Flame Winds

by Norvell W. Page

  The princess laughed aloud and clapped her hands in glee. “Thy magic works, my lord. My enemies die by the hundred, by the thousand.” Her fingers bit into Wan Tengri’s arm.

  Bourtai dropped to his knees and beat his forehead on the floor. He pressed his writhing, ancient lips to Wan Tengri’s foot. “Thou art the greatest wizard of them all, master. Forgive thy slave that ever he dared to doubt or to oppose thee.”

  Wan Tengri peered down at that scene of slaughter with sunken, bitter eyes, and there was no smile on his lips, no laughter in his heart. Yes, they died, and there had been brave men in that army, such men as even Prester John would have joyed to cross swords with. They died—horribly. Wan Tengri jerked his arm from under the princess’ hand, and his foot from the grip of Bourtai, and went heavily, slowly down the stairs. His sword clanked against his thigh, and the familiar bite of the bow-string was across his throat.

  “Prester John, magician,” he said thickly. “Magician, ha!”

  Outside, he could hear nothing save the shriek of the wind and the bellowing fire. The screams of the dying were mercifully blotted out, or had long ago strangled in their throats. The air was heavy with the scorching of stone and the reek of the moat fire; no worse stenches came, since the wind swept them out over the city. He stood in the wide main corridor on braced legs and waited. Above, the princess still shrieked in glee, as he should be doing. These men had slaughtered Kassar, and many another stout soldier—and they stood between him and wealth. He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his head, and Bourtai was cowering before him.

  “Master, the last of them is dead or fled,” he gasped. “Never has there been such slaughter as with this magic of thine. But now, while they flee, we should strike. We must march to the Temple of Ahriman and seize the treasury.”

  Wan Tengri managed a smile. “So, one more lie is revealed, small wizard. Didst know where the treasure was hidden.”

  “It is thy treasury now, lord.”

  Wan Tengri grunted. “I have earned it. Go to my chamber and wilt find two pots of black, stinking liquid. Empty them on some part of the carpets and throw a torch against the spot. We will soon be rid of the flame wind, now we have no need of it.”

  “But the fires about the tower, master?” cried Bourtai. “How may we pass them by?”

  Wan Tengri said shortly: “Thou didst help my magic there, Bourtai. Canst not recall?”

  “Master, I helped thee? Nay, we did but throw some salt bags into the moat.” His face was eager, pleading. “How can that be?”

  Wan Tengri rolled his shoulders. “Salt melts in boiling water,” he said curtly. “It melts quite rapidly. There were many bags, else even the cold water on which flows this magic black brew of the princess would have taken care of it long ago. Within the hour, the moat will suck itself dry again. Flame will race along these salt tunnels of thine, mayhap, and certain buildings will be destroyed. But marble does not carry flame and the fire will not last long. Go, rid me of my magic carpets, and then tell the princess to put on her state robes.” He grinned sourly. “She will walk on the bodies of her enemies to Ahriman’s temple. She’ll have to—else never again cross the Court of the Magic Fountain!”

  Bourtai’s feet scampered like the claws of a rat up the marble steps and, presently, there was a new, higher leaping of the flames from the moat and the sigh of the flame wind lifted and became remote. The stench of burned flesh came through clearly and Wan Tengri’s lips drew thin. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would begin to boast of this exploit, how his single-handed magic had slain ten thousand men. But he would not need to boast. The wandering troubadours would pick up the theme, and for centuries, perhaps, or as long as a father’s memory passed on to his son, the story would be told to the whining of one-string fiddles. Wan Tengri’s back stiffened. Prester John had made a name to be proud of, an empire in the East. It was no small exploit that, single-handed, he had turned back the wizard hordes.

  He began slowly to pace back and forth across the corridor and presently he was humming through his nose. The ceremonially slow step of the princess on the stairs pulled his head that way and he caught his breath in admiration. She was gowned in exquisite white and her golden hair flowed out from beneath a golden crown. Behind her, the woman servitor carried the train of her robe of state, and Bourtai leaned over the railing behind her to whisper, excitedly:

  “The flame dies from the moat, master, even as thou has said. Truly, thy magic takes care of all things, though it be a strange magic.”

  Wan Tengri smiled thinly. One thing his magic could not contrive, to keep the princess’ pure white robe clean while she crossed the width of the Court of the Fountain. Hiding his grin in his beard, Wan Tengri swept a stiff-backed bow and backed to swing wide the main doors of the tower, to release the mechanism of the drawbridge and let it clatter down. The princess lifted her chin in arrogance as she paced leisurely toward the drawbridge. The last flames were flickering out of the moat and, yonder, three hundred cubits away, a warehouse began to burn, rolling black, stinking smoke across the white buildings of the city. The princess marched out and Wan Tengri walked on her left and two paces to the rear. He pulled his eyes away from her and sent them probing over the shadows among the buildings. The curs that had escaped his magic must still be lurking there, and he had a pitifully small band with which to sack a city. His hand closed tautly about his sword hilt—and he saw the princess had stopped.

  The nauseous odor of burned human flesh made Wan Tengri’s stomach jerk, but his face was impassive. He stepped to the princess’ side as she faltered at the end of the drawbridge. Here, in her immediate path, was nothing that could be called human, but farther on, the silken tunics still smoldered on a few bodies and beyond that, the men slain by the flame wind were tossed in the careless undignity of death.

  “It is a proud day for you, princess.” Wan Tengri’s voice was deep with irony. “Few rulers are given to walk across the bodies of their enemies to the throne!”

  The girl’s white face turned up to his and she smiled, but there was coldness in her eyes. “It is good to see them dead, but their stench offends me. Thou shall carry me, my lord.”

  Behind the tower, the red fragment of the Mating Moon was rising, and its glow was ghostly across the dead, across the white buildings of Turgohl. Another building was burning, the high tower of Bourtai, where Wan Tengri had briefly stolen his soul.

  “It may not be, princess,” Wan Tengri said shortly. “My sword arm must be free, for others of thy enemies surely lurk among those buildings, hiding from my magic. Walk proudly, princess—and hold your train high.”

  He dropped back and his sardonic eyes combed the ranks of dead. Who could say whether among these were the wizards of Kasimer, or whether they still marshaled the remnants of their cohorts in the shadow of the Temple of Ahriman? His gaze reached to the shadows ahead.

  “Bourtai,” he murmured, “canst find thy thieves?”

  “It may be, master.”

  “Then do so. Arm them from the dead and bid them follow in the shadows. And remember, Bourtai, my magic is greater than thine, and it reaches beyond the borderline of Death—I, who conquered Death in the arena, tell you this.”

  Bourtai dropped to his knees. “Master, lord, sire—if ever I betray thee—”

  “Why, then I shall crop thy neck, apeling. Begone.” Bourtai darted like a shadow among the dead and was gone, and the princess lifted her chin and began to pick a dainty way across the Court of the Magic Fountain, which hereafter, Wan Tengri thought, would bear a grimmer name. His eyes swung to the princess of the golden hair. There was the making of a ruler there, for she trod the way he had pointed, and her head was high. The woman behind her staggered and reeled in her efforts to follow, and once she dropped the train and clasped both hands to a nausea-tortured belly.

  Across the horror of the square, the princess led the way and, ever alert, Wan Tengri followed. He held an arrow on the gut of his bow. It suited his plans to have
her move slowly. It would give Bourtai time to summon his thieves. They were poor stuff, but with what the wizard would tell them of the magic of Prester John perhaps they would take courage. He thought he heard a man cry out faintly, but couldn’t be sure. He moved closer to the princess’ side.

  “Do I walk well, my lord?” her voice came back weakly.

  “No conquering king,” said Wan Tengri truthfully, “could walk better. Thou hast learned a lesson, small princess. Fix on the thing thou desirest and let nothing turn thee aside. Be bold. Be merciless that thou mayest later be kind by contrast. If a man oppose thy will, strike him down.”

  It was fine advice he gave, beyond a doubt, but there was the matter of the reward.

  “And,” he added thoughtfully, “always keep thy word.”

  “These lessons of thine have a certain pungency, my lord,” said the princess, and her voice was strangled. “Phagh, these, my enemies, must have been an unclean lot in life to stink so after death!”

  Wan Tengri caught a roar of laughter, that leaped unbidden to his lips, and admiration touched his gray eyes as he gazed on that upright golden head. The fire-scorched dead were behind them now, and there were only the scattered ranks of those that the flame wind had strangled. Almost, the Court of the Fountain was crossed and there was still no sign of life, nor of Bourtai and his thieving rascals. A breath of worry touched Wan Tengri’s mind. Had he been wrong to think Bourtai conquered, and slave to his will? Wan Tengri plucked at the bowstring. Well, here was a resolver of all doubts!

  At last, the court was overpassed, and here were only a scattered few of the dead. The one broad way of Turgohl lay straight from here to the towering bulk of the Temple of Ahriman. The princess dropped the train of her skin and took the middle of the way, and Wan Tengri saw that she had kept it remarkably clean, what with one thing and another. His eyes were keener now to probe the shadows, and there was a tautness that almost made his bowstring fingers quiver. Far off in the darkness, a dog or a wolf lifted a high howling. Afterward, there was a greater silence into which the moan of the flame wind thrust mournfully. The princess’ feet made light, quick sounds upon the cobbles, and now and again Wan Tengri’s sword clanked.

  This might be a city of the dead, so closely had the people inclosed themselves behind their locked doors and battened walls. And that was the wise way of citizens everywhere. The conquest of the armies meant little so that they were not looted. Through their streets, the battle would rage and red host slaughter green, or silver curse the gold. In the end, the doors of the houses would open and things would go on very much as before, save that one man would be richer and another poorer. Well, so that he was one of the richer ones! He shifted his taut shoulders and something rasped against the flesh of his chest—the bit of wood from the True Cross.

  “Rest easy, Christos,” Wan Tengri whispered. “One hundred thousand was the pledge, and this soldier’s word is true as silver in the vault. Tonight, thou shall have thy first installment—and I live. For look you, the princess has granted me three wishes. It is true that I will be wise to make the wishes she wants me to make—”

  The attack came with no more warning than a hoarse shout from the darkness. Suddenly, from the dark lanes that knifed between stone walls on two sides of this broad way, men debouched. Wan Tengri could not glimpse the colors of their tunics, but their armor glinted in the faint light. All Wan Tengri’s tension left him in a great roar of sound that drove from his throat. His war bow began to pluck out its base lute notes of the song of Death. Swiftly as he could whip them free from his quiver, he sent his arrows whistling through the dark, and each found its new quiver in soldier flesh.

  A half score of notes, the bowstring sang, and on this left flank there were no more enemies. On the moment, the princess cried out, but it was in anger not fear. A man had seized her in his arms and lifted her aloft. Wan Tengri sprang that way with his sword whining from its sheath, but before he could reach the spot, the white arm of the princess rose and fell, and the man who bore her pitched to the ground.

  Instantly, Wan Tengri had leaped past her to attack the others, and his sword darted like a flame. “Ha, does thy throat trouble thee? ‘Twill not for long. And that right arm of thine? It will pain thee no more. Ha!” His great, surging battle laughter roared up to the heavens. It was Prester John who fought; Hurricane John, with a sword of lightning in his hand. Two men charged at him with raised blades, and Prester John leaped between them. His dragging scimitar sliced a man’s head off clean, whirled in his hand to catch the second soldier as he turned. Steel met steel, and it was the soldiers’ blade that faltered, that flew through the dark night air, glittering in two parts.

  The man dropped to his knees. “Mercy, sire. I know thee now. Thou art—”

  The princess’ arm struck down from behind, and her stinging dagger in his spine cut short his words. For an instant, they were clear of enemies, and gray eyes sought gray. “Be merciless, thou sayest, my lord,” said the princess.

  A bowstring twanged and Wan Tengri felt the punch of an arrow between his shoulder blades. He swayed, whirled with his bow in hand again while his sword clashed as it leaped to his teeth. The taste of blood was warm and salty upon it—and the bowstring was singing. That blow between his shoulders. Had it penetrated his armor? There were few with the strength to draw so strong a bow, and yet he did not know this metal that cased him. There was a prick and drag on his shoulder muscles. Phagh! It was no more than a pin prick!

  There were sharp, new shoutings in the dark. Shadows flirted along the rear of the armored men, and a cracked, shrill voice sounded from the night: “Save thy arrows, sire; they are not needed!”

  Wan Tengri’s bow checked in middraw. “Each time Bourtai speaks,” he muttered, “I am promoted a little. Now it is sire. Next will he dub me god. Nay, Christos, I meant no offense. Princess, an arrow pricks my back. Be pleased to draw it forth.”

  He felt a minor tear of flesh and then he was facing the princess again, seeing the arrow and the dagger in her hands. Her white dress was ruined now, but these were honorable stains. Wan Tengri said, with deep sincerity: “Princess, thou wilt make a great ruler. Never doubt it. It is time, I think, that we hastened to the temple. Bourtai,” he lifted his voice. “Follow us.”

  “Sire, it is done!”

  Once more, the princess’ small feet made their slight echoes, but now they were drowned in the heavier tramp of other feet keeping ragged time. There were scampering steps at Wan Tengri’s elbow, and the whisper of a thin voice: “I tell thee, sire, thy princess is a very warrior. All the world could yield you no braver!”

  Wan Tengri grunted and, presently, he followed the straight, narrow back of the princess up the steps of the temple of Ahriman and down me long hall with its fluted columns. The swirl of incense smoke wiped out the memory of filth. The tread of men was noisier, and Wan Tengri glanced about him, strangled a hard laughter. The thieves had armed themselves truly. Brass cuirasses, made for men, swung loosely about their hollow chests. The helmets slipped on their heads, but their swords, carried naked in their hands, were honorably stained and they walked lightly for all their weight of metal.

  Wan Tengri’s head whipped about at the whisper of a beginning chant. The shaven priests of Ahriman, in seven ranks of seven colors, were filing out before the idol of Ahriman, and once more Wan Tengri saw the fire flashes in the eyes of that awesome figure, heard the premonitory rumbling of speech from the idol.

  “Your pardon, sire,” Bourtai whispered. “I must go and work my own slight magic.” He faded into the darkness among the temple columns, and Wan Tengri gestured the guard of thieves closer about the princess and himself.

  “These priests will crown you, since you are strong now,” he whispered in the ear of the princess, “but if you allow that, they will be stronger than you. Ahriman is a false god, for he could not destroy me. I will tell you the true god. Drive these priests forth.”

  The princess nodded. “I know
nothing of gods,” she said flatly, “but these priests seem arrogant.”

  She stepped forward and threw up her white, bloodstained arm. “Cease these noises,” she said curtly. “I am thy princess and it is my command!”

  The priests turned cynical eyes on her and Wan Tengri plucked the string of his empty bow so that it sang thinly into the temple vault. At his gesture, the thieves struck steel against the brazen shields.

  “It is the princess’ command,” Wan Tengri said, and deepened his voice.

  “Here”—a thin-faced priest strode forward—“here, only Ahriman gives orders. We await the speech of Ahriman.”

  Wan Tengri took a half stride forward while his hand darted toward his sword, and he saw the jaws of the idol, Ahriman, champ open and a cracked voice, strangely deepened, and yet easily recognizable to the accustomed ears of Prester John, began to speak. He hid a smile.

  “Aye, let Ahriman decide!” said Wan Tengri.

  Ahriman’s judgment thundered through the temple, “The princess reigns! Her word is law! Flee, thou shavelings, and make way for the rightful ruler of Turgohl!”

  The priests’ ranks wavered in a momentary panic and, with a gesture, Wan Tengri sent his thieves against them. While the armored men marched ten paces forward, the ranks of the priests wavered, then broke and fled. The princess moved steadily forward, yet Wan Tengri saw that she was trembling.