Flame Winds

by Norvell W. Page

  Bourtai giggled. “It is only that the wizards do not trust each other, master. Each of those liveried guards wears the colors of his master. Thus the guards of no single wizard can overpower the others and reach the crystal ball. If a man could learn the secret of that ball, the flames and the flame wind would die, and any man could reach the princess. The princess in the tower. So Ahriman told me in the temple.”

  With a thin smile on his lips, Wan Tengri whipped his great horn bow from across his shoulder and bent it with his knee to tauten the gut. “It is plain,” he said, “a crystal ball is made to break!” Bourtai clutched at his arm, then prostrated himself. “In Ahriman’s name,” he cried, “do not do this thing! It would avail nothing until the Hour of the Swine on the thirteenth night of the Red, the Mating Moon!”

  Wan Tengri pulled his eyes reluctantly from that bobbling crystal mark. It was a mark a good bowman might hit, and if he caught it squarely where the arrow would not glance, he might shatter it in a heartbeat of time. A princess in the tower—and since they guarded her so it was plain that somehow princess and tower held the key to this fabulous city of Turgohl.

  “The Hour of the Swine,” Wan Tengri whispered. “That would be the twelfth, the midnight hour. When is this Mating Moon of thine?”

  Bourtai lifted an affrighted face and pointed where the Volapoi hills raised their black shoulders against the eastern sky. Over the tips of the fir trees, the bloodshot eye of a crimson moon was peering. “Master, this is the first night of the Mating Moon. When the thirteenth night falls—”

  “Out with it,” Wan Tengri ordered, growling. “Man, time is wasting! We have many things to do this night.”

  For an instant, the glitter in Bourtai’s eyes startled Wan Tengri so that his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. The twisted man still crouched upon his knees, but on the moment there was something so venomous, so deadly there that Prester John felt a coldness race through all his great body. It was such a chill as had struck him in the siege of Antioch when a catapult’s great jagged stone had hurled him to the earth with its wind of passage.

  “Thou small, stingless viper,” Wan Tengri hissed, “I think it would be well if I snapped off thy head now!”

  Bourtai’s voice was a whine. “How, master, think you I know these things if I lied concerning Ahriman’s temple?”

  There was breathless waiting there on that roof in Turgohl. The whimper of the high flame wind seemed to fade and, through the silence, came the flutter of the dancing fires. Wan Tengri rolled his great shoulders, but his hand did not leave his sword hilt.

  “How shall any sneaking jackal learn secrets?” he growled. “I think, my monkey-faced viper, that thou knowest at least one wizard. I think that thou didst lie concerning that.”

  Bourtai cackled softly. “Thou art shrewd, my master! It is true, what thou sayest. I did but seek to add a cubit to my stature in thy eyes.”

  “On, with thy story, fool,” Wan Tengri growled. He felt that the wing of the death demon had passed him by, yet still hovered there in the high air. Respect for this twisted leader of thieves touched him briefly. There was some mystery here—but there were greater mysteries to be solved. Bourtai was talking softly.

  “This then, master,” he whispered “is the story of the princess in the Flame Tower. Under enchantment, she is kept as a little child in stature and in mind, though truly she knew many hidden things. She is the true ruler of Turgohl, but when the wizards came secretly from Taghdumbash, the roof of the world, they built this tower in a single night and threw the Flames of Kasimer about it. All the magic of the princess accomplished only this one thing, that the crystal ball should dance there in the fountain’s perfumed spray and that, for the length of Ahriman’s prayer on the thirteenth night of the Mating Moon, she should once more regain her full stature and mind.”

  Wan Tengri still regarded his small servitor warily, but he masked his suspicion under squinting lids. “There is no spell that cannot be broken,” he said shortly. “What other secrets did Ahriman whisper in thy ear, which, undoubtedly I shall crop within the hour?”

  “Nay, master,” Bourtai said humbly, “that I could not tell thee, were thou to crop my neck, too! That the spell can be broken, I doubt not, and I know that it must be done at the Hour of the Swine on the thirteenth day. Perhaps thy great magic—”

  “Perhaps.” Wan Tengri muttered. His eyes went calculatingly back to that bobbling crystal ball, and his fingers rested caressingly on his great horn bow. “Come. I shall return when the hour is ripe. But now my sword thirsts for wizard’s flesh, and the coffers of the brotherhood are empty! Lead me to this wizard of whom you learned so many things. If such as thou can pierce his enchantments and listen to his secrets, dost think Prester John will do less?”

  “Truly, thou art great, John of the Wind-devils,” whispered Bourtai, and Wan Tengri felt an anger crawl along his muscles. He could not be sure, but there seemed mockery in the chattering voice of this small, twisted monkey of a man. When he had learned all Bourtai could tell, when Kassar was freed, there would be a time of accounting.

  “Come,” he ordered shortly. “Lead on.”

  Down the ladder and into the shaft of the salt mines, up again into a hut that gave on a crooked, muddy lane. “The Street of the Brass Beaters, master,” whispered Bourtai. “We have not far to go.”

  Wan Tengri stood listening to the nearby tramp of a guard. That was no decurion’s command. Tonight, they marched by scores. Wan Tengri smiled thinly. It was a tribute to his arms which he could not scorn. He marched on with a stiffer swing to his broad shoulders. By Ahriman, he had put the fear of Prester John into their very bowels!

  As they reached a spot where three of the straggling streets strayed together, Bourtai dropped back to his side to point with an out-thrust chin. “There, master, is the garden wall of Tsien Hui, the wizard.”

  Wan Tengri’s muscles jerked and his fist knotted about the neck of the scrawny thief. “Liar!” he rumbled. “Fool, do you take me for a moonstruck dolt? Tsien Hui is not a wizard from Kasimer, but a sticky-fingered money lender from Chin. Last night”—laughter barked in his throat—“last night, I harried him naked through his harem. I wrested jewels from a slave girl he sent to bribe me. Think you your powerful wizards would permit such indignity?”

  “Truly, thy magic is great, Wan Tengri,” whined Bourtai, “yet what I tell thee is true. Unless his very life was threatened, Tsien Hui would not reveal himself, nor would any other wizard. Or perhaps his stars were weak and thine all-powerful.”

  Suspicion sprang up in Wan Tengri’s mind again. It was true that he had succored this small, perverted imp and that the man had served him afterward, but Bourtai was sly. He was not above using Wan Tengri’s strength for his own ends. Perhaps he resented losing prestige before the slinking thieves who followed his lead. Wan Tengri’s head jerked up. The guard was coming this way. The clank and thud of their armored tread was louder, echoing like muted thunder between the close-pressing walls.

  “Wait in the shaft by the Street of the Brass Beaters,” Wan Tengri ordered. “If I find thou hast lied to me—”

  “Nay, master, thou shall tear out my tongue first.” Bourtai wriggled in his fierce grip.

  “Aye,” said Wan Tengri, “thyself has named it.”

  He sent Bourtai reeling on his way with a thrust of his arm, took two long strides and leaped high to grasp the spikes atop Tsien Hui’s wall. He tautened the muscles of his arms, drew himself straight upward until he could knee the crest. There was a cold smile in his gray eyes that was not echoed on his bearded lips. If Bourtai was convinced that this yellow weakling was a wizard, so much the better. He would fill the thieves’ coffers this night, bind them to him with chains of wealth, as well as fear, before he went to rescue Kassar. This much was necessary to stiffen their limber spines, for an invasion of the dungeons of the Seven Wizards of Turgohl was not a thing to attempt lightly and alone.

  Lightly, Wan Tengri leaped to the
garden of Tsien Hui and crouched there while the beams of the Mating Moon spilled their soft red glow upon the high-twining vines and feathered heaven trees. The liquid murmur of a fountain lulled his ears and its perfume cleansed his nostrils. The tread of the guard was softened and the rhythm beat with his quick-thudding heart. There, the inner wall of Tsien Hui’s house glowed opalescent in the purple gloom. He took two slow strides forward through the clusters of oleander—and threw himself frantically aside!

  Out of the gloom, a fierce hairy hand had streaked toward his throat, and he caught the glisten of slavering fangs in a bestial face! As he leaped, his sword whipped out, singing, but he checked the quick sweep of the blade. The giant ape was held prisoner by a brass collar about its throat. It leaped up and down, clashing the metallic chain, thumping its drumlike chest, but no sound save the whistle of wind issued from the screaming mouth. Enchantment—or severed voice cords in the throat. Wan Tengri’s lips twisted in a thin smile. He had been underestimating Tsien Hui.

  Swiftly, his gaze combed through the tangle of the garden, and, here and there, he glimpsed the twin gleam of beast eyes in the dusk. He wove a way between the menace of a crouching, tawny tiger and the snapping jaws of a wolf, both straining at their chains. No sorceries here, though these were such protections as the Emperor of Chin himself might envy and they were strange in a money-lender’s garden in far Turgohl. Wan Tengri, creeping toward where twisted vines, like coiling snakes, climbed the house wall, was remembering other things about Tsien Hui. It was from his hands that the jewels had vanished and, strangely, the guard had been summoned to his door. The old man himself had vanished like some jinni in an instant of time. Yes, there might be some truth in Bourtai!

  Wan Tengri laid his great hands upon the vine coils and went up swiftly, hand over hand, toward the balcony that leaned over the garden. It was when he had taken his third grip upon the vine that he felt it move sluggishly under his hand! He was aware suddenly that the vine was cold as a snake is cold, and that titan muscles slid under the bark! A great soundless cry jerked open Wan Tengri’s lips. The coils were lifting toward him! With a frantic thrust, he loosed his grip and hurled himself outward and down. His wide-strained eyes stared upward. Even as he fell, a wedge head dipped toward him, and he caught the glassy gleam of reptile eyes!

  Wan Tengri fell on sprung knees and leaped backward. There was a breath of air against his face, a jerk in his tangled hair, and he dodged away from the sweeping claw of the leashed tiger! It was fortunate that he did, for the snake’s gaping jaws snapped past his shoulder in the same instant. With the keenness of desperation, his warrior’s brain weighed and estimated his dangers. His keen blade flicked toward the snake’s extended neck and he hurled himself toward the walls of the house. The tiger and the wolf could not reach him there, and the serpent must turn upon its own length to strike. He felt the blade strike the reptile’s throat just behind the head; strike—and bounce! The blade sang as if it had struck stone, and a hopeless cry welled into Wan Tengri’s mouth. He strangled it there, flung his shoulders against the wall. There must be no sound, lest Tsien Hui be aroused and send new enchantments to ensnare him. The useless sword hung poised in his hand; the great bow across his back and its arrows pressed hard between his shoulders. Useless—all useless.

  The snake threw its coils at him, but he braced his shoulders grimly against the solidity of the wall, dug his heels into the earth. The striking of the serpent’s body bruised like the battering of a war club, but Tengri’s giant thews resisted fiercely. Behind the angry glitter of his eyes, his brain was racing, calculating. His brain was his magic. By Ahriman, he would see if Tsien Hui’s monsters could best the hurricane wrath of Prester John!

  Ah, the snake was poised to strike again! No poison fangs there, but teeth that looked like the back-curving head of a Persian lance. Once those teeth fastened on a man, the coils would swiftly crush out even Prester John’s flaming life. He braced himself, lifted his curving sword. It was a supreme slashing weapon, that scimitar. Every inch of its sloping edge was shaped to bite deep, but it had bounced—and it did have a point. It was the point Wan Tengri thrust forward, waiting while the snake swiftly tensed its steel muscles for the strike. The skin might be tough, but Wan Tengri thought the inside of that gaping, red throat might be pierced by true steel!

  Wan Tengri did not attempt to strike. He braced his shoulder, his arm locked rigidly with the sword a curving continuation of that axis—and waited. The snake’s head whipped forward with a speed not even the bow-sped arrows of Wan Tengri could equal. The sword point wavered—and the whole blade vanished! But it vanished down the throat of the giant enchanted serpent of Tsien Hui’s garden!

  Just in time, Wan Tengri whipped his hand away as the titan jaws snapped shut. He hurled himself aside, rolling, and saw the dripping, upthrust point of his sword jutting out from the serpent’s spine! That frantic, dying body threshed mightily. The tiger, struck by a sideswipe of that blind tail, was hurled the length of its chain and died, quivering, with the breaking of its neck. The wolf cowered back the full length of its leash.

  Wan Tengri, staggering to his feet, stood and stared with his chest heaving quickly. Slowly, his lips curved in a smile and his eyes lifted to the balcony. He would have to move swiftly before the lashing of the serpent’s death throes aroused Tsien Hui. His sword he could not reclaim until the last quiver had left those brass-muscled coils. No matter. With a quick gesture, he freed and strung his bow, swung it about his neck. A run, and a high leap, and he gripped the low branch of a tree. It creaked and swayed under his weight and, with its rebound, he soared out into space with upreaching hands. He just gripped the railing of the balcony and his body thudded against the wall with a force that made his teeth rattle.

  Wan Tengri was staggering when he leaped across the balcony and swept aside the gossamer curtains that screened a door. Like a woman’s clinging hands, the stuff twined about his arm—but its strength was the strength of a man. With a violent, suppressed oath, he ripped his muscles against it. The curtains tore loose from their fastenings and he carried them with him as he leaped across the great chamber toward a silk-draped bed. From about his neck came the great bow, and an arrow leaped from his quiver to notch on the gut. A bound and Wan Tengri stood on the foot of the bed. The gut cord touched his ear.

  “Move Tsien Hui!” he whispered. “Move, and I’ll pin thee forever to thy couch!”

  The slit eyes of the man from Chin gazed up into Wan Tengri’s distorted face. Yellow, long-nailed hands lay passive on the coverlets of silk and fur. “Art not satisfied, Barbarian?” he asked quietly. “I did not call back my jewels.”

  Wan Tengri’s sharp laughter was like a wolfs bark. “But I have need of more jewels, Tsien Hui, and they tell me in Turgohl that thou hast the name of a wizard. Now, as a true son of Christos, it is my sworn duty to slit wizard throats. Since my sword has been swallowed by that living serpent-vine of thine, needs must use an arrow. I doubt not it will serve as well.”

  Tsien Hui said softly: “So thou hast slain the enchanted vine. Verily, Barbarian, you grow too troublesome.” His eyes seemed to open more widely, and Wan Tengri could stare into their depths. There seemed to be some secret there which he must learn, which his soul must plumb in order to survive. His own eyes narrowed a little, then widened in answer to Tsien Hui’s own. Was that glimmer of green fire in Tsien Hui’s eyes—the secret?

  “Yes,” said Tsien Hui softly, almost drowsily, “you grow too troublesome, Barbarian, but I am too sleepy to deal with you properly now. You, too, are sleepy, aren’t you, Barbarian? So, I permit you to sleep. Relax your bow, Barbarian, slowly, slowly.”

  Wan Tengri tried to shake his head to free his eyes of the compelling power of this sorcerer’s gaze, and he could not. Rage swelled in him, and he tried to free his fingers from the bowstring to drive his arrow deep into this yellow face that mocked him with its thin smiling.

  “You cannot release the arrow, Wan Tengri
,” Tsien Hui said softly, “and your arm is so tired. You cannot hold the bow taut any longer. Just relax it, Barbarian.”

  Wan Tengri tensed the mighty muscles in his body, fighting against that order which seemed to come from his own brain. He fought—and he relaxed the bow as Tsien Hui ordered! The yellow teeth of the sorcerer showed as his smile widened.

  “Now, drop the bow, Barbarian, and step down from my bed. Yes, that’s right. You will take three steps backward, Barbarian, and then you will await my pleasure, in the morning. As I tell thee, thou bit of offal, I am drowsy.”

  Wan Tengri stood three paces from Tsien Hui’s bed, and his hands were empty of weapons. He did not know how this thing had come to pass, but it was true. He was defenseless, and that hateful yellow face was smiling at him from the bed. For a space of moments, or hours, Tsien Hui continued to smile, then the slant eyes closed, and Wan Tengri saw that the yellow magician slept. He knew dimly that he was under enchantment, that his muscles were fighting frantically just to move, to shift the position of the foot, to lift a hand—and it was no use, no use at all. By Ahriman, he was sleepy! He could even sleep standing up. Wan Tengri fought against the hundred-weights that pressed down on his lids. He could not wait here. He had to carry loot back to the brotherhood; he had to free Kassar, who tomorrow would face the judgment of Ahriman. He had to do these thing, but he was too full of sleep. The weights upon his eyelids won. Standing rigidly erect, almost within arm’s reach of the wizard, Tsien Hui, the mighty Prester John fell into an enchanted sleep!

  To Wan Tengri, it seemed that presently he was walking in this enchanted sleep, was moving amid great crowds of people. He heard shouts, or the echoes of shouts; he heard the fluting laughter of women, and over it all, dominating the sounds, was the heavy martial tramp of men and the wild beat of Mongol drums, the clash of cymbals and the blare of long brass trumpets. That faded and the choral counter-voices of men and women, like the hymns that Egypt’s priests and priestesses lifted to the rising sun, flooded in and filled his brain. When it ended, he awoke.