Dwellers in the Mirage

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!