after—by Zarda, but I must feel my way a bit! Be cautious. Then would follow a surge of recklessness that swept away all thought of caution, a roaring relish of life, a wild freedom as of one who, long in prison, sees suddenly the bars broken and before him the table of life spread with all he has been denied, to take as he wills. And on its heels a flash of recognition that I was Leif Langdon and knew perfectly well how I came to be in this place and must some way, somehow, get back to Evalie and to Jim. Swift as the lightning were those latter flashes, and as brief.

I became aware that I was no longer in the castle’s hall but in a smaller chamber, octagonal, casemented, tapestried. There was a wide, low bed. There was a table glistening with gold and crystal; tall candles burned upon it. My blouse was gone, and in its place a light silken tunic. The casements were open and the fragrant air sighed through them. I leaned from one.

Below me were the lesser turrets and the roof of the castle. Far below was the lake. I looked through another. The waterfall with its beckoning wraiths whispered and murmured not a thousand feet away.

I felt the touch of a hand on my head; it slipped down to my shoulder; I swung round. The Witch-woman was beside me.

For the first time I seemed to be realizing her beauty, seemed for the first time to be seeing her clearly. Her russet hair was braided in a thick coronal; it shone like reddest gold, and within it was twisted a strand of sapphires. Her eyes outshone them. Her scanty robe of gossamer blue revealed every lovely, sensuous line of her. White shoulders and one of the exquisite breasts were bare. Her full red lips promised—anything, and even the subtle cruelty stamped upon them, lured.

There had been a dark girl…who had she been…Ev—Eval—the name eluded me…no matter…she was like a wraith beside this woman…like one of the mist wraiths swaying at the feet of the waterfall…

The Witch-woman read what was in my eyes. Her hand slipped from my shoulder and rested on my heart. She bent closer, blue eyes languorous—yet strangely intent.

“And are you truly Dwayanu?”

“I am he—none else, Lur.”

“Who was Dwayanu—long and long and long ago?”

“I cannot tell you that, Lur—I who have been long asleep and in sleep forgotten much. Yet—I am he.”

“Then look—and remember.”

Her hand left my heart and rested on my head; she pointed to the waterfall. Slowly its whispering changed. It became the beat of drums, the trample of horses, the tread of marching men. Louder and louder they grew. The waterfall quivered, and spread across the black cliff like a gigantic curtain. From every side the mist wraiths were hurrying, melting into it. Clearer and nearer sounded the drums. And suddenly the waterfall vanished. In its place was a great walled city. Two armies were fighting there and I knew that the forces which were attacking the city were being borne back. I heard the thunder of the hoofs of hundreds of horses. Down upon the defenders raced a river of mounted men. Their leader was clothed in shining mail. He was helmetless, and his yellow hair streamed behind him as he rode. He turned his face. And that face was my own! I heard a roaring shout of “Dwayanu!” The charge struck like a river in spate, rolled over the defenders, submerged them.

I saw an army in rout, and smashed by companies with the throwing hammers.

I rode with the yellow-haired leader into the conquered city. And I sat with him on a conquered throne while ruthlessly, mercilessly, he dealt death to men and women dragged before him, and smiled at the voices of rapine and pillage rising from without. I rode and sat with him, I say, for now it was no longer as though I were in the Witch-woman’s chamber but was with this yellow-haired man who was my twin, seeing as he did, hearing as he did—yes, and thinking as he thought.

Battle upon battle, tourneys and feasts and triumphs, hunts with the falcons and hunts with great dogs in fair Ayjirland, hammer-play and anvil-play—I saw them, standing always beside Dwayanu like an unseen shadow. I went with him to the temples when he served the gods. I went with him to the Temple of the Dissolver—Black Khalk’ru, the Greater-than-Gods—and he wore the ring which rested on my breast. But when he passed within Khalk’ru’s temple, I held back. The same deep, stubborn resistance which had halted me when I had visioned the portal of the oasis temple halted me now. I listened to two voices. One urged me to enter with Dwayanu.

The other whispered that I must not. And that voice I could not disobey.

And then, abruptly, Ayjirland was no more! I was staring out at the waterfall and gliding mist wraiths. But—I was Dwayanu!

I was all Dwayanu! Leif Langdon had ceased to exist!

Yet he had left memories—memories which were like half-remembered dreams, memories whose source I could not fathom but realized that, even if only dreams, were true ones. They told me the Ayjirland I had ruled had vanished as utterly as had the phantom Ayjirland of the waterfall, that dusty century upon century had passed since them, that other empires had risen and fallen, that here was an alien land with only a dying fragment of the ancient glory.

Warrior-king and warrior-priest I had been, holding in my hands empire and the lives and destinies of a race.

And now—no more!

CHAPTER XVI.

KISSES OF LUR

Black sorrow and the bitter ashes were in my heart when I turned from the window. I looked at Lur. From long slim feet to shining head I looked at her, and the black sorrow lightened and the bitter ashes blew away.

I put my hands on her shoulders and laughed. Luka had spun her wheel and sent my empire flying off its rim like dust from the potter’s. But she had left me something. In all old Ayjirland there had been few women like this.

Praise Luka! A sacrifice to her next morning if this woman proves what I think her!

My vanished empire! What of it? I would build another. Enough that I was alive!

Again I laughed. I put my hand under Lur’s chin, raised her face to mine, set my lips against hers. She thrust me from her. There was anger in her eyes—but there was doubt under the anger.

“You bade me remember. Well, I have remembered. Why did you open the gates of memory. Witch-woman, unless you had made up your mind to abide by what came forth? Or did you know less of Dwayanu than you pretended?”

She took a step back; she said, furiously:

“I give my kisses. None takes them.”

I caught her in my arms, crushed her mouth to mine, then released her.

“I take them.”

I struck down at her right wrist. There was a dagger in her hand. I was amused, wondering where she had hidden it. I wrenched it from her grip and slipped it my girdle.

“And draw the stings from those I kiss. Thus did Dwayanu in the days of old and thus he does to-day.”

She stepped back and back, eyes dilated. Ai! but I could read her! She had thought me other than I was, thought me hare-brain, imposter, trickster. And it had been in her mind to trick me, to bend me to her will. To beguile me. Me—Dwayanu, who knew women as I knew war! And yet—

She was very beautiful…and she was all I had in this alien land to begin the building of my rule. I summed her up as she stood staring at me. I spoke, and my words were as cold as my thoughts.

“Play no more with daggers—nor with me. Call your servants. I am hungry and I thirst. When I have eaten and drunk we will talk.”

She hesitated, then clapped her hands. Women came in with steaming dishes, with ewers of wine, with fruits. I ate ravenously. I drank deeply. I ate and drank, thinking little of Lur—but thinking much of what her sorcery had made me see, drawing together what I remembered from desert oasis until now. It was little enough. I ate and drank silently. I felt her eyes upon me. I looked into them and smiled. “You thought to make me slave to your will, Lur. Never think it again!”

She dropped her head between her hands and gazed at me across the table.

“Dwayanu died long and long ago. Can the leaf that has withered grow green?”

“I am he, Lur.”

She did not answer.

“What was in your thought when you brought me here, Lur?”

“I am weary of Tibur, weary of his laughter, weary of his stupidity.”

“What else?”

“I tire of Yodin. You and I—alone—could rule Karak, if—”

“That ‘if’ is the heart of it. Witch-woman. What is it?”

She arose, leaned toward me.

“If you can summon Khalk’ru!”

“And if I cannot?”

She shrugged her white shoulders, dropped back into her chair. I laughed.

“In which case Tibur will not be so wearisome, and Yodin may be tolerated. Now listen to me, Lur. Was it your voice I heard urging me to enter Khalk’ru’s temples? Did you see as I was seeing? You need not answer. I read you, Lur. You would be rid of Tibur. Well, perhaps I can kill him. You would be rid of Yodin. Well, no matter who I am, if I can summon the Greater-than-Gods, there is no need of Yodin. Tibur and Yodin gone, there would be only you and me. You think you could rule me. You could not, Lur.”

She had listened quietly, and quietly now she answered.

“All that is true—”

She hesitated; her eyes glowed; a rosy flush swept over bosom and cheeks.

“Yet—there might be another reason why I took you—”

I did not ask her what that other reason might be; women had tried to snare me with that ruse before. Her gaze dropped from me, the cruelty on the red mouth stood out for an instant, naked.

“What did you promise Yodin, Witch-woman?”

She arose, held out her arms to me, her voice trembled—

“Are you less than man—that you can speak to me so! Have I not offered you power, to share with me? Am I not beautiful—am I not desirable?”

“Very beautiful, very desirable. But always I learned the traps my city concealed before I took it.”

Her eyes shot blue fires at that. She took a swift step toward the door. I was swifter. I held her, caught the hand she raised to strike me.

“What did you promise the High-priest, Lur?”

I put the point of the dagger at her throat. Her eyes blazed at me, unafraid. Luka—turn your wheel so I need not slay this woman!

Her straining body relaxed; she laughed.

“Put away the dagger, I will tell you.”

I released her, and walked back to my chair. She studied me from her place across the table; she said, half incredulously:

“You would have killed me!”

“Yes,” I told her.

“I believe you. Whoever you may be. Yellow-hair—there is no man like you here.”

“Whoever I may be—Witch?”

She stirred impatiently.

“No further need for pretence between us.” There was anger in her voice. “I am done with lies—better for both if you be done with them too. Whoever you are—you are not Dwayanu. I say again that the withered leaf cannot turn green nor the dead return.”

“If I am not he, then whence came those memories you watched with me not long ago? Did they pass from your mind to mine. Witch-woman—or from my mind to yours?”

She shook her head, and again I saw a furtive doubt cloud her eyes.

“I saw nothing. I meant you to see—something. You eluded me. Whatever it was you saw—I had no part in it. Nor could I bend you to my will. I saw nothing.”

“I saw the ancient land, Lur.”

She said, sullenly:

“I could go no farther than its portal.”

“What was it you sent me into Ayjirland to find for Yodin, Witch-woman?”

“Khalk’ru,” she answered evenly.

“And why?”

“Because then I would have known surely, beyond all doubt, whether you could summon him. That was what I promised Yodin to discover.”

“And if I could summon him?”

“Then you were to be slain before you had opportunity.”

“And if I could not?”

“Then you would be offered to him in the temple.”

“By Zarda!” I swore. “Dwayanu’s welcome is not like what he had of old when he went visiting—or, if you prefer it, the hospitality you offer a stranger is no thing to encourage travellers. Now do I see eye to eye with you in this matter of eliminating Tibur and the priest. But why should I not begin with you, Witch?”

She leaned back, smiling.

“First—because it would do you no good. Yellow-hair. Look.”

She beckoned me to one of the windows. From it I could see the causeway and the smooth hill upon which we had emerged from the forest. There were soldiers all along the causeway and the top of the hill held a company of them. I felt that she was quite right—even I could not get through them unscathed. The old cold rage began to rise within me. She watched me, with mockery in her eyes.

“And second—” she said. “And second—well, hear me. Yellow-hair.”

I poured wine, raised the goblet to her, and drank. She said:

“Life is pleasant in this land. Pleasant at least for those of us who rule it. I have no desire to change it—except in the matter of Tibur and Yodin. And another matter of which we can talk later. I know the world has altered since long and long ago our ancestors fled from Ayjirland. I know there is life outside this sheltered place to which Khalk’ru led those ancestors. Yodin and Tibur know it, and some few more. Others guess it. But none of us desires to leave this pleasant place—nor do we desire it invaded. Particularly have we no desire to have our people go from it. And this many would attempt if they knew there were green fields and woods and running water and a teeming world of men beyond us. For through the uncounted years they have been taught that in all the world there is no life save here. That Khalk’ru, angered by the Great Sacrilege when Ayjirland rose in revolt and destroyed his temples, then destroyed all life except here, and that only by Khalk’ru’s sufferance does it here exist—and shall persist only so long as he is offered the ancient Sacrifice. You follow me, Yellow-hair?”

I nodded.

“The prophecy of Dwayanu is an ancient one. He was the greatest of the Ayjir kings. He lived a hundred years or more before the Ayjirs began to turn their faces from Khalk’ru, to resist the Sacrifice—and the desert in punishment began to waste the land. And as the unrest grew, and the great war which was to destroy the Ayjirs brewed, the prophecy was born. That he would return to restore the ancient glory. No new story. Yellow-hair. Others have had their Dwayanus—the Redeemer, the Liberator, the Loosener of Fate—or so I have read in those rolls our ancestors carried with them when they fled. I do not believe these stories; new Dwayanus may arise, but the old ones do not return. Yet the people know the prophecy, and the people will believe anything that promises them freedom from something they do not like. And it is from the people that the sacrifices to Khalk’ru are taken—and they do not like the Sacrifice. But because they fear what might come if there were no more sacrifices—they endure them.

“And now. Yellow-hair—we come to you. When first I saw you, heard you shouting that you were Dwayanu, I took council with Yodin and Tibur. I thought you then from Sirk. Soon I knew that could not be. There was another with you—”

“Another?” I asked, in genuine surprise.

She looked at me, suspiciously.

“You have no memory of him?”

“No. I remember seeing you. You had a white falcon. There were other women with you. I saw you from the river.”

She leaned forward, gaze intent.

“You remember the Rrrllya—the Little People? A dark girl who calls herself Evalie?”

Little People—a dark girl—Evalie? Yes, I did remember something of them—but vaguely. They had been in those dreams I had forgotten, perhaps. No—they had been real…or had they?

“Faintly, I seem to remember something of them, Lur. Nothing clearly.”

She stared at me, a curious exultation in her eyes.

“No matter,” she said. “Do not try to think of them. You were not—awake. Later we will speak of them. They are enemies. No matter—follow me now. If you were from Sirk, posing as Dwayanu, you might be a rallying point for our discontented. Perhaps even the leader they needed. If you were from outside—you were still more dangerous, since you could prove us liars. Not only the people, but the soldiers might rally to you. And probably would. What was there for us to do but to kill you?”

“Nothing,” I answered. “I wonder now you did not when you had the chance.”

“You had complicated matters,” she said. “You had shown the ring. Many had seen it, many had heard you call yourself Dwayanu—”

Ah, yes! I remember now—I had come up from the river. How had I gotten into the river? The bridge—Nansur—something had happened there…it was all misty, nothing clear-cut…the Little People…yes, I remembered something of them…they were afraid of me…but I had nothing against them…vainly I tried to sort the vague visions into some pattern. Lur’s voice recalled my wandering thoughts.

“And so,” she was saying, “I made Yodin see that it was not well to slay you outright. It would have been known, and caused too much unrest—strengthened Sirk for one thing. Caused unrest among the soldiers. What—Dwayanu had come and we had slain him! ‘I will take him,’ I told Yodin. ‘I do not trust Tibur who, in his stupidity and arrogance, might easily destroy us all. There is a better way. Let Khalk’ru eat him and so prove us right and him the liar and braggart. Then not soon will another come shouting that he is Dwayanu’!”

“So the High-priest does not think me Dwayanu, either?”

“Less even than I do. Yellow-hair,” she said, smiling. “Nor Tibur. But who you are, and whence you came, and how and why—that puzzles them as it does me. You look like the Ayjir—it means nothing. You have the ancient marks upon your hands—well, granted you are of the ancient blood. So has Tibur—and he is no Redeemer,” again her laughter rang like little bells, “You have the ring. Where did you find it. Yellow-hair? For you know little of its use. Yodin found that out. When you were in sleep. And Yodin saw you turn colour and half turn to flee when first you saw Khalk’ru in his chamber. Deny it not. Yellow-hair. I saw it myself. Ah, no—Yodin has little fear of a rival with the Dissolver. Yet-he is not wholly certain. There is the faintest shadow of doubt. I played on that. And so—you are here.”

I looked at her with frankest admiration, again raised the goblet and drank to her. I clapped my hands, and the serving girls entered.

“Clear the table. Bring wine.”

They came with fresh ewers and goblets. When they had gone out I went over to the door. There was a heavy bar that closed it. I thrust it down. I picked up one of the ewers and half emptied it.

“I can summon the Dissolver, Witch-woman.”

She drew in her breath, sharply; her body trembled; the blue fires of her eyes were bright—bright.

“Shall I show you?”

I took the ring from the locket, slipped it on my thumb, raised my hands in the beginning of the salutation—

A cold breath seemed to breathe through the room. The Witch-woman sprang to me, dragged down my hand. Her lips were white.

“No!—No! I believe—Dwayanu!”

I laughed. The strange cold withdrew, stealthily.

“And now. Witch, what will you tell the priest?”

The blood was slowly coming back into her lips and face. She lifted the ewer and drained it. Her hand was steady. An admirable woman—this Lur!

She said:

“I will tell him that you are powerless.”

I said:

“I will summon the Dissolver. I will kill Tibur. I will kill Yodin—what else is there?”

She came to me, stood with breast touching mine.

“Destroy Sirk. Sweep the dwarfs away. Then you and I shall rule—alone.”

I drank more wine.

“I will summon Khalk’ru; I will eliminate Tibur and the priest; I will sack Sirk and I will war against the dwarfs—if—”

She looked into my eyes, long and long; her arm stole round my shoulder…I thrust out a hand and swept away the candles. The green darkness of the mirage night seeped through the casements. The whispering of the waterfall was soft laughter.

“I take my pay in advance,” I said. “Such was Dwayanu’s way of old—and am I not Dwayanu?”

“Yes!” whispered the Witch-woman.

She took the strand of sapphires from her hair, she unbraided her coronal and shook loose its russet-gold. Her arms went round my neck. Her lips sought mine and clung to them.

There was the beat of horses’ hoofs on the causeway. A distant challenge. A knocking at the door. The Witch-woman awakened, sat sleepily up under the silken tent of her hair.

“Is it you, Ouarda?”

“Yes, mistress. A messenger from Tibur.”

I laughed.

“Tell him you are busy with your gods, Lur.”

She bent her head over mine so that the silken tent of it covered us both.

“Tell him I am busy with the gods, Ouarda. He may stay till morning—or return to Tibur with the message.”

She sank back, pressed her lips to mine—

By Zarda! But it was as it was of old—enemies to slay, a city to sack, a nation to war with and a woman’s soft arms around me.

I was well content!

BOOK OF DWAYANU

CHAPTER XVII.

ORDEAL BY KHALK’RU

Twice the green night had filled the bowl of the land beneath the mirage while I feasted and drank with Lur and her women. Sword-play there had been, and the hammer-play and wrestling. They were warriors—these women! Tempered steel under silken skins, they pressed me hard now and again—strong as I was, quick as I might be. If Sirk were soldiered by such as these, it would be no easy conquest.

By the looks they gave me and by soft whispered words I knew I need not be lonely if Lur rode off to Karak. But she did not; she was ever at my side, and no more messengers came from Tibur; or if they did I did not know it. She had sent secret word to the High-priest that he had been right—I had no power to summon the Greater-than-Gods—that I was either imposter or mad. Or so she told me. Whether she had lied to him or, lied now to me I did not know and did not greatly care. I was too busy—living.

Yet no more did she call me Yellow-hair. Always it was Dwayanu. And every art of love of hers—and she was no novice, the Witch-woman—she used to bind me tighter to her.

It was early dawn of the third day; I was leaning from the casement, watching the misty jewel-fires of the luminous lilies fade, the mist wraiths that were the slaves of the waterfall rise slowly and more slowly. I thought Lur asleep. I heard her stir, and turned. She was sitting up, peering at me through the red veils of her hair. She looked all Witch-woman then…

“A messenger came to me last night from Yodin. To-day you pray to Khalk’ru.”

A thrill went through me; the blood sang in my ears. Always had I felt so when I must evoke the Dissolver—a feeling of power that surpassed even that of victory. Different—a sense of inhuman power and pride. And with it a deep anger, revolt against this Being which was Life’s enemy. This demon that fed on Ayjirland’s flesh and blood—and soul. She was watching me. “Are you afraid, Dwayanu?” I sat beside her, parted the veils of her hair. “Was that why your kisses were doubled last night, Lur? Why they were so—tender? Tenderness, Witch-woman, becomes you—but it sits strangely on you. Were you afraid? For me? You soften me, Lur!” Her eyes flashed, her face flushed at my laughter.

“You do not believe I love you, Dwayanu?”

“Not so much as you love power. Witch-woman.”

“You love me?”

“Not so much as I love power. Witch-woman,” I answered, and laughed again.

She studied me with narrowed eyes. She said:

“There is much talk in Karak of you. It grows menacing. Yodin regrets that he did not kill you when he could have—but knows full well the case might be worse if he had. Tibur regrets he did not kill you when you came up from the river—urges that no more time be lost in doing so. Yodin has declared you a false prophet and has promised that the Greater-than-Gods will prove you so. He believes what I have told you—or perhaps he has a hidden sword. You”—faint mockery crept into her voice—“you, who can read me so easily, surely can read him and guard against it! The people murmur; there are nobles who demand you be brought forth; and the soldiers would follow Dwayanu eagerly—if they believed you truly he. They are restless. Tales spread. You have grown exceedingly—inconvenient. So you face Khalk’ru to-day.”

“If all that be true,” I said, “it occurs to me that I may not have to evoke the Dissolver to gain rule.”

She smiled.

“It was not your old cunning which sent that thought. You will be closely guarded. You would be slain before you could rally a dozen round you. Why not—since there would then be nothing to lose by killing you? And perhaps something to be gained. Besides—what of your promises to me?”

I thrust my arm around her shoulders, lifted and kissed her.

“As for being slain—well, I would have a thing to say to that. But I was jesting, Lur. I keep my promises.”

There was the galloping of horses on the causeway, the jangle of accoutrement, the rattle of kettle-drums. I went over to the window. Lur sprang from the bed and stood beside me. Over the causeway was coming a troop of a hundred or more horsemen. From their spears floated yellow pennons bearing the black symbol of Khalk’ru. They paused at the open drawbridge. At their head I recognized Tibur, his great shoulders covered by a yellow cloak, and on his breast the Kraken.

“They come to take you to the temple. I must let them pass.”

“Why not?” I asked, indifferently. “But I’ll go to no temple until I’ve broken my fast.”

I looked again toward Tibur.

“And if I ride beside the Smith, I would you had a coat of mail to fit me.”

“You ride beside me,” she said. “And as for weapons, you shall have your pick. Yet there is nothing to fear on the way to the temple—it is within it that danger dwells.”

“You speak too much of fear, Witch-woman,” I said, frowning. “Sound the horn. Tibur may think I am loath to meet him. And that I would not have him believe.”

She sounded the signal to the garrison at the bridge. I heard it creaking as I bathed. And soon the horses were trampling before the door of the castle. Lur’s tire-woman entered, and with her she slipped away.

I dressed leisurely. On my way to the great hall I stopped at the chamber of weapons. There was a sword there I had seen and liked. It was of the weight to which I was accustomed, and long and curved and of metal excellent as any I had ever known in Ayjirland. I weighed it in my left hand and took a lighter one for my right. I recalled that someone had told me to beware of Tibur’s left hand…ah, yes, the woman soldier. I laughed—well, let Tibur beware of mine. I took a hammer, not so heavy as the Smith’s…that was his vanity…there was more control to the lighter sledges…I fastened to my forearm the strong strap that held its thong. Then I went down to meet Tibur.

There were a dozen of the Ayjir nobles in the hall, mostly men. Lur was with them. I noticed she had posted her soldiers at various vantage points, and that they were fully armed. I took that for evidence of her good faith, although it somewhat belied her assurance to me that I need fear no danger until I had reached the temple. I had no fault to find in Tibur’s greeting. Nor with those of the others. Except one. There was a man beside the Smith almost as tall as myself. He had cold blue eyes and in them the singular expressionless stare that marks the born killer of men. There was a scar running from left temple to chin, and his nose had been broken. The kind of man, I reflected, whom in the olden days I would have set over some peculiarly rebellious tribe. There was an arrogance about him that irritated me, but I held it down. It was not in my thoughts to provoke any conflict at this moment. I desired to raise no suspicions in the mind of the Smith. My greetings to him and to the others might be said to have had almost a touch of apprehension, of conciliation.

I maintained that attitude while we broke fast and drank. Once it was difficult. Tibur leaned toward the scar-face, laughing.

“I told you he was taller than you, Rascha. The grey stallion is mine!”

The blue eyes ran over me, and my gorge rose.

“The stallion is yours.”

Tibur leaned toward me.

“Rascha the Back-breaker, he is named. Next to me, the strongest in Karak. Too bad you must meet the Greater-than-Gods so quickly. A match between you two would be worth the seeing.”

Now my rage swelled up at this, and my hand dropped to my sword, but I managed to check it, and answered with a touch of eagerness.

“True enough—perhaps that meeting may be deferred…”

Lur frowned and stared at me, but Tibur snapped at the bait, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“No—there is one that may not be kept waiting. But after—perhaps…”

His laughter shook the table. The others joined in it. The scar-face grinned. By Zarda, but this is not to be borne! Careful, Dwayanu, thus you tricked them in the olden days—and thus you shall trick them now. I drained my goblet, and another. I joined them in their laughter—as though I wondered why they laughed. But I sealed their faces in my memory. We rode over the causeway with Lur at my right and a close half-circle of her picked women covering us.

Ahead of us went Tibur and the Back-breaker with a dozen of Tibur’s strongest. Behind us came the troop with the yellow pennons, and behind them another troop of the Witch-woman’s guards.

I rode with just the proper touch of dejection. Now and then the Smith and his familiars looked back at me. And I would hear their laughter. The Witch-woman rode as silently as I. She glanced at me askance, and when that happened I dropped my head a little lower.

The black citadel loomed ahead of us. We entered the city. By that time the puzzlement in Lur’s eyes had changed almost to contempt, the laughter of the Smith become derisive.

The streets were crowded with the people of Karak. And now I sighed, and seemed to strive to arouse myself from my dejection, but still rode listlessly. And Lur bit her lip, and drew close to me, frowning.

“Have you tricked me, Yellow-hair? You go like a dog already beaten!”

I turned my head from her that she might not see my face. By Luka, but it was hard to stifle my own laughter!

There were whisperings, murmurings, among the crowd. There were no shouts, no greetings. Everywhere were the soldiers, sworded and armed with the hammers, spears and pikes ready. There were archers. The High-priest was taking no chances.

Nor was I.

It was no intention of mine to precipitate a massacre. None to give Tibur slightest excuse to do away with me, turn spears and arrow storm upon me. Lur had thought my danger not on my way to the temple, but when within it. I knew the truth was the exact opposite.

So it was no conquering hero, no redeemer, no splendid warrior from the past who rode through Karak that day. It was a man not sure of himself—or better, too sure of what was in store for him. The people who had waited and watched for Dwayanu felt that—and murmured, or were silent. That well pleased the Smith. And it well pleased me, who by now was as eager to meet Khalk’ru as any bridegroom his bride. And was taking no risks of being stopped by sword or hammer, spear or arrow before I could.

And ever the frown on the face of the Witch-woman grew darker, and stronger the contempt and fury in her eyes.

We skirted the citadel, and took a broad road leading back to the cliffs. We galloped along this, pennons flying, drums rolling. We came to a gigantic doorway in the cliff—many times had I gone through such a door as that! I dismounted, hesitatingly. Half-reluctantly, I let myself be led through it by Tibur and Lur and into a small rock-hewn chamber.

They left me, without a word. I glanced about. Here were the chests that held the sacrificial garments, the font of purification, the vessels for the anointing of the evoker of Khalk’ru.

The door opened. I looked into the face of Yodin.

There was vindictive triumph in it, and I knew he had met the Smith and Witch-woman, and that they had told him how I had ridden. As a victim to the Sacrifice! Well, Lur could tell him honestly what he hoped was the truth. If she had the thought to betray me—had betrayed me—she now believed me liar and braggart with quite as good reason as Tibur and the others. If she had not betrayed me, I had backed her lie to Yodin.

Twelve lesser priests filed in behind him, dressed in the sacred robes. The High-priest wore the yellow smock with the tentacles entwined round him. The ring of Khalk’ru shone on his thumb.

“The Greater-than-Gods awaits your prayer, Dwayanu,” he said. “But first you must undergo purification.”

I nodded. They busied themselves with the necessary rites. I submitted to them awkwardly, like one not familiar with them, but as one who plainly wished to be thought so. The malice in Yodin’s eyes increased.

The rites were finished. Yodin took a smock like his own from a chest and draped it on me. I waited.

“Your ring,” he reminded me, sardonically. “Have you forgotten you must wear the ring!”

I fumbled at the chain around my neck, opened the locket and slipped the ring over my thumb. The lesser priests passed from the chamber with their drums. I followed, the High-priest beside me. I heard the clang of a hammer striking a great anvil. And knew it for the voice of Tubalka, the oldest god, who had taught man to wed fire and metal. Tubalka’s recognition of, his salutation and his homage to—Khalk’ru!

The olden exaltation, the ecstasy of dark power, was pouring through me. Hard it was not to betray it. We came out of the passage and into the temple.

Hai! But they had done well by the Greater-than-Gods in this far shrine! Vaster temple I had never beheld in Ayjirland. Cut from the mountain’s heart, as all Khalk’ru’s abodes must be, the huge pillars which bordered the amphitheatre struck up to a ceiling lost in darkness. There were cressets of twisted metal and out of them sprang smooth spirals of wan yellow flame. They burned steadily and soundlessly; by their wan light I could see the pillars marching, marching away as though into the void itself.

Faces were staring up at me from the amphitheatre—hundreds of them. Women’s faces under pennons and bannerets broidered with devices of clans whose men had fought beside and behind me in many a bloody battle. Gods—how few the men were here! They stared up at me, these women faces…women-nobles, women-knights, women-soldiers… They stared up at me by the hundreds…blue eyes ruthless…nor was there pity nor any softness of woman in their faces…warriors they were…Good! Then not as women but as warriors would I treat them.

And now I saw that archers were posted on the borders of the amphitheatre, bows in readiness, arrows at rest but poised, and the bow-strings lined toward me.

Tibur’s doings? Or the priest’s—watchful lest I should attempt escape? I had no liking for that, but there was no help for it. Luka, Lovely Goddess—turn your wheel so no arrow flies before I begin the ritual!

I turned and looked for the mystic screen which was Khalk’ru’s doorway from the Void. It was a full hundred paces away from me, so broad and deep was the platform of rock. Here the cavern had been shaped into a funnel. The mystic screen was a gigantic disk, a score of times the height of a tall man. Not the square of lucent yellow through which, in the temples of the Mother-land, Khalk’ru had become corporeal. For the first time I felt a doubt—was this Being the same? Was there other reason for the High-priest’s malignant confidence than his disbelief in me?

But there in the yellow field floated the symbol of the Greater-than-Gods; his vast black body lay as though suspended in a bubble-ocean of yellow space; his tentacles spread like monstrous rays of black stars and his dreadful eyes brooded on the temple as though, as always, they saw all and saw nothing. The symbol was unchanged. The tide of conscious, dark power in my mind, checked for that instant, resumed its upward flow.

And now I saw between me and the screen a semi-circle of women. Young they were, scarce blossomed out of girlhood—but already in fruit. Twelve of them I counted, each standing in the shallow hollowed cup of sacrifice, the golden girdles of the sacrifice around their waists. Over white shoulders, over young breasts, fell the veils of their ruddy hair, and through those veils they looked at me with blue eyes in which horror lurked. Yet though they could not hide that horror in their eyes from me who was so close, they hid it from those who watched us from beyond. They stood within the cups, erect, proudly, defiant. Ai! but they were brave—those women of Karak! I felt the olden pity for them; stirring of the olden revolt.

In the centre of the semi-circle of women swung a thirteenth ring, held by strong golden chains dropping from the temple’s roof. It was empty, the clasps of the heavy girdle open—

The thirteenth ring! The ring of the Warrior’s Sacrifice! Open for—me!

I looked at the High-priest. He stood beside his priests squatting at their drums. His gaze was upon me. Tibur stood at the edge of the platform beside the anvil of Tubalka, in his hands the great sledge, on his face reflection of the gloating on that of the High-priest. The Witch-woman I could not see.

The High-priest stepped forward. He spoke into the dark vastness of the temple where was the congregation of the nobles.

“Here stands one who comes to us calling himself—Dwayanu. If he be Dwayanu, then will the Greater-than-Gods, mighty Khalk’ru, hear his prayer and accept the Sacrifices. But if Khalk’ru be deaf to him—he is proven cheat and liar. And Khalk’ru will not be deaf to me who have served him faithfully. Then this cheat and liar swings within the Warrior’s Ring for Khalk’ru to punish as he wills. Hear me! Is it just? Answer!”

From the depths of the temple came the voices of the witnesses.

“We hear! It is just!”

The High-priest turned to me as if to speak. But if that had been his mind, he changed it. Thrice he raised his staff of golden bells and shook them. Thrice Tibur raised the hammer and smote the anvil of Tubalka.

Out of the depths of the temple came the ancient chant, the ancient supplication which Khalk’ru had taught our forefathers when he chose us from all the peoples of earth, forgotten age upon forgotten age ago. I listened to it as to a nursery song. And Tibur’s eyes never left me, his hand on hammer in readiness to hurl and cripple if I tried to flee; nor did Yodin’s gaze leave me.

The chant ended.

Swiftly I raised my hands in the ancient sign, and I did with the ring what the ancient ritual ordered—and through the temple swept that first breath of cold that was presage of the coming of Khalk’ru!

Hai! The faces of Yodin and Tibur when they felt that breath! Would that I could look on them! Laugh now, Tibur! Hai! but they could not stop me now! Not even the Smith would dare hurl hammer nor raise hand to loose arrow storm upon me! Not even Yodin would dare halt me—I forgot all that. I forgot Yodin and Tibur. I forgot, as ever I forgot, the Sacrifices in the dark exultation of the ritual.

The yellow stone wavered, was shot through with tremblings. It became thin as air. It vanished.

Where it had been, black tentacles quivering, black body hovering, vanishing into immeasurable space, was Khalk’ru!

Faster, louder, beat the drums.

The black tentacles writhed forward. The women did not see them. Their eyes clung to me…as though…as though I held for them some hope that flamed through their despair! I…who had summoned their destroyer…

The tentacles touched them. I saw the hope fade and die. The tentacles coiled round their shoulders. They slid across their breasts. Embraced them. Slipped down their thighs and touched their feet. The drums began their swift upward flight into the crescendo of the Sacrifice’s culmination.

The wailing of the women was shrill above the drums. Their white bodies became grey mist. They became shadows. They were gone—gone before the sound of their wailing had died. The golden girdles fell clashing to the rock—

What was wrong? The ritual was ended. The Sacrifice accepted. Yet Khalk’ru still hovered!

And the lifeless cold was creeping round me, was rising round me…

A tentacle swayed and writhed forward. Slowly, slowly, it passed the Warrior’s Ring—came closer—closer—

It was reaching for me!

I heard a voice intoning. Intoning words more ancient than I had ever known. Words? They were not words! They were sounds whose roots struck back and back into a time before ever man drew breath.

It was Yodin—Yodin speaking in a tongue that might have been Khalk’ru’s own before ever life was!

Drawing Khalk’ru upon me by it! Sending me along the road the Sacrifices had travelled!

I leaped upon Yodin. I caught him in my arms and thrust him between me and the questing tentacle. I raised Yodin in my arms as though he had been a doll and flung him to Khalk’ru. He went through the tentacle as though it had been cloud. He struck the chains that held the Warrior’s Ring. He swung in them, entangled. He slithered down upon the golden girdle.

Hands upraised, I heard myself crying to Khalk’ru those same unhuman syllables. I did not know their meaning then, and do not know them now—nor from whence knowledge of them came to me…

I know they were sounds the throats and lips of men were never meant to utter!

But Khalk’ru heard—and heeded! He hesitated. His eyes stared at me, unfathomably—stared at and through me.

And then the tentacle curled back. It encircled Yodin. A thin screeching—and Yodin was gone!

The living Khalk’ru was gone. Lucent yellow, the bubble-ocean gleamed where he had been—the black shape floated inert within it.

I heard a tinkle upon the rock, the ring of Yodin rolling down the side of the cup. I leaped forward and picked it up.

Tibur, hammer half raised, stood glaring at me beside the anvil. I snatched the sledge from his hand, gave him a blow that sent him reeling.

I raised the hammer and crushed the ring of Yodin on the anvil!

From the temple came a thunderous shout—

“Dwayanu!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

WOLVES OF LUR

I rode through the forest with the Witch-woman. The white falcon perched on her gauntleted wrist and cursed me with unwinking golden eyes. It did not like me—Lur’s falcon. A score of her women rode behind us. A picked dozen of my own were shield for my back. They rode close. So it was of old. I liked my back covered. It was my sensitive part, whether with friends or foes.

The armourers had fashioned me a jacket of the light chain-mail. I wore it; Lur and our little troop wore them; and each was as fully armed as I with the two swords, the long dagger and the thonged hammer. We were on our way to reconnoitre Sirk.

For five days I had sat on the throne of the High-priest, ruling Karak with the Witch-woman and Tibur. Lur had come to me—penitent in her own fierce fashion. Tibur, all arrogance and insolence evaporated, had bent the knee, proffering me allegiance, protesting, reasonably enough, that his doubts had been but natural. I accepted his allegiance, with reservations. Sooner or later I would have to kill Tibur—even if I had not promised Lur his death. But why kill him before he ceased to be useful? He was a sharp-edged tool? Well, if he cut me in my handling of him, it would be only my fault. Better a crooked sharp knife than a straight dull one.

As for Lur—she was sweet woman flesh, and subtle. But did she greatly matter? Not greatly—just then. There was a lethargy upon me, a lassitude, as I rode beside her through the fragrant forest.

Yet I had received from Karak homage and acclaim more than enough to soothe any wounded pride. I was the idol of the soldiers. I rode through the streets to the shouts of the people, and mothers held their babes up to look on me. But there were many who were silent when I passed, averting their heads, or glancing at me askance with eyes shadowed by furtive hatred and fear.

Dara, the bold-eyed captain who had warned me of Tibur, and Naral, the swaggering girl who had given me her locket, I had taken for my own and had made them officers of my personal guard. They were devoted and amusing. I had spoken to Dara only that morning of those who looked askance at me, asking why.

“You want straight answer, Lord?”

“Always that, Dara.”

She said bluntly:

“They are the ones who looked for a Deliverer. One who would break chains. Open doors. Bring freedom. They say Dwayanu is only another feeder of Khalk’ru. His butcher. Like Yodin. No worse, maybe. No better certainly.”

I thought of that strange hope I had seen strangled in the eyes of the sacrifices. They too had hoped me Deliverer, instead of…

“What do you think, Dara?”

“I think as you think, Lord,” she answered. “Only—it would not break my heart to see the golden girdles broken.”

And I was thinking of that as I rode along with Lur, her falcon hating me with its unwinking glare. What was—Khalk’ru? Often and often, long and long and long ago, I had wondered that. Could the illimitable cast itself into such a shape as that which came to the call of the wearer of the ring? Or rather—would it? My empire had been widespread—under sun and moon and stars. Yet it was a mote in the sun-ray compared to the empire of the Spirit of the Void. Would one so great be content to shrink himself within the mote?

Ai! but there was no doubt that the Enemy of Life was! But was that which came to the summons of the ring—the Enemy of Life? And if not—then was this dark worship worth its cost?

A wolf howled. The Witch-woman threw back her head and answered it. The falcon stretched its wings, screaming. We rode from the forest into an open glade, moss-carpeted. She halted, sent again from her throat the wolf cry.

Suddenly around us was a ring of wolves. White wolves whose glowing green eyes were fixed on Lur. They ringed us, red tongues lolling, fangs glistening. A patter of pads, and as suddenly the circle of wolves was doubled. And others slipped through the trees until the circle was three-fold, four-fold…until it was a wide belt of living white flecked by scarlet flames of wolf-tongues, studded with glinting emeralds of wolf-eyes…

My horse trembled; I smelled its sweat.

Lur drove her knees into the sides of her mount and rode forward. Slowly she paced it round the inner circle of the white wolves. She raised her hand; something she said. A great dog-wolf arose from its haunches and came toward her. Like a dog, it put its paws upon her saddle. She reached down, caught its jowls in her hands. She whispered to it. The wolf seemed to listen. It slipped back to the circle and squatted, watching her. I laughed.

“Are you woman—or wolf, Lur?”

She said:

“I, too, have my followers, Dwayanu. You could not easily win these from me.”

Something in her tone made me look at her sharply. It was the first time that she had shown resentment, or at least chagrin, at my popularity. She did not meet my gaze.

The big dog-wolf lifted its throat and howled. The circles broke. They spread out, padding swiftly ahead of us like scouts. They melted into the green shadows.

The forest thinned. Giant ferns took the place of the trees. I began to hear a curious hissing. Also it grew steadily warmer, and the air filled with moisture, and mist wreaths floated over the ferns. I could see no tracks, yet Lur rode steadily as though upon a well-marked road.

We came to a huge clump of ferns. Lur dropped from her horse.

“We go on foot here, Dwayanu. It is but a little way.”

I joined her. The troop drew up but did not alight. The Witch-woman and I slipped through the ferns for a score of paces. The dog-wolf stalked just ahead of her. She parted the fronds. Sirk lay before me.

At right arose a bastion of perpendicular cliff, dripping with moisture, little of green upon it except small ferns clinging to precarious root-holds. At left, perhaps four arrow flights away, was a similar bastion, soaring into the haze. Between these bastions was a level platform of black rock. Its smooth and glistening foundations dropped into a moat as wide as two strong throws of a javelin. The platform curved outward, and from cliff to cliff it was lipped with one unbroken line of fortress.

Hai! But that was a moat! Out from under the right-hand cliff gushed a torrent. It hissed and bubbled as it shot forth, and the steam from it wavered over the cliff face like a great veil and fell upon us in a fine warm spray. It raced boiling along the rock base of the fortress, and jets of steam broke through it and immense bubbles rose and burst, scattering showers of scalding spray.

The fortress itself was not high. It was squat and solidly built, its front unbroken except for arrow slits close to the top. There was a parapet across the top. Upon it I could see the glint of spears and the heads of the guards. In only one part was there anything like towers. These were close to the centre where the boiling moat narrowed. Opposite them, on the farther bank, was a pier for a drawbridge. I could see the bridge, a narrow one, raised and protruding from between the two towers like a tongue.

Behind the fortress, the cliffs swept inward. They did not touch. Between them was a gap about a third as wide as the platform of the fortress. In front of us, on our side of the boiling stream, the sloping ground had been cleared both of trees and ferns. It gave no cover.

They had picked their spot well, these outlaws of Sirk. No besiegers could swim that moat with its hissing jets of live steam and bursting bubbles rising continually from the geysers at its bottom. No stones nor trees could dam it, making a causeway over which to march to batter at the fortress’s walls. There was no taking of Sirk from this side. That was clear. Yet there must be more of Sirk than this.

Lur had been following my eyes, reading my thoughts.

“Sirk itself lies beyond those gates,” she pointed to the gap between the cliffs. “It is a valley wherein is the city, the fields, the herds. And there is no way into it except through those gates.”

I nodded, absently. I was studying the cliffs behind the fortress. I saw that these, unlike the bastions in whose embrace the platform lay, were not smooth. There had been falls of rock, and these rocks had formed rough terraces. If one could get to those terraces—unseen…

“Can we get closer to the cliff from which the torrent comes, Lur?”

She caught my wrist, her eyes bright.

“What do you see, Dwayanu?”

“I do not know as yet, Witch-woman. Perhaps nothing. Can we get closer to the torrent?”

“Come.”

We slipped out of the ferns, skirted them, the dog-wolf walking stiff-legged in the lead, eyes and ears alert. The air grew hotter, vapour-filled, hard to breathe. The hissing became louder. We crept through the ferns, wet to the skins. Another step and I looked straight down upon the boiling torrent. I saw now that it did not come directly from the cliff. It shot up from beneath it, and its heat and its exhalations made me giddy. I tore a strip from my tunic and wrapped it around mouth and nose. I studied the cliff above it, foot by foot. Long I studied it and long—and then I turned.

“We can go back, Lur.”

“What have you seen, Dwayanu?”

What I had seen might be the end of Sirk—but I did not tell her so. The thought was not yet fully born. It had never been my way to admit others into half-formed plans. It is too dangerous. The bud is more delicate than the flower and should be left to develop free from prying hands or treacherous or even well-meant meddling. Mature your plan and test it; then you can weigh with clear judgment any changes. Nor was I ever strong for counsel; too many pebbles thrown into the spring muddy it. That was one reason I was—Dwayanu. I said to Lur:

“I do not know. I have a thought. But I must weigh it.”

She said, angrily:

“I am not stupid. I know war—as I know love. I could help you.”—

I said, impatiently:

“Not yet. When I have made my plan I will tell it to you.”

She did not speak again until we were within sight of the waiting women; then she turned to me. Her voice was low, and very sweet:

“Will you not tell me? Are we not equal, Dwayanu?”

“No,” I answered, and left her to decide whether that was answer to the first question or both.

She mounted her horse, and we rode back through the forest.

I was thinking, thinking over what I had seen, and what it might mean, when I heard again the howling of the wolves. It was a steady, insistent howling. Summoning. The Witch-woman raised her head, listened, then spurred her horse forward. I shot my own after her. The white falcon fluttered, and beat up into the air, screeching.

We raced out of the forest and upon a flower-covered meadow. In the meadow stood a little man. The wolves surrounded him, weaving around and around one another in a witch-ring. The instant they caught sight of Lur, they ceased their cry—squatted on their haunches. Lur checked her horse and rode slowly toward them. I caught a glimpse of her face, and it was hard and fierce.

I looked at the little man. Little enough he was, hardly above one of my knees, yet perfectly formed. A little golden man with hair streaming down almost to his feet. One of the Rrrllya—I had studied the woven pictures of them on the tapestries, but this was the first living one I had seen—or was it? I had a vague idea that once I had been in closer contact with them than the tapestries.

The white falcon was circling round his head, darting down upon him, striking at him with claws and beak. The little man held an arm before his eyes, while the other was trying to beat the bird away. The Witch-woman sent a shrill call to the falcon. It flew to her, and the little man dropped his arms. His eyes fell upon me.

He cried out to me, held his arms out to me, like a child.

There was appeal in cry and gesture. Hope, too, and confidence. It was like a frightened child calling to one whom it knew and trusted. In his eyes I saw again the hope that I had watched die in the eyes of the Sacrifices. Well, I would not watch it die in the eyes of the little man!

I thrust my horse past Lur’s, and lifted it over the barrier of the wolves. Leaning from the saddle, I caught the little man up in my arms. He clung to me, whispering in strange trilling sounds.

I looked back at Lur. She had halted her horse beyond the wolves.

She cried:

“Bring him to me!”

The little man clutched me tight, and broke into a rapid babble of the strange sounds. Quite evidently he had understood, and quite as evidently he was imploring me to do anything other than turn him over to the Witch-woman.

I laughed, and shook my head at her. I saw her eyes blaze with quick, uncontrollable fury. Let her rage! The little man should go safe! I put my heels to the horse and leaped the far ring of wolves. I saw not far away the gleam of the river, and turned my horse toward it.

The Witch-woman gave one wild, fierce cry. And then there was the whirr of wings around my head, and the buffeting of wings about my ears. I threw up a hand. I felt it strike the falcon, and I heard it shriek with rage and pain. The little man shrank closer to me.

A white body shot up and clung for a moment to the pommel of my saddle, green eyes glaring into mine, red mouth slavering. I took a quick glance back. The wolf pack was rushing down upon me, Lur at their heels. Again the wolf leaped. But by this time I had drawn my sword. I thrust it through the white wolf’s throat. Another leaped, tearing a strip from my tunic. I held the little man high up in one arm and thrust again.

Now the river was close. And now I was on its bank. I lifted the little man in both hands and hurled him far out into the water.

I turned, both swords in hand, to meet the charge of the wolves.

I heard another cry from Lur. The wolves stopped in their rush, so suddenly that the foremost of them slid and rolled. I looked over the river. Far out on it was the head of the little man, long hair floating behind him, streaking for the opposite shore.

Lur rode up to me. Her face was white, and her eyes were hard as blue jewels. She said in a strangled voice:

“Why did you save him?”

I considered that, gravely. I said:

“Because not twice would I see hope die in the eyes of one who trusts me.”

She watched me, steadily; and the white-hot anger did not abate.

“You have broken the wings of my falcon, Dwayanu.”

“Which do you love best. Witch-woman—its wing or my eyes?”

“You have killed two of my wolves.”

“Two wolves—or my throat, Lur?”

She did not answer. She rode slowly back to her women. But I had seen tears in her eyes before she turned. They might have been of rage—or they might not. But it was the first time I had ever seen Lur weep.

With never a word to each other we rode back to Karak—she nursing the wounded falcon, I thinking over what I had seen on the cliffs of Sirk.

We did not stop at Karak. I had a longing for the quiet and beauty of the Lake of the Ghosts. I told Lur that. She assented indifferently, so we went straight on and came to it just as the twilight was thickening. With the women, we dined together in the great hall. Lur had shaken off her moodiness. If she still felt wrath toward me, she hid it well. We were merry and I drank much wine. The more I drank the clearer became my plan for the taking of Sirk. It was a good plan. After awhile, I went up with Lur to her tower and watched the waterfall and the beckoning mist wraiths, and the plan became clearer still.

Then my mind turned back to that matter of Khalk’ru. And I thought over that a long while. I looked up and found Lur’s gaze intent upon me.

“What are you thinking, Dwayanu?”

“I am thinking that never again will I summon Khalk’ru.”

She said, slowly, incredulously:

“You cannot mean that, Dwayanu!”

“I do mean it.”

Her face whitened. She said:

“If Khalk’ru is not offered his Sacrifice, he will withdraw life from this land. It will become desert, as did the Mother-land when the Sacrifices were ended.”

I said:

“Will it? That is what I have ceased to believe. Nor do I think you believe it, Lur. In the olden days there was land upon land which did not acknowledge Khalk’ru, whose people did not sacrifice to Khalk’ru—yet they were not desert. And I know, even though I do not know how I know, that there is land upon land to-day where Khalk’ru is not worshipped—yet life teems in them. Even here—the Rrrllya, the Little People, do not worship him. They hate him—or so you have told me—yet the land over Nanbu is no less fertile than here.”

She said:

“That was the whisper that went through the Mother-land, long and long and long ago. It became louder—and the Mother-land became desert.”

“There might have been other reasons than Khalk’ru’s wrath for that, Lur.”

“What were they?”

“I do not know,” I said. “But you have never seen the sun and moon and stars. I have seen them. And a wise old man once told me that beyond sun and moon were other suns with other earths circling them, and upon them—life. The Spirit of the Void in which burn these suns should be too vast to shrink itself to such littleness as that which, in a little temple in this little comer of all earth, makes itself manifest to us.”

She answered:

“Khalk’ru is! Khalk’ru is everywhere. He is in the tree that withers, the spring that dries. Every heart is open to him. He touches it—and there comes weariness of life, hatred of life, desire for eternal death. He touches earth and there is sterile sand where meadows grew; the flocks grow barren. Khalk’ru is.”

I thought over that, and I thought it was true enough. But there was a flaw in her argument.

“Nor do I deny that, Lur,” I answered. “The Enemy of Life is. But is what comes to the ritual of the ring—Khalk’ru?”

“What else? So it has been taught from ancient days.”

“I do not know what else. And many things have been taught from ancient days which would not stand the test. But I do not believe that which comes is Khalk’ru, Soul of the Void, He-to-Whom-All-Life-Must-Return and all the rest of his titles. Nor do I believe that if we end the Sacrifices life will end here with them.”

She said, very quietly:

“Hear me, Dwayanu. Whether that which comes to the Sacrifices be Khalk’ru or another matters not at all to me. All that matters is this: I do not want to leave this land, and I would keep it unchanged. I have been happy here. I have seen the sun and moon and stars. I have seen the outer earth in my waterfall yonder. I would not go into it. Where would I find a place so lovely as this my Lake of the Ghosts? If the Sacrifices end, they whom only fear keeps here will go. They will be followed by more and more. The old life I love ends with the Sacrifices—surely. For if desolation comes, we shall be forced to go. And if it does not come, the people will know that they have been taught lies, and will go to see whether what is beyond be not fairer, happier, than here. So it has always been. I say to you, Dwayanu—it shall not be here!”

She waited for me to answer. I did not answer.

“If you do not wish to summon Khalk’ru, then why not choose another in your place?”

I looked at her sharply. I was not ready to go quite that far as yet. Give up the ring, with all its power!

“There is another reason, Dwayanu, than those you have given me. What is it?”

I said, bluntly:

“There are many who call me feeder of Khalk’ru. Butcher for him. I do not like that. Nor do I like to see—what I see—in the eyes of the women I feed him.”

“So that is it,” she said, contemptuously. “Sleep has made you soft, Dwayanu! Better tell me your plan to take Sirk and let me carry it out! You have grown too tender-hearted for war, I think!”

That stung me, swept all my compunctions away. I jumped up, knocking away the chair, half-raised my hand to strike her. She faced me, boldly, no trace of fear in her eyes. I dropped my hand.

“But not so soft that you can mould me to your will, Witch,” I said. “Nor do I go back on my bargains. I have given you Yodin. I shall give you Sirk, and all else I have promised. Till then—let this matter of the Sacrifices rest. When shall I give you Tibur?”

She put her hands on my shoulders and smiled into my angry eyes. She clasped her hands around my neck and brought my lips down to her warm red ones.

“Now,” she whispered, “you are Dwayanu! Now the one I love—ah, Dwayanu, if you but loved me as I love you!”

Well, as for that, I loved her as much as I could any woman… After all, there was none like her. I swung her up and held her tight, and the old recklessness, the old love of life poured through me.

“You shall have Sirk! And Tibur when you will.”

She seemed to consider.

“Not yet,” she said. “He is strong, and he has his followers. He will be useful at Sirk, Dwayanu. Not before then—surely.”

“It was precisely what I was thinking,” I said. “On one thing at least we agree.”

“Let us have wine upon our peace,” she said, and called to her serving-women.

“But there is another thing also upon which we agree.” She looked at me strangely.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You yourself have said it,” she answered—and more than that I could not get her to say. It was long before I knew what she had meant, and then it was too late…

It was good wine. I drank more than I should have. But clearer and clearer grew my plan for the taking of Sirk.

It was late next morning when I awoke. Lur was gone. I had slept as though drugged. I had the vaguest memory of what had occurred the night before, except that Lur and I had violently disagreed about something. I thought of Khalk’ru not at all. I asked Ouarda where Lur had gone. She said that word had been brought early that two women set apart for the next Sacrifice had managed to escape. Lur thought they were making their way to Sirk. She was hunting them with the wolves. I felt irritated that she had not roused me and taken me with her. I thought that I would like to see those white brutes of hers in action. They were like the great dogs we had used in Ayjirland to track similar fugitives.

I did not go into Karak. I spent the day at sword-play and wrestling, and swimming in the Lake of the Ghosts—after my headache had worn off.

Close toward nightfall Lur returned.

“Did you catch them?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “They got to Sirk safely. We were just in time to see them half-across the drawbridge.”

I thought she was rather indifferent about it, but gave the matter no further thought. And that night she was gay—and most tender toward me. Sometimes so tender that I seemed to detect another emotion in her kisses. It seemed to me that they were—regretful. And I gave that no thought then either.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TAKING OF SIRK

Again I rode through the forest toward Sirk, with Lur at my left hand and Tibur beside her. At my back were my two captains, Dara and Naral. Close at our heels came Ouarda, with twelve slim, strong girls, fair skins stained strangely green and black, and naked except for a narrow belt around their waists. Behind these rode four score of the nobles with Tibur’s friend Rascha at their head. And behind them marched silently a full thousand of Karak’s finest fighting women.

It was night. It was essential to reach the edge of the forest before the last third of the stretch between midnight and dawn. The hoofs of the horses were muffled so that no sharp ears might hear their distant tread, and the soldiers marched in open formation, noiselessly. Five days had passed since I had first looked on the fortress.

They had been five days of secret, careful preparation. Only the Witch-woman and the Smith knew what I had in mind. Secret as we had been, the rumour had spread that we were preparing for a sortie against the Rrrllya. I was well content with that. Not until we had gathered to start did even Rascha, or so I believed, know that we were headed toward Sirk. This so no word might be carried there to put them on guard, for I knew well that those we menaced had many friends in Karak—might have them among the ranks that slipped along behind us. Surprise was the essence of my plan. Therefore the muffling of the horses’ hoofs. Therefore the march by night. Therefore the silence as we passed through the forest. And therefore it was that when we heard the first howling of Lur’s wolves the Witch-woman slipped from her horse and disappeared in the luminous green darkness.

We halted, awaiting her return. None spoke; the howls were stilled; she came from the trees and remounted. Like well-trained dogs the white wolves spread ahead of us, nosing over the ground we still must travel, ruthless scouts which no spy nor chance wanderer, whether from or to Sirk, could escape.

I had desired to strike sooner than this, had chafed at the delay, had been reluctant to lay bare my plan to Tibur. But Lur had pointed out that if the Smith were to be useful at Sirk’s taking he would have to be trusted, and that he would be less dangerous if informed and eager than if uninformed and suspicious. Well, that was true. And Tibur was a first-class fighting man with strong friends.

So I had taken him into my confidence and told him what I had observed when first I had stood with Lur beside Sirk’s boiling moat—the vigorously growing clumps of ferns which extended in an almost unbroken, irregular line high up and across the black cliff, from the forest on the hither side and over the geyser-spring, and over the parapets. It betrayed, I believed, a slipping or cracking of the rock which had formed a ledge. Along that ledge, steady-nerved, sure-footed climbers might creep, and make their way unseen into the fortress—and there do for us what I had in mind.

Tibur’s eyes had sparkled, and he had laughed as I had not heard him laugh since my ordeal by Khalk’ru. He had made only one comment.

“The first link of your chain is the weakest, Dwayanu.”

“True enough. But it is forged where Sirk’s chain of defence is weakest.”

“Nevertheless—I would not care to be the first to test that link.”

For all my lack of trust, I had warmed to him for that touch of frankness.

“Thank the gods for your weight then, Anvil-smiter,” I had said. “I cannot see those feet of yours competing for toe-holds with ferns. Otherwise I might have picked you.”

I had looked down at the sketch I had drawn to make the matter clearer.

“We must strike quickly. How long before we can be in readiness, Lur?”

I had raised my eyes in time to see a swift glance pass between the two. Whatever suspicion I may have felt had been fleeting. Lur had answered, quickly.

“So far as the soldiers are concerned, we could start to-night. How long it will take to pick the climbers, I cannot tell. Then I must test them. All that will take time.”

“How long, Lur? We must be swift.”

“Three days—five days—I will be swift as may be. Beyond that I will not promise.”

With that I had been forced to be content. And now, five nights later, we marched on Sirk. It was neither dark nor light in the forest; a strange dimness floated over us; the glimmer of the flowers was our torch. All the fragrances were of life. But it was death whose errand we were on.

The weapons of the soldiers were covered so that there could be no betraying glints; spear-heads darkened—no shining of metal upon any of us. On the tunics of the soldiers was the Wheel of Luka, so that friend would not be mistaken for foe once we were behind the walls of Sirk. Lur had wanted the Black Symbol of Khalk’ru.

I would not have it. We reached the spot where we had decided to leave the horses. And here in silence our force separated. Under leadership of Tibur and Rascha, the others crept through wood and fern-brake to the edge of the clearing opposite the drawbridge.

With the Witch-woman and myself went a scant dozen of the nobles, Ouarda with the naked girls, a hundred of the soldiers. Each of these had bow and quiver in well-protected cases on their backs. They carried the short battleaxe, long sword and dagger. They bore the long, wide rope ladder I had caused to be made, like those I had used long and long ago to meet problems similar to this of Sirk—but none with its peculiarly forbidding aspects. They carried another ladder, long and flexible and of wood. I was armed only with battleaxe and long sword, Lur and the nobles with the throwing hammers and swords.

We stole toward the torrent whose hissing became louder with each step.

Suddenly I halted, drew Lur to me.

“Witch-woman, can you truly talk to your wolves?”

“Truly, Dwayanu.”

“I am thinking it would be no bad plan to draw eyes and ears from this end of the parapet. If some of your wolves would fight and howl and dance a bit there at the far bastion for the amusement of the guards, it might help us here.”

She sent a low call, like the whimper of a she-wolf. Almost instantly the head of the great dog-wolf which had greeted her on our first ride lifted beside her. Its hackles bristled as it glared at me. But it made no sound. The Witch-woman dropped to her knees beside it, took its head in her arms, whispering. They seemed to whisper together. And then as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. Lur arose, in her eyes something of the green fire of the wolf’s.

“The guards shall have their amusement.”

I felt a little shiver along my back, for this was true witchcraft. But I said nothing and we went on. We came to that place from which I had scanned the cliff. We parted the ferns and peered out upon the fortress.

Thus it was. At our right, a score of paces away, soared the sheer wall of the cliff which, continuing over the boiling torrent, formed this nearer bastion. The cover in which we lurked ran up to it, was thrown back like a green wave from its base. Between our cover and the moat was a space not more than a dozen paces across, made barren by the hot spray that fell on it. Here, the walls of the fortress were not more than a javelin cast distant. The wall and the parapet touched the cliff, but hardly could they be seen through the thick veils of steam. And this was what I had meant when I had said that our weakest link would be forged where Sirk’s defences were weakest. For no sentinels stood at this corner. With the heat and steam and exhalations from the geyser, there was no need—or so they thought. How, here at its hottest source, could the torrent be crossed? Who could scale that smooth and dripping cliff? Of all the defences, this spot was the impregnable one, unnecessary to guard—or so they thought. Therefore it was the exact point to attack—if it could be done.

I studied it. Not for full two hundred paces was there a single sentinel. From somewhere behind the fortress came the glare of a fire. It cast flickering shadows on the terraces of fallen rock beyond the bastioning cliffs; and that was good, since if we gained their shelter, we, too, would seem but flickering shadows. I beckoned Ouarda, and pointed to the rocks which were to be the goal of the naked girls. They were close to the cliff where it curved inward beyond the parapet, and they were about the height of twenty tall men above where we hid. She drew the girls to her and instructed them. They nodded, their eyes dropping swiftly to the cauldron of the moat, then turning to the glistening precipice. I saw some of them shudder. Well, I could not hold that against them, no!

We crept back and found the base of the cliff. Here were enough and to spare of rock holds for the grapnels of the ladder. We unwound the rope ladder. We set the wooden ladder against the cliff. I pointed out the ledge that might be the key to Sirk, counselled the climbers as best I could. I knew that the ledge could not be much wider than the span of a hand. Yet above it and below it were small crevices, pockets, where fingers and toes could grip, for clumps of ferns sprouted there.

Hai! But they had courage, those slim girls. We fastened to their belts long strong cords which would slip through our hands as they crept along. And they looked at one another’s stained faces and bodies and laughed. The first went up the ladder like a squirrel, got foothold and handhold and began to edge across. In an instant she had vanished, the green and black with which her body was stained merging into the dim green and black of the cliff. Slowly, slowly, the first cord slipped through my fingers.

Another followed her, and another, until I held six cords. And now the others climbed up and crept out on the perilous path, their leashes held in the strong hands of the Witch-woman.

Hai! But that was queer fishing! With will strained toward keeping these girl-fish out of water! Slowly—Gods, but how slowly—the cords crept through my fingers! Through the fingers of the Witch-woman…slowly…slowly…but ever on and on.

Now that first slim girl must be over the cauldron…I had swift vision of her clinging to the streaming rock, the steam of the cauldron clothing her…

That line slackened in my hand. It slackened, then ran out so swiftly that it cut the skin…slackened again…a tug upon it as of a great fish racing away…I felt the line snap. The girl had fallen! Was now dissolving flesh in the cauldron!

The second cord slackened and tugged and snapped…and the third…Three of them gone! I whispered to Lur:

“Three are gone!”

“And two!” she said. I saw that her eyes were tightly closed, but the hands that clutched the cords were steady.

Five of those slim girls! Only seven left! Luka—spin your wheel!

On and on, slowly, with many a halt, the remaining cords crept through my fingers. Now the fourth girl must be over the moat…must be over the parapet…must be well on her way to the rocks…my heart beat in my throat, half-strangling me…Gods—the sixth had fallen! “Another!” I groaned to Lur. “And another!” she whispered, and cast the end of a cord from her hand.

Five left…only five now…Luka, a temple to you in Karak—all your own, sweet goddess!

What was that? A pull upon a cord, and twice repeated! The signal! One had crossed! Honour and wealth to you, slim girl…

“All gone but one, Dwayanu!” whispered the Witch-woman.

I groaned again, and glared at her…Again the twitches—upon my fifth cord! Another safe! “My last is over!” whispered Lur. Three safe! Three hidden among the rocks. The fishing was done. Sirk had stolen three-fourths of my bait.

But Sirk was hooked!

Weakness like none I had known melted bones and muscles. Lur’s face was white as chalk, black shadows under staring eyes.

Well, now it was our turn. The slim maids who had fallen might soon have company!

I took the cord from Lur. Sent the signal. Felt it answered.

We cut the cords, and knotted their ends to heavier strands. And when they had run out we knotted to their ends a stronger, slender rope.

It crept away—and away—and away—

And now for the ladder—the bridge over which we must go.

It was light but strong, that ladder. Woven cunningly in a way thought out long and long ago. It had claws at each end which, once they had gripped, were not easily opened.

We fastened that ladder’s end to the slender rope. It slipped away from us…over the ferns…out into the hot breath of the cauldron…through it.

Invisible within that breath…invisible against the green dusk of the cliff…on and on it crept…

The three maids had it! They were making it fast. Under my hands it straightened and stiffened. We drew it taut from our end. We fastened our grapnels.

The road to Sirk was open!

I turned to the Witch-woman. She stood, her gaze far and far away. In her eyes was the green fire of her wolves. And suddenly over the hissing of the torrent, I heard the howling of her wolves—far and far away.

She relaxed; her head dropped; she smiled at me—“Yes—truly can I talk to my wolves, Dwayanu!”

I walked to the ladder, tested it. It was strong, secure.

“I go first, Lur. Let none follow me until I have crossed. Then do you, Dara and Naral, climb to guard my back.”

Lur’s eyes blazed.

“I follow you. Your captains come after me.”

I considered that. Well—let it be.

“As you say, Lur. But do not follow until I have crossed. Then let Ouarda send the soldiers. Ouarda—not more than ten may be on the ladder at a time. Bind cloths over their mouths and nostrils before they start. Count thirty—slowly, like this—before each sets forth behind the other. Fasten axe and sword between my shoulders, Lur. See to it that all bear their weapons so. Watch now, how I use my hands and feet.”

I swung upon the ladder, arms and legs opened wide. I began to climb it. Like a spider. Slowly, so they could learn. The ladder swayed but little; its angle was a good one.

And now I was above the fern-brake. And now I was at the edge of the torrent. Above it. The stream swirled round me. It hid me. The hot breath of the geyser shrivelled me. Nor could I see anything of the ladder except the strands beneath me…

Thank Luka for that! If what was before me was hidden—so was I hidden from what was before me!

I was through the steam. I had passed the cliff. I was above the parapet. I dropped from the ladder, among the rocks—unseen. I shook the ladder. There was a quivering response. There was weight upon it…more weight…and more…

I unstrapped axe and sword—

“Dwayanu—”

I turned. There were the three maids. I began to praise them—holding back laughter. Green and black had run and combined under bath of steam into grotesque pattern.

“Nobles you are, maids! From this moment! Green and black your colours. What you have done this night will long be a tale in Karak.”

I looked toward the battlements. Between us and them was a smooth floor of rock and sand, less than half a bow-shot wide. A score of soldiers stood around the fire. There was a larger group on the parapet close to the towers of the bridge. There were more at the farther end of the parapet, looking at the wolves.

The towers of the drawbridge ran straight down to the rocky floor. The tower at the left was blank wall. The tower at the right had a wide gate. The gate was open, unguarded, unless the soldiers about the fire were its guards. Down from between the towers dropped a wide ramp, the approach to the bridge-head.

There was a touch on my arm. Lur was beside me. And close after her came my two captains. After them, one by one, the soldiers. I bade them string bows, set arrows. One by one they melted out of the green darkness, slipped by me. They made ready in the shadow of the rocks.

One score—two score…a shriek cut like an arrow through the hissing of the torrent! The ladder trembled. It shook—and twisted…Again the despairing cry…the ladder fell slack!

“Dwayanu—the ladder is broken? At—Ouarda—”

“Quiet, Lur! They may have heard that shrieking. The ladder could not break…”

“Draw it in, Dwayanu—draw it in!”

Together we pulled upon it. It was heavy. We drew it in like a net, and swiftly. And suddenly it was of no weight at all. It rushed into our hands—

Its ends were severed as though by knife slash or axe blow.

“Treachery!” I said.

“But treachery…how…with Ouarda on guard.”

I crept, crouching, behind the shadow of the rocks.

“Dara—spread out the soldiers. Tell Naral to slip to the farther end. On the signal, let them loose their arrows. Three flights only. The first at those around the fire. The second and the third at those on the walls closest to the towers. Then follow me. You understand me?”

“It is understood, Lord.”

The word went along the line; I heard the bowstrings whisper.

“We are fewer than I like, Lur—yet nothing for us but to go through with it. No way out of Sirk now but the way of the sword.”

“I know. It is of Ouarda I am thinking…” Her voice trembled.

“She is safe. If treachery had been wide-spread, we would have heard sounds of fighting. No more talking, Lur. We must move swiftly. After the third arrow flight, we rush the tower gate.”

I gave the signal. Up rose the archers. Straight upon those around the fire flew their shafts. They left few alive. Instantly upon those around the towers of the bridge whistled a second arrow storm.

Hai! But that was straight shooting! See them fall! Once more—

Whistle of feathered shaft! Song of the bow-string! Gods—but this is to live again!

I dropped down the rocks, Lur beside me. The soldier women poured after us. Straight to the tower door we sped. We were half-way there before those upon the long parapet awakened.

Shouts rang. Trumpets blared, and the air was filled with the brazen clangour of a great gong bellowing the alarm to Sirk asleep behind the gap. We sped on. Javelins dropped among us, arrows whistled. From other gates along the inner walls guards began to emerge, racing to intercept us.

We were at the door of the bridge towers—and through it!

But not all. A third had fallen under javelin and arrow. We swung the stout door shut. We dropped across it the massive bars that secured it. And not an instant too soon. Upon the door began to beat the sledges of the tricked guards.

The chamber was of stone, huge and bare. Except for the door through which we had come, there was no opening. I saw the reason for that—never had Sirk expected to be attacked from within. There were arrow slits high up, looking over the moat, and platforms for archers. At one side were cogs and levers which raised and lowered the bridge.

All this I took in at one swift glance. I leaped over to the levers, began to manipulate them. The cogs revolved.

The bridge was falling!

The Witch-woman ran up to the platform of the archers; she peered out; set horn to lips; she sent a long call through the arrow slit—summoning signal for Tibur and his host.

The hammering against the door had ceased. The blows against it were stronger, more regular-timed. The battering of a ram. The stout wood trembled under them; the bars groaned, Lur called to me:

“The bridge is down, Dwayanu! Tibur is rushing upon it. It grows lighter. Dawn is breaking. They have brought their horses!”

I cursed.

“Luka, sent him wit not to pound across that bridge on horse!”

“He is doing it…he and Rascha and a handful of others only…the rest are dismounting…”

“Hai—they are shooting at them from the arrow slits…the javelins rain among them…Sirk takes toll…”

There was a thunderous crash against the door. The wood split…

A roaring tumult. Shouts and battle cries. Ring of sword upon sword and the swish of arrows. And over it all the laughter of Tibur.

No longer was the ram battering at the door.

I threw up the bars, raised axe in readiness, opened the great gate a finger’s breadth and peered out.

The soldiers of Karak were pouring down the ramp from the bridge-head.

I opened the door wider. The dead of the fortress lay thick around tower base and bridge-head.

I stepped through the door. The soldiers saw me.

“Dwayanu!” rang their shout.

From the fortress still came the clamour of the great gong—warning Sirk.

Sirk—no longer sleeping!

CHAPTER XX.

“TSANTAWU-FAREWELL!”

There was a humming as of a disturbed gigantic hive beyond Sirk’s gap. Trumpet blasts and the roll of drums. Clang of brazen gongs answering that lonely one which beat from the secret heart of the raped fortress. And ever Karak’s women-warriors poured over the bridge until the space behind the fortress filled with them.

The Smith wheeled his steed—faced me. “Gods—Tibur! But that was well done!”

“Never done but for you, Dwayanu! You saw, you knew—you did. Ours the least part.”

Well, that was true. But I was close to liking Tibur then. Life of my blood! It had been no play to lead that charge against the bridge end. The Smith was a soldier! Let him be only half loyal to me—and Khalk’ru take the Witch-woman!

“Sweep the fortress clean, Anvil-smiter. We want no arrows at our backs.”

“It is being swept, Dwayanu.”

By brooms of sword and spear, by javelin and arrow, the fortress was swept dean.

The clamour of the brazen gong died on a part stroke.

My stallion rested his nose on my shoulder, blew softly against my ear.

“You did not forget my horse! My hand to you, Tibur!”

“You lead the charge, Dwayanu!” I leaped upon the stallion. Battleaxe held high I wheeled and galloped toward the gap. Like the point of a spear I sped, Tibur at my left, the Witch-woman at my right, the nobles behind us, the soldiers sweeping after us.

We hurled ourselves through the cliffed portal of Sirk.

A living wave lifted itself to throw us back. Hammers flew, axes hewed, javelins and spears and feathered shafts sleeted us. My horse tottered and dropped, screaming, his hinder hocks cut through. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, dragging me to my feet. The Witch-woman smiled at me. She sliced with her sword the arm drawing me down among the dead. With axe and sword we cleared a ring around us. I threw myself on the back of a grey from which a noble had fallen, bristling with arrows.

We thrust forward against the living wave. It gave, curling round us.

On and on! Cut sword and hew axe! Cut and slash and batter through!

The curling wave that tore at us was beaten down. We were through the gap. Sirk lay before us.

I reined in my horse. Sirk lay before us—but too invitingly!

The city nestled in a hollow between sheer, unscalable black walls. The lip of the gap was higher than the roof of the houses. They began an arrow flight away. It was a fair city. There was no citadel nor forts; there were no temples nor palaces. Only houses of stone, perhaps a thousand of them, flat roofed, set wide apart, gardens around them, a wide street straying among them, tree-bordered. There were many lanes. Beyond the city fertile field upon field, and flowering orchards.

And no battle ranks arrayed against us. The way open.

Too open!

I caught the glint of arms on the housetops. There was the noise of axes above the blaring of trumpets and the roll of the kettle-drums.

Hai! They were barricading the wide street with their trees, preparing a hundred ambushes for us, expecting us to roll down in force.

Spreading the net in the sight of Dwayanu!

Yet they were good tactics. The best defence I had met with it in many a war against the barbarians. It meant we must fight for every step, with every house a fort, with arrows searching for us from every window and roof. They had a leader here in Sirk, to arrange such reception on such brief notice! I had respect for that leader, whoever he might be. He had picked the only possible way to victory—unless those against whom he fought knew the countermove.

And that, hard earned, I did know.

How long could this leader keep Sirk within its thousand forts? There, always, lay the danger in this defence. The overpowering impulse of a pierced city is to swarm out upon its invaders as ants and bees do from their hills and nests. Not often is there a leader strong enough to hold them back. If each house of Sirk could remain linked to the other, each ever an active part of the whole—then Sirk might be unconquerable. But how, when they began to be cut off, one by one? Isolated? The leader’s will severed?

Hai! Then it is that despair creeps through every chink! They are drawn out by fury and despair as though by ropes. They pour out—to kill or to be killed. The cliff crumbles, stone by stone. The cake is eaten by the attackers, crumb by crumb.

I divided our soldiers, and sent the first part against Sirk in small squads, with orders to spread and to take advantage of all cover. They were to take the outer fringe of houses, at all costs, shooting their arrows up in the high curved flight against the defenders while others hammered their way into those houses. Still others were to attack farther on, but never getting too far from their comrades nor from the broad way running through the city.

I was casting a net over Sirk and did not want its meshes broken.

By now it was broad daylight.

The soldiers moved forward. I saw the arrows stream up and down, twisting among each other like serpents…I heard the axe-blows on the doors…By Luka! There floats a banner of Karak from one of the roofs! And another.

The hum of Sirk shot higher, became louder, in it a note of madness. Hai! I knew they could not long stand this nibbling! And I knew that sound! Soon it would rise to frenzy. Drone from that into despair!

Hai! Not long now before they came tumbling out…

Tibur was cursing at my elbow. I looked at Lur, and she was trembling. The soldiers were murmuring, straining at the leash, mad to join battle. I looked at their blue eyes, hard and cold; their faces beneath the helmet-caps were not those of women but of young warriors…those who sought in them for woman’s mercy would have rude awakening!

“By Zarda! But the fight will be done before we can dip blade!” I laughed.

“Patience, Tibur! Patience is our strong weapon. Sirk’s strongest—if they but knew it. Let them be first to lose that weapon.”

The turmoil grew louder. At the head of the street appeared half a hundred of Karak’s soldiers, struggling against more than equal number which steadily, swiftly, was swelled by others of Sirk pouring from side lanes and dropping from roofs and windows of the beleaguered houses.

It was the moment for which I had waited!

I gave the command. I raised the battle-cry. We drove down upon them. Our skirmishers opened to let us through, melting into the shouting ranks behind. We ripped into the defenders of Sirk. Down they went, but as they fell they fought, and many a saddle of the nobles was empty, and many were the steeds lost before we won to the first barricade.

Hai! But how they fought us there from behind the hastily felled trees—women and men and children hardly big enough to bend the bow or wield the knife!

Now the soldiers of Karak began to harry them from the sides; the soldiers of Karak shot into them from the tops of the houses they had abandoned; we fought Sirk as it had planned to fight us. And those who fought against us soon broke and fled, and we were over the barricade. Battling, we reached the heart of Sirk, a great and lovely square in which fountains played and flowers blossomed. The spray of the fountains was crimson and there were no flowers when we left that square.

We paid heavy toll there. Full half of the nobles were slain. A spear had struck my helmet and well-nigh dropped me. Bare-headed, blood-flecked I rode, shouting, sword dripping red. Naral and Dara both bore wounds, but still guarded my back. The Witch-woman, and the Smith and his scarred familiar fought on, untouched.

There was a thunder of hoofs. Down upon us swept a wave of horsemen. We raced toward them. We struck like two combers. Surged up. Mingled. Flash swords! Hammers smite! Axes cleave! Hai! But now it was hand-to-hand in the way I knew best and best loved!

We swirled in a mad whirlpool. I glanced at right and saw the Witch-woman had been separated from me. Tibur, too, was gone. Well, they were giving good account of themselves no doubt—wherever they were.

I swung to right and to left with my sword. In the front of those who fought us, over the caps of Karak which had swirled between us, was a dark face…a dark face whose black eyes looked steadily into mine—steadily…steadily. At the shoulder of that man was a slighter figure whose clear, brown eyes stared at me…steadily…steadily. In the black eyes was understanding and sorrow. The brown eyes were filled with hate.

Black eyes and brown eyes touched something deep and deep within me…They were rousing that something…calling to it…something that had been sleeping.

I heard my own voice shouting command to cease fighting, and at that shout abruptly all sound of battle close by was stilled. Sirk and Karak alike stood silent, amazed, staring at me. I thrust my horse through the press of bodies, looked deep into the black eyes.

And wondered why I had dropped my sword…why I stood thus…and why the sorrow in those eyes racked my heart…The dark-faced man spoke—two words—

“Leif!…Degataga!”

That something which had been asleep was wide awake, rushing up through me…rocking my brain…tearing at it…shaking every nerve…

I heard a cry—the voice of the Witch-woman.

A horse burst through the ring of the soldiers. Upon it was Rascha, lips drawn back over his teeth, cold eyes glaring into mine. His arm came up. His dagger gleamed, and was hidden in the back of the man who had called me—Degataga!

Had called me—

God—but I knew him!

Tsantawu! Jim!

The sleeping thing that had awakened was all awake…it had my brain…it was myself…Dwayanu forgotten!

I threw my horse forward.

Rascha’s arm was up for second stroke—the brown-eyed rider was swinging at him with sword, and Jim was falling, settling over his horse’s mane.

I caught Rascha’s arm before the dagger could descend again. I caught his arm, bent it back, and heard the bone snap. He howled—like a wolf.

A hammer hummed by my head, missing it by a hair. I saw Tibur drawing it back by its thong.

I leaned and lifted Rascha from his saddle. His sound arm swept up, hand clutching at my throat. I caught the wrist and twisted that arm back. I snapped it as I had the other.

My horse swerved. With one hand at Rascha’s throat, the other arm holding him, I toppled from the saddle bearing him down with me. I fell upon him. I twisted, and threw him over the bar of my knee. My hand slipped from his throat to his chest. My right leg locked over his.

A swift downward thrust—a sound like the breaking of a faggot. The Back-breaker would break no more backs. His own was broken.

I leaped to my feet. Looked up into the face of the brown-eyed rider…Evalie!…

I cried out to her—“Evalie!”

Abruptly, all about me the battle broke out afresh. Evalie turned to meet the charge. I saw Tibur’s great shoulders rise behind her…saw him snatch her from her horse…saw from his left hand a flash of light…It sped toward me…I was hurled aside. None too soon—not soon enough—

Something caught me a glancing blow upon the side of my head. I went down upon my knees and hands, blind and dizzy. I heard Tibur laughing; I strove to conquer blind dizziness and nausea, felt blood streaming down my face.

And crouching, swaying on knees and hands, heard the tide of battle sweep around and over and past me.

My head steadied. The blindness was passing. I was still on my hands and knees. Under me was the body of a man—a man whose black eyes were fixed on mine with understanding—with love!

I felt a touch on my shoulder; with difficulty I looked up. It was Dara.

“A hair between life and death. Lord. Drink this.”

She put a phial to my lips. The bitter, fiery liquid coursed through me, brought steadiness, brought strength. I could see there was a ring of soldier-women around me, guarding me—beyond them a ring of others, on horses.

“Can you hear me, Leif?…I haven’t much time…”

I lurched aside and knelt.

“Jim! Jim! Oh, God—why did you come here? Take this sword and kill me!”

He reached for my hand, held it tight.

“Don’t be a damned fool, Leif! You couldn’t help it…but you’ve got to save Evalie!”

“I’ve got to save you, Tsantawu—get you out of here—”

“Shut up and listen. I’ve got mine, Leif, and I know it. That blade went through the mail right into the lungs…I’m trickling out—inside…hell, Leif—don’t take it so hard…It might have been in the war…It might have been any time…It’s not your fault…”

A sob shook me, tears mingled with the blood upon my face.

“But I killed him, Jim—I killed him!”

“I know, Leif…a neat job…I saw you…but there’s something I’ve got to tell you…” his voice faltered.

I put the phial to his lips—it brought him back.

“Just now…Evalie…hates you! You have to save her…Leif …whether she does or not. Listen. Word came to us from Sirk through the Little People that you wanted us to meet you there. You were pretending to be Dwayanu…pretending to remember nothing but Dwayanu…to allay suspicion and to gain power. You were going to slip away…come to Sirk, and lead it against Karak. You needed me to stand beside you…needed Evalie to persuade the pygmies…”

“I sent you no message, Jim!” I groaned.

“I know you didn’t—now…But we believed it…You saved Sri from the wolves and defied the Witch-woman—”

“Jim—how long was it after Sri’s escape that the lying message came?”

“Two days…What does it matter? I’d told Evalie what was—wrong—with you…gone over your story again and again. She didn’t understand…but she took me on faith…Some more of that stuff, Leif…I’m going…”

Again the fiery draught revived him.

“We reached Sirk…two days ago…across the river with Sri and twenty pygmies…it was easy…too easy…not a wolf howled, although I knew the beasts were watching us…stalking us…and the others did, too. We waited…then came the attack…and then I knew we had been trapped…How did you get over those geysers…Big Fellow…never mind…but…Evalie believes you sent the message…you…black treachery…”

His eyes closed. Cold, cold were his hands.

“Tsantawu—brother—you do not believe! Tsantawu—come back…speak to me…”

His eyes opened, but hardly could I hear him speak—

“You’re not Dwayanu—Leif? Not now—or ever again?”

“No, Tsantawu…don’t leave me!”

“Bend…your head…closer, Leif…keep fighting…save Evalie.”

Fainter grew his voice:

“Good-bye…Degataga…not your fault…”

A ghost of the old sardonic smile passed over the white face.

“You didn’t pick your…damned…ancestors!…Worse luck…We’ve had…hell of good times…together… Save… Evalie…”

There was a gush of blood from his mouth.

Jim was dead…was dead.

Tsantawu—no more!

BOOK OF LEIF

CHAPTER XXI.

RETURN TO KARAK

I leaned over Jim and kissed his forehead. I arose. I was numb with sorrow. But under that numbness seethed a tortured rage, a tortured horror. Deadly rage against the Witch-woman and the Smith—horror of myself, of what I had been…horror of—Dwayanu!

I must find Tibur and the Witch-woman—but first there was something else to be done. They and Evalie could wait.

“Dara—have them lift him. Carry him into one of the houses.”

I followed on foot as they bore Jim away. There was fighting still going on, but far from us. Here were only the dead. I guessed that Sirk was making its last stand at the end of the valley.

Dara, Naral and I and half-dozen more passed through the broken doors of what yesterday had been a pleasant home. In its centre was a little columned hall. The other soldiers clustered round the broken doors, guarding entrance. I ordered chairs and beds and whatever else would burn brought into the little hall and heaped into a pyre. Dara said:

“Lord, let me bathe your wound.”

I dropped upon a stool, sat thinking while she washed the gash upon my head with stinging wine. Beyond the strange numbness, my mind was very clear. I was Leif Langdon. Dwayanu was no longer master of my mind—nor ever again would be. Yet he lived. He lived within as part of—myself. It was as though the shock of recognition of Jim had dissolved Dwayanu within Leif Langdon.

As though two opposing currents had merged into one; as though two drops had melted into each other; as though two antagonistic metals had fused.

Crystal clear was every memory of what I had heard and seen, said and done and thought from the time I had been hurled from Nansur Bridge. And crystal clear, agonizingly clear, was all that had gone before. Dwayanu was not dead, no! But part of me, and I was by far the stronger. I could use him, his strength, his wisdom—but he could not use mine. I was in control. I was the master.

And I thought, sitting there, that if I were to save Evalie—if I were to do another thing that now I knew, I would do or die in the doing, I must still outwardly be all Dwayanu. There lay my power. Not easily could such transmutation as I had undergone be explained to my soldiers. They believed in me and followed me as Dwayanu. If Evalie, who had known me as Leif, who had loved me as Leif, who had listened to Jim, could not understand—how much less could these? No, they must see no change.

I touched my head. The cut was deep and long; apparently only the toughness of my skull had saved it from being split.

“Dara—you saw who made this wound?”

“It was Tibur, Lord.”

“He tried to kill me…Why did he not finish?”

“Never yet has Tibur’s left hand failed to deal death. He thinks it cannot fail. He saw you fall—he thought you dead.”

“And death missed me by a hair’s-breadth. And would not, had not someone hurled me aside. Was that you, Dara?”

“It was I, Dwayanu. I saw his hand dip into his girdle, knew what was coming. I threw myself at your knees—so he could not see me.”

“Why, because you fear Tibur?”

“No—because I wanted him to believe he did not miss.”

“Why?”

“So that you would have better chance to kill Tibur, Lord. Your strength was ebbing with your friend’s life.”

I looked sharply at this bold-eyed captain of mine. How much did she know? Well, time later to find that out. I looked at the pyre. It was nearly complete.

“What was it he threw, Dara?”

She drew from her girdle a curious weapon, one whose like I had never seen. Its end was top-shaped, pointed like a dagger and with four razor-edged ribs on its sides. It had an eight-inch metal haft, round, like the haft of a diminutive javelin. It weighed about five pounds. It was of some metal I did not recognize—denser, harder than the finest of tempered steel. It was, in effect, a casting knife. But no mail could turn aside that adamantine point when hurled with the strength of one like the Smith. Dara took it from me, and pulled the short shaft. Instantly the edged ribs flew open, like flanges. The end of each was shaped like an inverted barb. A devilish tool, if I ever saw one. Once embedded, there was no way to get it out except cutting, and any pull would release the flanges, hooking them at the same time into the flesh. I took it back from Dara, and placed it in my own girdle. If I had had any doubts about what I was going to do to Tibur—I had none now.

The pyre was finished. I walked over to Jim, and laid him on it. I kissed him on the eyes, and put a sword in his dead hand. I stripped the room of its rich tapestries and draped them over him. I struck flint and set flame to the pyre. The wood was dry and resinous, and burned swiftly. I watched the flames creep up and up until smoke and fire made a canopy over him.

Then dry-eyed, but with death in my heart. I walked out of that house and among my soldiers.

Sirk had fallen and its sack was on. Smoke was rising everywhere from the looted homes. A detachment of soldiers marched by, herding along some two-score prisoners—women, all of them, and little children; some bore the marks of wounds. And then I saw that among those whom I had taken for children were a handful of the golden pygmies. At sight of me the soldiers halted, stood rigid, staring at me unbelievingly.

Suddenly one cried out, “Dwayanu! Dwayanu lives!” They raised their swords in salute, and from them came a shout: “Dwayanu!”

I beckoned their captain.

“Did you think Dwayanu dead then?”

“So ran the tale among us, Lord.”

“And did this tale also tell how I was slain?”

She hesitated.

“There were some who said it was by the Lord Tibur…by accident…that he had made cast at Sirk’s leader who was menacing you…and that you were struck instead…and that your body had been borne away by those of Sirk…I do not know…”

“Enough, soldier. Go on to Karak with the captives. Do not loiter, and do not speak of seeing me. It is a command. For a while I let the tale stand.”

They glanced at each other, oddly, saluted, and went on. The yellow eyes of the pygmies, filled with a venomous hatred, never left me until they had passed out of range. I waited, thinking. So that was to be the story! Hai! But they had fear at their elbows or they would not have troubled to spread that tale of accident! Suddenly I made decision. No use to wander over Sirk searching for Tibur. Folly to be seen, and have the counter-tale that Dwayanu lived be borne to the ears of Tibur and Lur! They should come to me—unknowing.

There was only one way out of Sirk, and that by the bridge. It was there I would await them. I turned to Dara.

“We go to the bridge, but not by this road. We take the lanes until we reach the cliffs.”

They wheeled their horses, and for the first time I realized that all this little troop of mine were mounted. And for the first time I realized that all were of my own guard, and that many of them had been foot-soldiers, yet these, too, were riding, and that upon a score of saddles were the colours of nobles who had followed me and the Witch-woman and Tibur through the gap of Sirk. It was Naral who, reading my perplexity, spoke, half-impudently as always:

“These are your most faithful, Dwayanu! The horses were idle—or a few we made so. For your better shield should Tibur—make mistake again.”

I said nothing to that until we had gone around the burning house and were under cover of one of the lanes. Then I spoke to them:

“Naral—Dara—let us talk apart for a moment.”

And when we had drawn a little away from the others, I said:

“To you two I owe my life—most of all to you, Dara. All that I can give you is yours for the asking. All I ask of you is—truth.”

“Dwayanu—you shall have it.”

“Why did Tibur want to kill me?”

Naral said, dryly:

“The Smith was not the only one who wanted you killed, Dwayanu.”

I knew that, but I wanted to hear it from them.

“Who else, Naral?”

“Lur—and most of the nobles.”

“But why? Had I not opened Sirk for them?”

“You were becoming too strong, Dwayanu. It is not in Lur or Tibur to take second place—or third…or maybe no place.”

“But they had opportunity before—”

“But you had not taken Sirk for them,” said Dara.

Naral said, resentfully:

“Dwayanu, you play with us. You know as well as we—better—what the reason was. You came here with that friend we have just left on his fire couch. All knew it. If you were to die—so must he die. He must not live, perhaps to escape and bring others into this place—for I know, as some others do, that there is life beyond here and that Khalk’ru does not reign supreme, as the nobles tell us. Well—here together are you and this friend of yours. And not only you two, but also the dark girl of the Rrrllya, whose death or capture might break the spirit of the little folk and put them under Karak’s yoke. The three of you—together! Why, Dwayanu—it was the one place and the one time to strike! And Lur and Tibur did—and killed your friend, and think they have killed you, and have taken the dark girl.”

“And if I kill Tibur, Naral?”

“Then there will be fighting. And you must guard yourself well, for the nobles hate you, Dwayanu. They have been told you are against the old customs—mean to debase them, and raise the people. Intend even to end the Sacrifices…”

She glanced at me, slyly.

“And if that were true?”

“You have most of the soldiers with you now, Dwayanu. If it were true you would also have most of the people. But Tibur has his friends—even among the soldiers. And Lur is no weakling.”

She twitched up her horse’s head, viciously.

“Better kill Lur, too, while you’re in the mood, Dwayanu!”

I made no answer to that. We trotted through the lanes, not speaking again. Everywhere were dead, and gutted houses. We came out of the city, and rode over the narrow plain to the gap between the cliffs. There happened to be none on the open road just then; so we entered the gap unnoticed. We passed through it out into the square behind the fortress. There were soldiers here, in plenty, and groups of captives. I rode in the centre of my troop, bent over the neck of my horse. Dara had roughly bandaged my head. The bandages and cap-helmet I had picked up hid my yellow hair. There was much confusion, and I passed through unnoticed. I rode straight to the door of the tower behind which we had lurked when Karak stormed the bridge. I slipped in with my horse, half-closed the door. My women grouped themselves outside. They were not likely to be challenged. I settled down to wait for Tibur.

It was hard waiting, that! Jim’s face over the camp-fire. Jim’s face grinning at me in the trenches. Jim’s face above mine when I lay on the moss bank of the threshold of the mirage—Jim’s face under mine on the street of Sirk…

Tsantawu! Aie—Tsantawu! And you thought that only beauty could come from the forest I

Evalie? I cared nothing for Evalie then, caught in that limbo which at once was ice and candent core of rage.

“Save…Evalie!” Jim had bade. Well, I would save Evalie! Beyond that she mattered no more than did the Witch-woman…yes, a little more…I had a score to satisfy with the Witch-woman…I had none with Evalie…

The face of Jim…always the face of Jim…floating before me.…

I heard a whisper—

“Dwayanu—Tibur comes!”

“Is Lur with him, Dara?”

“No—a group of the nobles. He is laughing. He carries the dark girl on his saddle-bow.”

“How far away is he, Dara?”

“Perhaps a bow-shot. He rides slowly.”

“When I ride out, close in behind me. The fight will be between me and Tibur. I do not think those with him will dare attack me. If they do…”

Naral laughed.

“If they do, we shall be at their throats, Dwayanu. There are one or two of Tibur’s friends I would like to settle accounts with. We ask you only this: waste neither words nor time on Tibur. Kill him quickly. For by the gods, if he kills you, it will be the boiling pot and the knives of the flayers for all of us he captures.”

“I will kill him, Naral.”

Slowly I opened the great door. Now I could see Tibur, his horse pacing toward the bridge-end. Upon the pommel of his saddle was Evalie. Her body drooped; the hair of blue-black was loosened and covered her face like a veil. Her hands were tied behind her back, and gripped in one of Tibur’s. There were a score of his followers around and behind him, nobles—and the majority of them men. I had noticed that although the Witch-woman had few men among her guards and garrisons, the Smith showed a preference for them among his friends and personal escort. His head was turned toward them, his voice, roaring with triumph, and his laughter came plainly to me. By now the enclosure was almost empty of soldiers and captives. There was none between us. I wondered where the Witch-woman was.

Closer came Tibur, and closer.

“Ready Dara—Naral?”

“Ready, Lord!”

I flung open the gate. I raced toward Tibur, head bent low, my little troop behind me. I swung against him with head uplifted, thrust my face close to his.

Tibur’s whole body grew rigid, his eyes glared into mine, his jaw dropped. I knew that those who followed him were held in that same incredulous stupefaction. Before the Smith could recover from his paralysis, I had snatched Evalie up from his saddle, had passed her to Dara.

I lifted my sword to slash at Tibur’s throat. I gave him no warning. It was no time for chivalry. Twice he had tried treacherously to kill me. I would make quick end.

Swift as had been my stroke, the Smith was swifter. He threw himself back, slipped off his horse, and landed like a cat at its heels. I was down from mine before his great sledge was half-raised to hurl. I thrust my blade forward to pierce his throat. He parried it with the sledge. Then berserk rage claimed him. The hammer fell clanging on the rock. He threw himself on me, howling. His arms circled me, fettering mine to my sides, like living bands of steel. His legs felt for mine, striving to throw me. His lips were drawn back like a mad wolf’s, and he bored his head into the pit of my neck, trying to tear my throat with his teeth.

My ribs cracked under the tightening vice of Tibur’s arms. My lungs were labouring, sight dimming. I writhed and twisted in the effort to escape the muzzling of that hot mouth and the searching fangs.

I heard shouting around me, heard and dimly saw milling of the horses. The clutching fingers of my left hand touched my girdle—closed on something there—something like the shaft of a javelin—

Tibur’s hell-forged dart!

Suddenly I went limp in Tibur’s grip. His laughter bellowed, hoarse with triumph. And for a split-second his grip relaxed.

That split-second was enough. I summoned all my strength and broke his grip. Before he could clench me again, my hand had swept down into the girdle and clutched the dart.

I brought it up and drove it into Tibur’s throat just beneath his jaw. I jerked the haft. The opened, razor-edged flanges sliced through arteries and muscles. The bellowing laughter of Tibur changed to a hideous gurgling. His hands sought the haft, dragged at it—tore it out— And the blood spurted from Tibur’s mangled throat; Tibur’s knees buckled beneath him, and he lurched and fell at my feet… choking… his hands still feebly groping to clutch me…

I stood there, dazed, gasping for breath, the pulse roaring in my ears.

“Drink this, Lord!”

I looked up at Dara. She was holding a wine-skin to me. I took it with trembling hands, and drank deep. The good wine whipped through me. Suddenly I took it from my lips.

“The dark girl of the Rrrllya—Evalie. She is not with you.”

“There she is. I set her on another horse. There was fighting, Lord.”

I stared into Evalie’s face. She looked back at me, brown eyes cold, implacable.

“Better use the rest of the wine to wash your face, Lord. You are no sight for any tender maid.”

I passed my hand over my face, drew it away wet with blood.

“Tibur’s blood, Dwayanu, thank the gods!”

She brought my horse forward. I felt better when I was in its saddle. I glanced down at Tibur. His fingers were still faintly twitching. I looked about me. There was a shattered company of Karak’s archers at the bridge-end. They raised their bows in salute.

“Dwayanu! Live Dwayanu!”

My troop seemed strangely shrunken. I called—“Naral!”

“Dead, Dwayanu. I told you there had been fighting.”

“Who killed her?”

“Never mind. I slew him. And those left of Tibur’s escort have fled. And now what. Lord?”

“We wait for Lur.”

“Not long shall we have to linger then, for here she comes.”

There was the blast of a horn. I turned to see the Witch-woman come galloping over the square. Her red braids were loose, her sword was red, and she was nigh as battle-stained as I. With her rode a scant dozen of her women, half as many of her nobles.

I awaited her. She reined up before me, searching me with wild bright eyes.

I should have killed her as I had Tibur. I should have been hating her. But I found I was not hating her at all. All of hate I had held seemed to have poured out upon Tibur. No, I was not hating her.

She smiled faintly:

“You are hard to kill, Yellow-hair!”

“Dwayanu—Witch.”

She glanced at me, half-contemptuously.

“You are no longer Dwayanu!”

“Try to convince these soldiers of that, Lur.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, and stared down at Tibur. “So you killed the Smith. Well, at least you are still a man.”

“Killed him for you, Lur!” I jeered. “Did I not promise you?”

She did not answer, only asked, as Dara had before her:

“And now what?”

“We wait here until Sirk is emptied. Then we ride to Karak, you beside me. I do not like you at my back, Witch-woman.”

She spoke quietly to her women, then sat, head bent, thinking, with never another word for me.

I whispered to Dara:

“Can we trust the archers?”

She nodded.

“Bid them wait and march with us. Let them drag the body of Tibur into some corner.”

For half an hour the soldiers came by, with prisoners, with horses, with cattle and other booty. Small troops of the nobles and their supporters galloped up, halted, and spoke, but, at my word and Lur’s nod, passed on over the bridge. Most of the nobles showed dismayed astonishment at my resurrection; the soldiers gave me glad salute.

The last skeleton company came through the gap. I had been watching for Sri, but he was not with them, and I concluded that he had been taken to Karak with the earliest prisoners or had been killed.

“Come,” I said to the Witch-woman. “Let your women go before us.”

I rode over to Evalie, lifted her from her saddle and set her on my pommel. She made no resistance, but I felt her shrink from me. I knew she was thinking that she had but exchanged Tibur for another master, that to me she was only spoil of war. If my mind had not been so weary I suppose that would have hurt. But my mind was too weary to care.

We passed over the bridge, through the curling mists of steam. We were halfway to the forest when the Witch-woman threw back her head and sent forth a long, wailing call. The white wolves burst from the ferns. I gave command to the archers to set arrows. Lur shook her head.

“No need to harm them. They go to Sirk. They have earned their pay.”

The white wolves coursed over the barren to the bridge-end, streamed over it, vanished. I heard them howling among the dead.

“I, too, keep my promises,” said the Witch-woman.

We rode on, into the forest, back to Karak.

CHAPTER XXII.

GATE OF KHALK’RU

We were close to Karak when the drums of the Little People began beating.

The leaden weariness pressed down upon me increasingly. I struggled to keep awake. Tibur’s stroke on my head had something to do with that, but I had taken other blows and eaten nothing since long before dawn. I could not think, much less plan what I was going to do after I had got back to Karak.

The drums of the Little People drove away my lethargy, brought me up wide-awake. They crashed out at first like a thunderburst across the white river. After that they settled down into a slow, measured rhythm filled with implacable menace. It was like Death standing on hollow graves and stamping on them before he marched.

At the first crash Evalie straightened, then sat listening with every nerve. I reined up my horse, and saw that the Witch-woman had also halted and was listening with all of Evalie’s intentness. There was something inexplicably disturbing in that monotonous drumming. Something that reached beyond and outside of human experience—or reached before it. It was like thousands of bared hearts beating in unison, in one unalterable rhythm, not to be still till the hearts themselves stopped… inexorable… and increasing in steadily widening area… spreading, spreading… until they beat from all the land across white Nanbu.

I spoke to Lur.

“I am thinking that here is the last of my promises, Witch-woman. I killed Yodin, gave you Sirk, I slew Tibur—and here is your war with the Rrrllya.”

I had not thought of how that might sound to Evalie! She turned and gave me one long level look of scorn; she said to the Witch-woman, coldly, in halting Uighur:

“It is war. Was that not what you expected when you dared to take me? It will be war until my people have me again. Best be careful how you use me.”

The Witch-woman’s control broke at that, all the long pent-up fires of her wrath bursting forth.

“Good! Now we shall wipe out your yellow dogs for once and all. And you shall be flayed, or bathed in the cauldron—or given to Khalk’ru. Win or lose—there will be little of you for your dogs to fight over. You shall be used as I choose.”

“No,” I said, “as I choose, Lur.”

The blue eyes flamed on me at that. And the brown eyes met mine as scornfully as before.

“Give me a horse to ride. I do not like the touch of you—Dwayanu.”

“Nevertheless, you ride with me, Evalie.”

We passed into Karak. The drums beat now loud, now low. But always with that unchanging, inexorable rhythm. They swelled and fell, swelled and fell. Like Death still stamping on the hollow graves—now fiercely—and now lightly.

There were many people in the streets. They stared at Evalie, and whispered. There were no shouts of welcome, no cheering. They seemed sullen, frightened. Then I knew they were listening so closely to the drums that they hardly knew we were passing. The drums were closer. I could hear them talking from point to point along the far bank of the river. The tongues of the talking drums rose plain above the others. And through their talking, repeated and repeated:

“Ev-ah-lee! Ev-ah-lee!”

We rode over the open square to the gate of the black citadel. There I

stopped.

“A truce, Lur.”

She sent a mocking glance at Evalie.

“A truce! What need of a truce between you and me—Dwayanu?”

I said, quietly:

“I am tired of bloodshed. Among the captives are some of the Rrrllya. Let us bring them where they can talk with Evalie and with us two. We will then release a part of them, and send them across Nanbu with the message that no harm is intended Evalie. That we ask the Rrrllya to send us on the morrow an embassy empowered to arrange a lasting peace. And that when that peace is arranged they shall take Evalie back with them unharmed.”

She said, smiling:

“So—Dwayanu—fears the dwarfs!”

I repeated:

“I am tired of bloodshed.”

“Ah, me,” she sighed. “And did I not once hear Dwayanu boast that he kept his promises—and was thereby persuaded to give him payment for them in advance! Ah, me—but Dwayanu is changed!”

She stung me there, but I managed to master my anger; I said:

“If you will not agree to this, Lur, then I myself will give the orders. But then we shall be a beleaguered city which is at its own throat. And easy prey for the enemy.”

She considered this.

“So you want no war with the little yellow dogs? And it is your thought that if the girl is returned to them, there will be none? Then why wait? Why not send her back at once with the captives? Take them up to Nansur, parley with the dwarfs there. Drum talk would settle the matter in a little while—if you are right. Then we can sleep this night without the drums disturbing you.”

That was true enough, but I read the malice in it. The truth was that I did not want Evalie sent back just then. If she were, then never, I knew, might I have a chance to justify myself with her, break down her distrust—have her again accept me as the Leif whom she had loved. But given a little time—I might. And the Witch-woman knew this.

“Not so quickly should it be done, Lur,” I said, suavely. “That would be to make them think we fear them—as the proposal made you think I feared them. We need more than hasty drum talk to seal such treaty. No, we hold the girl as hostage until we make our terms.”

She bent her head, thinking, then looked at me with clear eyes, and smiled.

“You are right, Dwayanu. I will send for the captives after I have rid myself of these stains of Sirk. They will be brought to your chamber. And in the meantime I will do more. I will order that word be sent the Rrrllya on Nansur that soon their captured fellows will be among them with a message. At the least it will give us time. And we need time, Dwayanu—both of us.”

I looked at her sharply. She laughed, and gave her horse the spurs. I rode behind her through the gate and into the great enclosed square. It was crowded with soldiers and captives. Here the drumming was magnified. The drums seemed to be within the place itself, invisible and beaten by invisible drummers. The soldiers were plainly uneasy, the prisoners excited, and curiously defiant.

Passing into the citadel I called various officers who had not taken part in the attack on Sirk and gave orders that the garrison on the walls facing Nansur Bridge be increased. Also that an alarm should be sounded which would bring in the soldiers and people from the outer-lying posts and farms. I ordered the guard upon the river walls to be strengthened, and the people of the city be told that those who wished to seek shelter in the citadel could come, but must be in by dusk. It was a scant hour before nightfall. There would be little trouble in caring for them in that immense place. And all this I did in event of the message failing. If it failed, I had no desire to be part of a massacre in Karak, which would stand a siege until I could convince the Little People of my good faith. Or convince Evalie of it, and have her bring about a peace.

This done, I took Evalie to my own chambers, not those of the High-priest where the Black Octopus hovered over the three thrones, but a chain of comfortable rooms in another part of the citadel. The little troop, which had stood by me through the sack of Sirk and after, followed us. There I turned Evalie over to Dara. I was bathed, my wound dressed and bandaged, and clothed. Here the windows looked out over the river, and the drums beat through them maddeningly. I ordered food brought, and wine, and summoned Evalie. Dara brought her. She had been well cared for, but she would not eat with me. She said to me:

“I fear my people will have but scant faith in any messages you send, Dwayanu.”

“Later we will talk of that other message, Evalie. I did not send it. And Tsantawu, dying in my arms, believed me when I told him I had not.”

“I heard you say to Lur that you had promised her Sirk. You did not lie to her, Dwayanu—for Sirk is eaten. How can I believe you?”

I said: “You shall have proof that I speak truth, Evalie, Now, since you will not eat with me, go with Dara.”

She had no fault to find with Dara. Dara was no lying traitor, but a soldier, and fighting in Sirk or elsewhere was part of her trade. She went with her.

I ate sparingly and drank heavily. The wine put new life in me, drove away what was left of weariness. I put sorrow for Jim resolutely aside for the moment, thinking of what I intended to do, and how best to do it. And then there was a challenge at the door, and the Witch-woman entered.

Her red braids crowned her and in them shone the sapphires. She bore not the slightest mark of the struggles of the day, nor sign of fatigue. Her eyes were bright and clear, her red lips smiling. Her low, sweet voice, her touch upon my arm, brought back memories I had thought gone with Dwayanu.

She called, and through the door came a file of soldiers, and with them a score of the Little People, unbound, hatred in their yellow eyes as they saw me, curiosity too. I spoke to them, gently. I sent for Evalie. She came, and the golden pygmies ran to her, threw themselves upon her like a crowd of children, twittering and trilling, stroking her hair, touching her feet and hands.

She laughed, called them one by one by name, then spoke rapidly. I could get little of what she said; by the shadow on Lur’s face I knew she had understood nothing at all. I repeated to Evalie precisely what I had told Lur—and which, at least in part, she knew, for she had betrayed that she understood the Uighur, or the Ayjir, better than she had admitted. I translated from the tongue of the dwarfs for Lur.

The pact was speedily made. Half of the pygmies were to make their way at once over Nanbu to the garrison on the far side of the bridge. By the talking drums they would send our message to the stronghold of the Little People. If they accepted it, the beating of the war drums would cease. I said to Evalie:

“When they talk on their drums, let them say that nothing will be asked of them that was not contained in the old truce—and that death will no longer lie in wait for them when they cross the river.”

The Witch-woman said:

“Just what does that mean, Dwayanu?”

“Now Sirk is done, there is no longer much need for that penalty, Lur. Let them gather their herbs and metals as they will; that is all.”

“There is more in your mind than that—” Her eyes narrowed.

“They understood me, Evalie—but do you also tell them.”

The Little People trilled among themselves; then ten of them stepped forward, those chosen to take the message. As they were moving away, I stopped them.

“If Sri escaped, let him come with the embassy. Better still—let him come before them. Send word through the drums that he may come as soon as he can. He has my safe-conduct, and shall stay with Evalie until all is settled.”

They chattered over that, assented. The Witch-woman made no comment. For the first time I saw Evalie’s eyes soften as she looked at me.

When the pygmies were gone, Lur walked to the door, and beckoned. Ouarda entered.

“Ouarda!”

I liked Ouarda. It was good to know she was alive. I went to her with outstretched hands. She took them.

“It was two of the soldiers, Lord. They had sisters in Sirk. They cut the ladder before we could stop them. They were slain,” she said.

Would to God they had cut it before any could, have followed me!

Before I could speak, one of my captains knocked and entered.

“It is long after dusk and the gates are closed, Lord. All those who would come are behind them.”

“Were there many, soldier?”

“No, Lord—not more than a hundred or so. The others refused.”

“And did they say why they refused?”

“Is the question an order, Lord?”

“It is an order.”

“They said they were safer where they were. That the Rrrllya had no quarrel with them, who were but meat for Khalk’ru.”

“Enough, soldier!” The Witch-woman’s voice was harsh. “Go! Take the Rrrllya with you.”

The captain saluted, turned smartly and was gone with the dwarfs. I laughed.

“Soldiers cut our ladder for sympathy of those who fled Khalk’ru. The people fear the enemies of Khalk’ru less than they do their own kind who are his butchers! We do well to make peace with the Rrrllya, Lur.”

I watched her face pale, then redden and saw the knuckles of her hands whiten as she clenched them. She smiled, poured herself wine, lifted it with a steady hand.

“I drink to your wisdom—Dwayanu!”

A strong soul—the Witch-woman’s! A warrior’s heart. Somewhat lacking in feminine softness, it was true. But it was no wonder that Dwayanu had loved her—in his way and as much as he could love a woman.

A silence dropped upon the chamber, intensified in some odd fashion by the steady beating of the drums. How long we sat in that silence I do not know. But suddenly the beat of the drums became fainter.

And then all at once the drums ceased entirely. The quiet brought a sense of unreality. I could feel the tense nerves loosening like springs long held taut. The abrupt silence made ears ache, slowed heart-beat.

“They have the message. They have accepted it,” Evalie spoke.

The Witch-woman arose.

“You keep the girl beside you to-night, Dwayanu?”

“She sleeps in one of these rooms, Lur. She will be under guard. No one can reach her without passing through my room here,” I looked at her, significantly. “And I sleep lightly. You need have no fear of her escape.”

“I am glad the drums will not disturb your sleep—Dwayanu.”

She gave me a mocking salute, and, with Ouarda, left me.

And suddenly the weariness dropped upon me again. I turned to Evalie, watching me with eyes in which I thought doubt of her own deep doubt had crept. Certainly there was no scorn, nor loathing in them. Well, now I had her where all this manoeuvring had been meant to bring her. Alone with me. And looking at her I felt that in the face of all she had seen of me, all she had undergone because of me—words were useless things. Nor could I muster them as I wanted. No, there would be plenty of time… in the morning, perhaps, when I had slept… or after I had done what I had to do…then she must believe…

“Sleep, Evalie. Sleep without fear…and believe that all that has been wrong is now becoming right. Go with Dara. You shall be well guarded. None can come to you except through this room, and here I will be. Sleep and fear nothing.”

I called Dara, gave her instructions, and Evalie went with her. At the curtains masking the entrance to the next room she hesitated, half turned as though to speak, but did not. And not long after Dara returned. She said:

“She is already asleep, Dwayanu.”

“As you should be, friend,” I told her. “And all those others who stood by me this day. I think there is nothing to fear to-night. Select those whom you can trust and have them guard the corridor and my door. Where have you put her?”

“In the chamber next this, Lord.”

“It would be better if you and the others slept here, Dara. There are half a dozen rooms for you. Have wine and food brought for you—plenty of it.”

She laughed.

“Do you expect a siege, Dwayanu?”

“One never knows.”

“You do not greatly trust Lur, Lord?”

“I trust her not at all, Dara.”

She nodded, turned to go. Upon the impulse I said:

“Dara, would it make you sleep better to-night and those with you, and would it help you in picking your guard if I told you this: there will be no more sacrifices to Khalk’ru while I live?”

She started; her face lightened, softened. She thrust out her hand to me:

“Dwayanu—I had a sister who was given to Khalk’ru. Do you mean this?”

“By the life of my blood! By all the living gods! I mean it!”

“Sleep well, Lord!” Her voice was choked. She walked away, through the curtain, but not before I had seen the tears on her cheeks.

Well, a woman had a right to weep—even if she was a soldier. I myself had wept to-day.

I poured myself wine, sat thinking as I drank. Mainly my thoughts revolved around the enigma of Khalk’ru. And there was a good reason for that.

What was Khalk’ru?

I slipped the chain from round my neck, opened the locket and studied the ring. I closed it, and threw it on the table. Somehow I felt that it was better there than over my heart while I was doing this thinking.

Dwayanu had had his doubts about that dread Thing being any Spirit of the Void, and I, who now was Leif Langdon and a passive Dwayanu, had no doubts whatever that it was not. Yet I could not accept Barr’s theory of mass hypnotism—and trickery was out of the question.

Whatever Khalk’ru might be, Khalk’ru—as the Witch-woman had said—was. Or at least that Shape which became material through ritual, ring and screen—was.

I thought that I might have put the experience in the temple of the oasis down as hallucination if it had not been repeated here in the Shadowed-land. But there could be no possible doubt about the reality of the sacrifice I had conducted; no possible doubt as to the destruction—absorption—dissolvement—of the twelve girls. And none of Yodin’s complete belief in the power of the tentacle to remove me, and none of his complete effacement. And I thought that if the sacrifices and Yodin were standing in the wings laughing at me, as Barr had put it—then it was in the wings of a theatre in some other world than this. And there was the deep horror of the Little People, the horror of so many of the Ayjir—and there was the revolt in ancient Ayjirland born of this same horror, which had destroyed Ayjirland by civil war.

No, whatever the Thing was, no matter how repugnant to science its recognition as a reality might be—still it was Atavism, superstition—call it what Barr would—I knew the Thing was real! Not of this earth—no, most certainly not of this earth. Not even supernatural. Or rather, supernatural only insofar as it might come from another dimension or even another world which our five senses could not encompass.

And I reflected, now, that science and religion are really blood brothers, which is largely why they hate each other so, that scientists and religionists are quite alike in their dogmatism, their intolerance, and that every bitter battle of religion over some interpretation of creed or cult has its parallel in battles of science over a bone or rock.

Yet just as there are men in the churches whose minds have not become religiously fossilized, so there are men in the laboratories whose minds have not become scientifically fossilized…Einstein, who dared challenge all conceptions of space and time with his four dimensional space in which time itself was a dimension, and who followed that with proof of five dimensional space instead of the four which are all our senses can apprehend, and which apprehends one of them wrongly…the possibility of a dozen worlds spinning interlocked with this one…in the same space…the energy which we call matter of each of them keyed to the different vibration, and each utterly unaware of the other…and utterly overturning the old axiom that two bodies cannot occupy the same place at the same time.

And I thought—what if far and far back in time, a scientist of that day, one of the Ayjir people, had discovered all that! Had discovered the fifth dimension beyond length, breadth, thickness and time. Or had discovered one of those interlocking worlds whose matter streams through the interstices of the matter of ours. And discovering dimension or world, had found the way to make dwellers in that dimension or that other world both aware of and manifest to those of this. By sound and gesture, by ring and screen, had made a gateway through which such dwellers could come—or at least, appear! And then what a weapon this discoverer had—what a weapon the inevitable priests of that Thing would have! And did have ages gone, just as they had here in Karak.

If so, was it one dweller or many who lurked in those gateways for its drink of life? The memories bequeathed me by Dwayanu told me there had been other temples in Ayjirland besides that one of the oasis. Was it the same Being that appeared in each? Was the Shape that came from the shattered stone of the oasis the same that had fed in the temple of the mirage? Or were there many of them—dwellers in other dimension or other world—avidly answering the summons? Nor was it necessarily true that in their own place these Things had the form of the Kraken. That might be the shape, through purely natural laws, which entrance into this world forced upon them.

I thought over that for quite awhile. It seemed to me the best explanation of Khalk’ru. And if it was, then the way to be rid of Khalk’ru was to destroy his means of entrance. And that, I reflected, was precisely how the ancient Ayjirs had argued.

But it did not explain why only those of the old blood could summon—

I heard a low voice at the door. I walked softly over to it, listened. I opened the door and there was Lur, talking to the guards.

“What is it you are seeking, Lur?”

“To speak with you. I will keep you only a little time, Dwayanu.”

I studied the Witch-woman. She stood, very quietly, in her eyes nothing of defiance nor resentment nor subtle calculation—only appeal. Her red braids fell over her white shoulders; she was without weapon or ornament. She looked younger than ever I had seen her, and somewhat forlorn. I felt no desire to mock her nor to deny her. I felt instead the stirrings of a deep pity.

“Enter, Lur—and say all that is in your mind.”

I closed the door behind her. She walked over to the window, looked out into the dim greenly glimmering night. I went to her.

“Speak softly, Lur. The girl is asleep there in the next chamber. Let her rest.”

She said, tonelessly:

“I wish you had never come here, Yellow-hair.” I thought of Jim, and I answered:

“I wish that too, Witch-woman. But here I am.” She leaned towards me, put her hand over my heart. “Why do you hate me so greatly?”

“I do not hate you, Lur. I have no hate left in me—except for one thing.”

“And that—?”

Involuntarily I looked at the table. One candle shone there and its light fell on the locket that held the ring. Her glance followed mine. She said:

“What do you mean to do? Throw Karak open to the dwarfs? Mend Nansur? Rule here over Karak and the Rrrllya with their dark girl at your side? Is it that…and if it is that—what is to become of Lur? Answer me. I have the right to know. There is a bond between us…I loved you when you were Dwayanu…you know how well…”

“And would have killed me while I was still Dwayanu,” I said, sombrely.

“Because I saw Dwayanu dying as you looked into the eyes of the stranger,” she answered. “You whom Dwayanu had mastered was killing Dwayanu. I loved Dwayanu. Why should I not avenge him?”

“If you believe I am no longer Dwayanu, then I am the man whose friend you trapped and murdered—the man whose love you trapped and would have destroyed. And if that be so—what claim have you upon me, Lur?”

She did not answer for moments; then she said:

“I have some justice on my side. I tell you I loved Dwayanu. Something I knew of your case from the first, Yellow-hair. But I saw Dwayanu awaken within you. And I knew it was truly he! I knew, too, that as long as that friend of yours and the dark girl lived there was danger for Dwayanu. That was why I plotted to bring them into Sirk. I threw the dice upon the chance of killing them before you had seen them. Then, I thought, all would be well. There would be none left to rouse that in you which Dwayanu had mastered. I lost. I knew I had lost when by whim of Luka she threw you three together. And rage and sorrow caught me—and I did…what I did.”

“Lur,” I said, “answer me truly. That day you returned to the Lake of the Ghosts after pursuit of the two women—were they not your spies who bore that lying message into Sirk? And did you not wait until you learned my friend and Evalie were in the trap before you gave me word to march? And was it not in your thought that you would then—if I opened the way into Sirk—rid yourself not only of those two but of Dwayanu? For remember—you may have loved Dwayanu, but as he told you, you loved power better than he. And Dwayanu threatened your power. Answer me truly.”

For the second time I saw tears in the eyes of the Witch-woman. She said, brokenly:

“I sent the spies, yes. I waited until the two were in the trap. But I never meant harm to Dwayanu!”

I did not believe her. But still I felt no anger, no hate. The pity grew.

“Lur, now I will tell you truth. It is not in my mind to rule with Evalie over Karak and the Rrrllya. I have no more desire for power. That went with Dwayanu. In the peace I make with the dwarfs, you shall rule over Karak—if that be your desire. The dark girl shall go back with them. She will not desire to remain in Karak. Nor do I…”

“You cannot go with her,” she interrupted me. “Never would the yellow dogs trust you. Their arrows would be ever pointed at you.”

I nodded—that thought had occurred to me long before.

“All that must adjust itself,” I said. “But there shall be no more sacrifices. The gate of Khalk’ru shall be closed against him for ever. And I will close it.”

Her eyes dilated.

“You mean—”

“I mean that I will shut Khalk’ru for ever from Karak—unless Khalk’ru proves stronger than I.”

She wrung her hands, helplessly.

“What use rule over Karak to me then…how could I hold the people?”

“Nevertheless—I will destroy the gate of Khalk’ru.”

She whispered:

“Gods—if I had Yodin’s ring…”

I smiled at that.

“Witch-woman, you know as well as I that Khalk’ru comes to no woman’s call.”

The witch-lights flickered in her eyes; a flash of green shone through them.

“There is an ancient prophecy, Yellow-hair, that Dwayanu did not know—or had forgotten. It says that when Khalk’ru comes to a woman’s call, he—stays! That was the reason no woman in ancient Ayjilrand might be priestess at the sacrifice.”

I laughed at that.

“A fine pet, Lur—to add to your wolves.”

She walked toward the door, paused.

“What if I could love you—as I loved Dwayanu? Could make you love me as Dwayanu loved me? And more! Send the dark girl to join her people and take the ban of death from them on this side of Nanbu. Would you let things be as they are—rule with me over Karak?”

I opened the door for her.

“I told you I no longer care for power, Lur.”

She walked away.

I went back to the window, drew a chair to it, and sat thinking. Suddenly from somewhere close to the citadel I heard a wolf cry. Thrice it howled, then thrice again.

“Leif!”

I jumped to my feet. Evalie was beside me. She peered at me through the veils of her hair; her clear eyes shone upon me—no longer doubting, hating, fearing. They were as they were of old.

“Evalie!”

My arms went round her; my lips found hers.

“I listened, Leif!”

“You believe, Evalie!”

She kissed me, held me tight.

“But she was right—Leif. You could not go with me again into the land of the Little People. Never, never would they understand. And I would not dwell in Karak.”

“Will you go with me, Evalie—to my own land? After I have done what I must do…and if I am not destroyed in its doing?”

“I will go with you, Leif!”

And she wept awhile, and after another while she fell asleep in my arms. And I lifted her, and carried her into her chamber and covered her with the sleep silks. Nor did she awaken.

I returned to my own room. As I passed the table I picked up the locket, started to put it round my neck. I threw it back. Never would I wear that chain again, I dropped upon the bed, sword at hand. I slept.

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN KHALK’RU’S TEMPLE

Twice I awakened. The first time it was the howling of the wolves that aroused me. It was as though they were beneath my window. I listened drowsily, and sank back to sleep.

The second time I came wide awake from a troubled dream. Some sound in the chamber had roused me, of that I was sure. My hand dropped to my sword lying on the floor beside my bed. I had the feeling that there was someone in the room. I could see nothing in the green darkness that filled the chamber. I called, softly:

“Evalie! Is that you?”

There was no answer, no sound.

I sat up in the bed, even thrust a leg out to rise. And then I remembered the guards at my door, and Dara and her soldiers beyond, and I told myself that it had been only my troubled dream that had awakened me. Yet for a time I lay awake listening, sword in hand. And then the silence lulled me back to sleep.

There was a knocking upon my door, and I struggled out of that sleep. I saw that it was well after dawn. I went to the door softly so that I might not awaken Evalie. I opened it, and there with the guards was Sri. The little man had come well armed, with spear and sickle-sword and between his shoulders one of the small, surprisingly resonant talking drums. He looked at me in the friendliest fashion. I patted his hand and pointed to the curtains.

“Evalie is there, Sri. Go waken her.”

He trotted past me. I gave greeting to the guards, and turned to follow Sri. He stood at the curtains, looking at me with eyes in which was now no friendliness at all. He said:

“Evalie is not there.”

I stared at him, incredulously, brushed by him and into that chamber. It was empty. I crossed to the pile of silks and cushions on which Evalie had slept, touched them. There was no warmth. I went, Sri at my heels, into the next room. Dara and a half dozen of the women lay there, asleep. Evalie was not among them. I touched Dara on the shoulder. She sat up, yawning.

“Dara—the girl is gone!”

“Gone!” she stared at me as incredulously as I had at the golden pygmy. She leaped to her feet, ran to the empty room, then with me through the other chambers. There lay the soldier women, asleep, but not Evalie.

I ran back to my own room, and to its door. A bitter rage began to possess me. Swiftly, harshly, I questioned the guards. They had seen no one. None had entered; none had gone forth. The golden pygmy listened, his eyes never leaving me.

I turned toward Evalie’s room. I passed the table on which I had thrown the locket. My hand fell on it, lifted it; it was curiously light…I opened it…The ring of Khalk’ru was not there! I glared at the empty locket—and like a torturing flame realization of what its emptiness and the vanishment of Evalie might signify came to me. I groaned, leaned against the table to keep from falling.

“Drum, Sri! Call your people! Bid them come quickly! There may yet be time!”

The golden pygmy hissed; his eyes became little pools of yellow fire. He could not have known all the horror of my thoughts—but he read enough. He leaped to the window, swung his drum and sent forth call upon call—peremptory, raging, vicious. At once he was answered—answered from Nansur, and then from all the river and beyond it the drums of the Little People roared out.

Would Lur hear them? She could not help but hear them…but would she heed…would their threat stop her…it would tell her that I was awake and that the Little People knew of their betrayal…and Evalie’s.

God! If she did hear—was it in time to save Evalie?

“Quick, Lord!” Dara called from the curtains. The dwarf and I ran through. She pointed to the side of the wall. There, where one of the carved stones jointed another, hung a strip of silk.

“A door there, Dwayanu! That is how they took her. They went hurriedly. The cloth caught when the stone closed.”

I looked for something to batter at the stone. But Dara was pressing here and there. The stone swung open. Sri darted past and into the black passage it had masked. I stumbled after him, Dara at my heels, the others following. It was a narrow passage, and not long. Its end was a solid wall of stone. And here Dara pressed again until that wall opened.

We burst into the chamber of the High-priest. The eyes of the Kraken stared at me and through me with their inscrutable malignancy. Yet it seemed to me that in them now was challenge.

All my senseless fury, all blind threshing of my rage, fell from me. A cold deliberation, an ordered purpose that had in it nothing of haste took its place…Is it too late to save Evalie?…It is not too late to destroy you, my enemy…

“Dara—get horses for us. Gather quickly as many as you can trust. Take only the strongest. Have them ready at the gate of the road to the temple…We go to end Khalk’ru. Tell them that.”

I spoke to the golden pygmy.

“I do not know if I can help Evalie. But I go to put an end to Khalk’ru. Do you wait for your people—or do you go with me?”

“I go with you.”

I knew where the Witch-woman dwelt in the black citadel, and it was not far away. I knew I would not find her there, but I must be sure. And she might have taken Evalie to the Lake of the Ghosts, I was thinking as I went on, past groups of silent, uneasy, perplexed and saluting soldiers. But deep in me I knew she had not. Deep within me I knew that it had been Lur who had awakened me in the night. Lur, who had stolen through the curtains to take the ring of Khalk’ru. And there was only one reason why she should have done that. No, she would not be at the Lake of the Ghosts.

Yet, if she had come into my room—why had she not slain me? Or had she meant to do this, and had my awakening and calling out to Evalie stayed her? Had she feared to go further? Or had she deliberately spared me?

I reached her rooms. She was not there. None of her women was there. The place was empty, not even soldiers on guard.

I broke into a run. The golden pygmy followed me, shrilling, javelins in left hand, sickle-sword in right. We came to the gate to the temple road.

There were three or four hundred soldiers awaiting me. Mounted—and every one a woman. I threw myself on a horse Dara held for me, swung Sri up on the saddle. We raced toward the temple.

We were half-way there when out from the trees that bordered the temple road poured the white wolves. They sprang from the sides like a white torrent, threw themselves upon the riders. They checked our rush, our horses stumbled, falling over those the fangs of the wolves had dropped in that swift, unexpected ambuscade; soldiers falling with them, ripped and torn by the wolves before they could struggle to their feet. We milled among them—horses and men and wolves in a whirling, crimson-flecked ring.

Straight at my throat leaped the great dog-wolf, leader of Lur’s pack, green eyes naming. I had no time for sword thrust. I caught its throat in my left hand, lifted it and flung it over my back. Even so, its fangs had struck and gashed me.

We were through the wolves. What was left of them came coursing behind us. But they had taken toll of my troop.

I heard the clang of an anvil…thrice stricken…the anvil of Tubalka!

God! It was true…Lur in the temple…and Evalie…and Khalk’ru!

We swept up to the door of the temple. I heard voices raised in the ancient chant. The entrance swarmed…It bristled with swords of the nobles, women and men.

“Ride through them, Dara! Ride them down!”

We swept through them like a ram. Sword against sword, hammers and battleaxes beating at them, horses trampling them.

The shrill song of Sri never ceased. His javelin thrust, his sickle-sword slashed.

We burst into Khalk’ru’s temple. The chanting stopped. The chanters arose against us; they struck with sword and axe and hammer at us; they stabbed and hacked our horses; pulled us down. The amphitheatre was a raging cauldron of death…

The lip of the platform was before me. I spurred my horse to it, stood upon its back and leaped upon the platform. Close to my right was the anvil of Tubalka; beside it, hammer raised to smite, was Ouarda. I heard the roll of drums, the drums of Khalk’ru’s evocation. The backs of the priests were bent over them.

In front of the priests, the ring of Khalk’ru raised high, stood Lur.

And between her and the bubble ocean of yellow stone that was the gate of Khalk’ru, fettered dwarfs swung two by two in the golden girdles…

Within the warrior’s ring—Evalie!

The Witch-woman never looked at me; she never looked behind her at the roaring cauldron of the amphitheatre where the soldiers and nobles battled.

She launched into the ritual!

Shouting, I rushed on Ouarda. I wrested the great sledge from her hands. I hurled it straight at the yellow screen…straight at the head of Khalk’ru. With every ounce of my strength I hurled that great hammer.

The screen cracked! The hammer was thrown back from it…fell.

The Witch-woman’s voice went on…and on…never faltering.

There was a wavering in the cracked screen. The Kraken floating in the bubble ocean seemed to draw back…to thrust forward…

I ran toward it…to the hammer.

An instant I halted beside Evalie. I thrust my hands through the golden girdle, broke it as though it had been wood. I dropped my sword at her feet.

“Guard yourself, Evalie!”

I picked up the hammer. I raised it. The eyes of Khalk’ru moved…they glared at me, were aware of me…the tentacles stirred! And the paralysing cold began to creep round me…I threw all my will against it.

I smashed the sledge of Tubalka against the yellow stone…again…and again—

The tentacles of Khalk’ru stretched toward me!

There was a crystalline crashing, like a lightning bolt striking close. The yellow stone of the screen shattered. It rained round me like sleet driven by an icy hurricane. There was an earthquake trembling. The temple rocked. My arms fell, paralysed. The hammer of Tubalka dropped from hands that could no longer feel it. The icy cold swirled about me …higher…higher…there was a shrill and dreadful shrieking…

For an instant the shape of the Kraken hovered where the screen had been. Then it shrank. It seemed to be sucked away into immeasurable distances. It vanished.

And life rushed back into me!

There were jagged streamers of the yellow stone upon the rocky floor…black of the Kraken within them…I beat them into dust…

“Leif!”

Evalie’s voice, shrill, agonized. I swung round. Lur was rushing upon me, sword raised. Before I could move Evalie had darted between us, flung herself in front of the Witch-woman, struck at her with my own sword.

The blade of Lur parried the stroke, swept in…bit deep…and Evalie fell…Lur leaped toward me…I watched her come, not moving, not caring…there was blood upon her sword…Evalie’s blood…

Something like a flash of light touched her breast. She halted as though a hand had thrust her back. Slowly, she dropped to her knees. She sank to the rock.

Over the rim of the platform leaped the dog-wolf, howling as it ran. It hurled itself straight at me. There was another flash of light. The dog-wolf somersaulted and fell—in mid-leap.

I saw Sri, crouching. One of his javelins was in Lur’s breast, the mate to it in the dog-wolf’s throat…I saw the golden pygmy running to Evalie…saw her rise, holding a hand to a shoulder from which streamed blood…

I walked toward Lur, stiffly, like an automaton. The white wolf tried to stagger to its feet, then crawled to the Witch-woman, dragging itself on its belly. It reached her before I did. It dropped its head upon her breast. It turned its head, and lay glaring at me, dying.

The Witch-woman looked up at me. Her eyes were soft and her mouth had lost all cruelty. It was tender. She smiled at me.

“I wish you had never come here, Yellow-hair!”

And then—

“Ai—and—Ai! My Lake of the Ghosts!”

Her hand crept up, and dropped on the head of the dying wolf, caressingly. She sighed—

The Witch-woman was dead.

I looked into the awed faces of Evalie and Dara. “Evalie—your wound—”

“Not deep, Leif…Soon it will heal…it does not matter…”

Dara said:

“Hail—Dwayanu! It is a great thing you have done this day!”

She dropped on her knees, kissed my hand. And now I saw that those of mine who had survived the battle in the temple had come up on the platform, and were kneeling—to me. And that Ouarda lay beside Tubalka’s anvil, and that Sri too was on his knees, staring at me, eyes filled with worship.

I heard the tumult of the drums of the Little People…no longer on Nanbu’s far side…in Karak…and closer.

Dara spoke again:

“Let us be going back to Karak, Lord. It is now all yours to rule.”

I said to Sri:

“Sound your drum, Sri. Tell them that Evalie lives. That Lur is dead. That the gate of Khalk’ru is closed forever. Let there be no more killing.”

Sri answered:

“What you have done has wiped out all war between my people and Karak. Evalie and you we will obey. I will tell them what you have done.”

He swung the little drum, raised his hands to beat it I stopped him.

“Wait, Sri, I shall not be here to obey.”

Dara cried: “Dwayanu—you will not leave us!”

“Yes, Dara…I go now to that place whence I came…I do not return to Karak. I am done with the Little People, Sri.”

Evalie spoke, breathlessly:

“What of me—Leif?”

I put my hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes:

“Last night you whispered that you would go with me, Evalie. I release you from that promise…I am thinking you would be happier here with your small folk…”

She said, steadily:

“I know where happiness lies for me. I hold to my promise…unless you do not want me…”

“I do want you—dark girl!”

She turned to Sri: “Carry my love to my people, Sri. I shall not see them again.”

The little man clung to her, cast himself down before her, wailed and wept while she talked to him. At last he squatted on his haunches, and stared long at the shattered gate of the Kraken. I saw the secret knowledge touch him. He came to me, held up his arms for me to lift him. He raised my lids and looked deep into my eyes. He thrust his hand in my breast, and placed his head on my breast, and listened to the beating of my heart. He dropped, bent Evalie’s head to his, whispering.

Dara said: “Dwayanu’s will is our will. Yet it is hard to understand why he will not stay with us.”

“Sri knows…more than I do. I cannot, Dara.”

Evalie came to me. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Sri says we must go now, Leif…quickly. My people must—not see me. He will tell them a tale upon his drum…there will be no fighting…and henceforth there will be peace.”

The golden pygmy began to beat the talking drum. At the first strokes the hosts of other drums were silent. When he had ended they began again…jubilant, triumphant…until in them crept a note of questioning. Once more he beat a message…the answer came—angry, peremptory—in some queer fashion, incredulous.

Sri said to me: “Haste! Haste!”

Dara said: “We stay with you, Dwayanu, until the last.”

I nodded, and looked at Lur. Upon her hand the ring of Khalk’ru sent out a sudden gleam. I went to her, lifted the dead hand and took from it the ring. I smashed it on the anvil of Tubalka as I had the ring of Yodin.

Evalie said: “Sri knows a way that will lead us out into your world, Leif. It lies at the head of Nanbu. He will take us.”

“Is the way past the Lake of Ghosts, Evalie?”

“I will ask him…yes, it passes there.”

“That is good. We go into a country where the clothing I wear would be hardly fitting. And some provision must be made for you.”

We rode from the temple with Sri on my saddle, and Evalie and Dara on either side. The drums were very close. They were muted when we emerged from the forest upon the road. We went swiftly. It was mid-afternoon when we reached the Lake of the Ghosts. The drawbridge was down. There was no one in the garrison. The Witch-woman’s castle was empty. I searched, and found my roll of clothes; I stripped the finery of Dwayanu from me. I took a battle-ax, thrust a short sword in my belt, picked javelins for Evalie and myself. They would help us win through, would be all we had to depend upon to get us food later on. We took food with us from Lur’s castle, and skins to clothe Evalie when she passed from the Mirage.

I did not go up into the chamber of the Witch-woman. I heard the whispering of the waterfall—and did not dare to look upon it.

All the rest of that afternoon we galloped along the white river’s banks. The drums of the Little People followed us…searching…questioning…calling… “Ev-ah-lee… Ev-ah-lee… Ev-ah-lee…”

By nightfall we had come to the cliffs at the far end of the valley. Here Nanbu poured forth in a mighty torrent from some subterranean source. We picked our way across. Sri led us far into a ravine running steeply upward, and here we camped.

And that night I sat thinking long of what Evalie must meet in that new world awaiting her beyond the Mirage—the world of sun and stars and wind and cold. I thought long of what must be done to shield her until she could adjust herself to that world. And I listened to the drums of the Little People calling her, and I watched her while she slept, and wept and smiled in dream.

She must be taught to breathe. I knew that when she emerged from this atmosphere in which she had lived since babyhood, she would cease instantly to breathe—deprivation of the accustomed stimulus of the carbon-dioxide would bring that about at once. She must will herself to breathe until the reflexes again became automatic and she need give them no conscious thought. And at night, when she slept, this would be trebly difficult. I would have to remain awake, watch beside her.

And she must enter this new world with eyes bandaged, blind, until the nerves accustomed to the green luminosity of the Mirage could endure the stronger light. Warm clothing we could contrive from the skins and furs. But the food—what was it Jim had said in the long and long ago—that those who had eaten the food of the Little People would die if they ate other. Well, that was true in part. Yet, only in part—it could be managed.

With dawn came a sudden memory—the pack I had hidden on Nanbu’s bank when we had plunged into the white river with the wolves at our heels. If that could be found, it would help solve the problem of Evalie’s clothing at least. I told Dara about it. And she and Sri set out to find it. And while they were gone the soldier-women foraged for food and I instructed Evalie upon what she must do to cross in safety that bridge which lay, perilous, between her world and mine.

Two days they were gone—but they had found the pack. They brought word of peace between the Ayjir and the Little People. As for me—

Dwayanu the Deliverer had come even as the prophecy had promised…had come and freed them from the ancient doom…and had gone back as was his right to that place from which, answering the prophecy, he had come…and had taken with him Evalie as was also his right. Sri had spread the tale.

And next morning when the light showed that the sun had risen over the peaks that girdled the Valley of the Mirage, we set forth—Evalie like a slim boy beside me.

We climbed until we were within the green mists. And here we bade farewell, Sri clinging to Evalie, kissing her hands and feet, weeping. And Dara clasped my shoulders:

“You will come back to us, Dwayanu? We will be waiting!”

It was like the echo of the Uighur captain’s voice—long and long ago…

I turned and began to climb, Evalie following. I thought that so might Euridice have followed her lover up from the Land of Shades in another long and long ago.

The figures of Sri and the watching women became dim. They were hidden under the green mists…

I felt the bitter cold touch my face. I caught Evalie up in my arms—and climbed up and on—and staggered at last out into the sun-lit warmth of the slopes beyond the pit of the precipices.

The day dawned when we had won the long, hard fight for Evalie’s life. Not easily was the grip of the Mirage loosed. We turned our faces to the South and set our feet upon the Southward trail.

And yet…

Ai! Lur—Witch-woman! I see you lying there, smiling with lips grown tender—the—white wolf’s head upon your breast! And Dwayanu still lives within me!