Flame Winds

by Norvell W. Page

  Presently, Wan Tengri went back through the chamber and to the broad steps, and a woman bowed before him. “My lord, the princess commands your presence.”

  Wan Tengri grimaced, but made grave acknowledgment and followed her down the stairs and, on the lowest level, into a room he had not seen before. On one seat of a double throne sat the princess in her robes of state, and Bourtai cowered in Wan Tengri’s shadow.

  “Are my enemies yet dead?” the princess asked carelessly.

  “A few are dead,” Wan Tengri said gravely, “yet it requires a mighty magic to remove them all. It wants time.”

  “They can wait,” the princess said impatiently. “I would give thee thy reward.”

  Wan Tengri’s fiery red head was carried stiffly, and he braced his thick legs apart to clap his fists to his hips. He frowned on this lovely, golden princess while Bourtai sniggered in his shadow. Yet Wan Tengri’s rumbling voice was patient as he spoke:

  “Princess, I am eager for thy rewards, but—well, come to think of it, there is a vow I made which I must fulfill before I can claim it.”

  “I absolve you of this vow, my lord.”

  Wan Tengri smiled grimly. “That lies beyond your power, small princess,” he said. “For it was made to a god of whom you never heard, but before whom, presently, you shall bend the knee. By Ahriman, it behooves me, also, to bend a knee in gratitude—presently. Now, princess, I have work to do.”

  He whirled from the audience chamber and with the sweep of his eyes caught the gaze of the two servitors. “I will need your help,” he said brusquely. “Every spear and every carpet must be carried to the topmost room of the tower. There, also, must be lengths of mighty rope. I go, princess, to build my magic and remove from thy doorstep the vermin that infest it.”

  The princess’ face was pale and her head was regally lifted. “And how long, man, will these magics take?”

  Wan Tengri bowed stiffly, for his proud back was not used to the practice. “Until the flame wind dies and blows again, princess,” he said shortly, and swung from the chamber. He turned toward the door, and a score of men armored in white sprang into his path. Wan Tengri looked at them wearily, and plodded straight into the midst of the cluster at the door—and they faded into thin air. And behind him he heard the princess sob.

  “Thou canst rule her, master.” Bourtai scuttled up the steps at his side. “Truly, thou canst rule her.”

  “For a day,” rumbled Wan Tengri. “Truly, these prophecies of thine are sound. How much longer can any man rule a woman? For in ruling, he becomes—Phagh! My sense of humor is deserting me. Come, my fleet-fingered minion of Ahriman, I have work for those same light fingers of thine before we can begin our tampering with the flame wind—and we can get our hands on a slightly different reward than the princess intends. For look you, Bourtai, I want only gold.”

  IX

  IN THE topmost room of the tower of the princess, where the howl of the flame wind was never still, and its small, hot fingers dragged shrieking sounds from the walls, Wan Tengri labored throughout the night and drove Bourtai and the two servitors of the princess relentlessly.

  “Aye,” groaned Bourtai, “never have I seen such laborious magic. My own enchantments are simple things and easily achieved.”

  Wan Tengri laughed. “And as easily broken, Monkey-face! This is a magic that not all the power of the wizards of Kasimer shall disrupt, not all their ten thousand men.”

  Bourtai sighed and hauled another carpet across the floor to be lashed to the last. “Yet, so much magic seemeth to my feeble brain as necessary. Not all my strongest enchantments prevailed against thee, nor did those of my six pleasant brothers.”

  Wan Tengri straightened and strode toward the door. “It is the magic of ten thousand swords that I fear, my small wizard. What man has done, other men can undo—and I know not how long the flaming moat will hold them in check. I doubt, Bourtai, that they would allow me another three battles in the arena, and thou art doomed, whether by the rope of the princess or the magic of thy brothers!”

  “Ah, don’t say that, master,” pleaded Bourtai. “Surely, thy shadow will protect me!”

  Wan Tengri grinned in his beard as he moved swiftly down the stairs to come presently to the throne room where the princess toyed with her jeweled scepter. She looked up quickly as he entered, then turned her face away. Wan Tengri bowed gravely.

  “I shall need thy magic, too, princess,” he said somberly. “Where is the fount of thy flaming moat?”

  The princess shifted impatiently on her throne. “I care nothing for such matters.”

  “And yet without it, my princess”—Wan Tengri moved toward the throne—“my magic cannot avail. Think you, if I fall in battle, will those four wizards who still hold sway beyond the moat deal kindly with thee? Or will they—master thee?”

  The princess’ gray eyes fled to his for protection. “You say these things to frighten me, my lord.”

  For an instant she was like a terrified child, and Wan Tengri’s smile softened. “Nay, if I frighten thee, it is because the fear is in myself as well. Ten thousand men, princess, wield a magic that no wizard can overpower. It is curved like a flower’s stem, but its edge is keen as the northern wind! It is called a sword.”

  The princess rose stiffly to her feet and put her small, trembling hand in that of Wan Tengri. “Come, I will show you. There is a cistern that is never empty, if we use it carefully. It was built by my father long years ago, and there are springs, but it cannot be drunk. It is a magic water whose taste is foul and whose smell is rank, and, more wondrous, it burns.”

  When Wan Tengri had seen the great dark cistern and sniffed the pungency of its liquid—a good crude oil, had he known it—and had learned the operation of its outlet, he led the princess back to her throne.

  “In a few hours, at the Hour of the Serpent, my princess,” he said gently, “the flame wind will die and certain things can be done. Then I will cause your herald to sound a blast and announce to these besieging armies that when once more the flame wind blows, when the evening Hour of the Dragon comes, thou wilt—treat with them. I think it may gain us those hours of grace, princess.”

  On his way up the winding stairway again, Wan Tengri walked with a frowning weariness. It might be he was wronging the princess; it might be that the prophecies were false and this was the land he was meant to rule. Certainly, he could dip his fingers into the treasure. Abruptly, he was grinning. By Ahriman, he was a fool to worry about tomorrow. Who knew whether, for him, tomorrow would come? There were ten thousand swords. Wan Tengri was humming through his nose strenuously when he punched open again the door of the topmost room.

  When the flame wind died with the dawn, Wan Tengri stepped out upon the balcony that girdled the tower’s crest. A dozen feet above him was the great flame of gold, and he eyed it with narrowed concentration. Presently, he circled a weighted end of rope about his head and flung it, swirling, about the base of the flame. On the third try, it returned to his hand and he rigged a noose about the flame for present use. He peered about the room inside where spears had been lashed end to end, and there were two great scrolls of carpet. Then, with a satisfied nod, he went swiftly down the stairs again.

  From the balcony where first he had peered down upon the hosts of the wizards he gazed forth again, and summoned the herald to trump at his side. Over the sleeping horde, with their gay banners and their rainbow coats, the blast from the trumpet hurled its brazen note and men sprang to their feet, shouting. Over the edge of the balcony, Wan Tengri unfurled a scarf of pure white silk.

  “Hearken, men,” he sent his great voice eddying toward them. “Hearken to the words of the Princess of Turgohl! She greets her loyal subjects in the name of Christos, in whose name she conquers. At the evening Hour of the Dragon, the princess will treat with your masters, the wizards of Kasimer. She bids them come then, at the Hour of the Dragon.”

  For as long as he spoke, there was silence over the multitude, but
as he ceased there was a mingled shout and the black streaks of arrows winged toward him. One glanced from the white silken flag under his hand and another caught the trumpeter beneath the breastbone. He pitched forward, spewing blood, but Wan Tengri stood stiffly at the rail. More arrows winged upward and he could hear now the twang-twang of a thousand bows. His eyes were bitter and once more they sought the blue of the open roadstead and the far glistening waters of Baikul. An arrow whimpered past his ear to rip painfully through his tangled, shoulder-length hair, and another skimmed the parapet to burn his hand. Wan Tengri turned heavily back to the tower.

  They would wait, he thought, until the Hour of the Dragon, and they would plan to assault then. If his “magic” worked, there would be many dead before the Hour of the Serpent came again—and Wan Tengri might well be among them. For a day, it was said, he would rule. When the dark Hour of the Ox came, that day would be ended. He fought for his saving humor, and it would not come. Heavily, he flung himself down upon a couch and slept.

  It was late when he awoke to find Bourtai crouched at his side, and there was a shivering that jerked at the wizard’s small bones and that would not cease.

  “Master,” he whispered, “the Hour of the Dragon draws near.”

  Wan Tengri dragged himself to his feet and stood with his broad hands knotted at his sides. Within the hour—He laughed briefly. “Come to the tower room, Bourtai. Thy magic must fight with mine this day, or—”

  “Or the rope!” whispered Bourtai. “All day, the princess hath watched me with cat’s eyes, and there is a mouse’s soul trembling in my breast.”

  Wan Tengri laughed sharply. “They tell the tale that once a mouse helped a lion, small monkey-thing. Pray to your various gods that the analogy holds and I fight like a lion this day.”

  “But thy magic, master?”

  “My magic will need the strength of my good right arm,” Wan Tengri said shortly. “Ten thousand men, Bourtai, and ten thousand swords. Ten thousand bows to hurl their arrows at this tower. Do thy fingers still itch for gold, Bourtai?”

  Rapidly, Wan Tengri led the way up the tall tower and, at first, Bourtai scampered beside him with a thousand questions, but presently he fell back to trail, panting behind the steady climb of his master’s muscle-knotted legs. Once in the tower room, Wan Tengri went swiftly to work. He tested the strength of the double rank of spears he had lashed together, then to each end he fastened a scroll of carpets. This, presently—straining his powerful back—he lifted to the balcony, and when he had settled it into place, a scroll of carpets projected on each side of the tower. Rapidly he worked at the lashings while white faces stared up from the Court of the Fountain. When he had finished with his rope braces, the spears lay like a yard across the mast of the tower, and he turned, panting to face Bourtai.

  “Thine, my mouse,” he said softly, “will be the task of gnawing this lion’s ropes when the trumpet blasts for the second time. But let the carpets down not too swiftly, or the spears are apt to break. If they do, there will be no saving that neck of thine!”

  Bourtai stretched his neck and fumbled it with his clawed fingers. “Aye, master, they shall drop slowly, but I do not understand this magic of thine.”

  “If thou didst,” Wan Tengri said dryly, “‘twould be no magic. Wait for the second trumpet blast.”

  He turned back down the steps then, to find the princess waiting, white-faced and frightened, in the great main hall. Beyond the walls was the turmoil of men’s angry voices. Her hands fluttered out to his.

  “Thy magic, my lord. Quickly!”

  Wan Tengri smiled, though the muscles across his shoulders were stiffening for battle, and his fiery head was thrown back with the challenge of death. “Nay, magic cannot be hurried, princess,” he said gently. “Did it not take seventeen years to break the spell that held thee bound a child?”

  The princess’ eyes softened. “Yet there are other magics that take less time and other spells!”

  “There are those,” Wan Tengri said harshly, “that last for a day.” He crossed to the armor where a spider had nested, burnished now, and swiftly fitted on cuirass and helmet. “When the trumpet sounds the second time, princess, do thou open wide the outlet of that wondrous spring of thy father’s. Thy magic, added to mine, will sweep the vermin from thy doorstep—I hope.”

  He bore his armor lightly as he bounded up the stairs once more to the room where he had slept, and there girded on his sword and caught his newly strung bow in his hand. If today the wizards broke the truce with assault of arrows, there would be an answer worthy of them! He strode to the balcony, stared down at the arrow-pierced corpse of the princess’ man. The last rays of the sun gilded his death-drawn face.

  “And you waited seventeen years for this,” he said. “Well, mayhap, I shall find some such answer today!”

  He caught up the man’s trumpet and stepped to the verge of the balcony where the white scarf was spread again. Already the sun was half swallowed by the Suntai hills. He set the trumpet to his mouth and the blast he blew with unfamiliar lips wavered and broke, roared loud and strong. Silence fell, but there was laughter in the nearest line of the faces of the guards. So they did not like his trumpeting? Wan Tengri scowled down at them.

  “I am the man,” he cried. “I speak for the princess. Where are these motley wizards of thine?”

  The ranks of the guards parted then, and he saw the masked figures of the four wizards who still survived. They stood silently, and Wan Tengri, scanning the army warily, saw men with drawn and ready bows hidden near them. Aye, he had expected that.

  “Fakirs of Kasimer,” he sent his thundering voice down at them, “three of thy number have gone. To you four who remain, for a little while, I give the message of the princess. You will withdraw your armies and disband them and surrender yourselves to her mercy. Refuse, and you die!”

  Jeering laughter and shouts broke from the multitude and, amid their ranks, a trumpet sang clearly. Wan Tengri cursed, then grinned wolfishly as a thick flight of arrows winged toward his balcony. Themselves had done it, had signaled the releasing of his magic!

  As he whipped his own stout bow into line and notched an arrow to the gut, the last red lip of the sun flicked below the verge of the hills and there was only the upleaping flames from the moat, tossing their red menace upon the faces of the host. By it, the four masked figures stood out boldly, but the ranks were already closing about them at the signal of that trumpet blast. The great bow twanged as swiftly as hand could notch arrow, and six shafts lanced downward in an eye wink of time.

  A guard sprang in front of one masked figure with an upthrown shield—and went down, his shield pinned to his skull. The second arrow, following in that same groove, struck down through a masked wizard’s throat and drove him, kicking, to the ground. But the other shafts found lesser flesh. Wan Tengri felt the bite of an arrow in his left arm and cursed as he fell back out of range. He could do little enough now. His arrows were best saved, for when his magic began to work—

  His fingers groped for the arrow in his arm while his eyes peered upward where the most distant light of the flames showed. Yes, his carpet scrolls were unrolling, reaching down. He peered warily over the side. The flames of the moat were leaping higher. Bourtai and the princess had done their work. His eyes scowled down at the arrow and he snapped off its head. His teeth set and he ripped the shaft free of his flesh with a curse. Better that it bleed for a while. He started into his chamber, yet paused for a while. There was a sighing in all the high air, a sighing that changed to a rising moan, that presently would shriek and howl. The flame wind had begun to blow!

  One more glance he threw at the uncurling carpets. They were dropping swiftly now, for Bourtai would have ducked inside at the first faint puff of the flame wind. They bellied like sails beside the mast of the tower and, like sails, too, they would curl the flame wind down into the heart of the city. The high-leaping flames of the moat would ride with it, and—The first hot gush of t
hat down-turned wind eddied about Wan Tengri. The heat of it plugged his nostrils, clawed at his vitals with tiny, hot talons. Strangling, retching from that first touch, Wan Tengri staggered into the tower and slammed shut the door of the balcony. He leaned against it, panting, and slowly he began to smile. They had not lied about the power of the flame wind!

  He raced to the steps and Bourtai was clattering his sandals down from the heights. Below him, he heard the clear call of the princess’ voice, and the one servitor who remained to her ran close at her heels.

  “Thy magic, my lord?” called the princess. “Does it—succeed?”

  “That is a thing we shall see,” Wan Tengri said, with a tension that mocked his calm tones. He led the way upward to where a crystal globe was let into the tower wall, and through it they peered out into the madness of the Court of the Fountain. The high-leaping flames no longer clustered about the tower, but, blown downward by the fierce, turned pressure of the flame wind, guttered out in lancing spears of crimson and gold across the floor of the court itself. The flame winds of the evening, sweeping high across the city, were being caught by the upreaching tower, and the sail of carpet scrolls. Turned downward from their level course across the city, they swept down the carpets, down the side of the tower, and thence across the moat of burning crude oil. Like a mighty blow torch fed by the superheated winds deflected by his carpets, the gushing flames fled in flattened, angry tongues across the courtyard. A windrow of blackening bodies fringed the moat and, farther away where the outmost ranks of the ten thousand had stood, men were fighting savagely to escape. Swords whirled and flashed above their heads, and death crept toward them. Men writhed to the ground where the flames licked and beyond their reach, other men were staggering, clutching at their throats with maddened hands.