Flame Winds

by Norvell W. Page

  “Surely,” she whispered, “this is a god who speaks!”

  “That,” said Wan Tengri dryly, “is no more than our pet wizard, Bourtai, working his small magic.” He whirled before the altar. “Let the people be summoned,” he commanded. “Sound the alarms and bring them to the temple where a princess crowns herself!”

  They two stood upon the steps of the altar now, tall man with head of fire and slim girl with her golden tresses, and the curtain of silver swung close behind them to block out the face and the figure of Ahriman.

  “Surely now,” said the princess softly, “surely now thou mayest claim thy rewards, my lord.”

  Prester John stood over her, glanced down at the bloodstains on her silken gown, at the glowing fire of her gray eyes. The princess was pleased to be pliant—just now.

  “Aye,” rumbled Prester John, “perhaps it is time. Hark to my words, princess. With my magic, I can see into the future. Thou wilt rule long and well, for thou hast the qualities of rulership. Thou art merciless and strong—yet thy woman’s mercy will spare the weak. And it is plain that thou meanest to keep thy royal word.”

  “Why, yes,” said the princess, blushing. “Why, yes, Prester John.”

  Prester John drew in a slow breath that strained his chest against its confining armor. He hesitated and his eyes were wary. “Two things I will ask of thee now. When thy people come and thou art crowned, thou shall acknowledge Christos for thy true god, since he has set thee on thy throne. It happens I have made a vow.”

  “And is this thy god, my lord, this Christos?”

  Wan Tengri laughed. “By Ahriman, it must be so, since he has brought me unharmed through various encounters. And so I must fulfill my vow, that a hundred thousand shall bow down and acknowledge him.”

  “A hundred thousand,” said the princess, and her voice was wondering. “There are not so many in Turgohl, by half.”

  “Is it so?” marveled Wan Tengri, and hid the laughter in his eyes. Perhaps this would be easier than he had thought. “Is it so? Now, this is a serious thing, princess, for look you, any man fulfill not his pledge to the gods, they withdraw their favor. Ah, but it is easy. Thou shall equip for me, princess, a mighty galley and thou shall give me riches upon it so that I may harry the Baikul sea in thy name, and in the name of Christos. Thus will thy stature be increased and I fulfill my vow.” He watched her closely. It was a good excuse he had made under the spur of the moment.

  The princess frowned a little. “It shall be done,” she said, “and yet it seems to me thou art overanxious about this vow of thine. I would not take thee for a—devout man!”

  Prester John lifted his mighty right arm and pointed a rigid finger upward. “No man may trifle with the gods,” he thundered. Almost, he convinced himself.

  The princess quailed a little. “No, I suppose not, Prester John, and it may be that I have wronged thee a little in my thoughts.” People were beginning to throng in through the temple doors, packing along the walls behind the columns, staring toward this blood-dappled man and woman who stood before the silver cloth of Ahriman, flanked by curious guards who seemed too small for their armor; at a small, wizened man who wore a gorgeous gown of cloth-of-gold and squatted at the feet of the two. They saw him reach out and pluck at the flaming tunic of the sun-haired man.

  “Sire,” whispered Bourtai, “sire, the people come.”

  “Aye,” Prester John answered. “Princess, my third wish”—he leaned over her and his eyes blazed down into hers—“my third wish must wait until we have taken care of this business.”

  The princess flushed. “Aye, must it?” she muttered. “Very well.” She faced toward the assembling multitudes and before she spoke there was no doubt that she ruled, for at the proud arrogance upon her face, the people dropped upon their knees.

  “It is well,” said the princess coldly. “You acknowledge me thy ruler. Therefore, for the present, I will be merciful. I will forget that for seventeen years thou didst allow me to molder under enchantment in my tower—until a stranger should free me. If you wish to see what happens to those from whom my mercy is withdrawn—gaze on the Court of the Magic Fountain.”

  She was silent, and a murmur came from the kneeling host: “Thou art the ruler.”

  To Wan Tengri’s ears, it had a monotonous sound. He shifted uneasily on his feet and found Bourtai’s eyes pleadingly upon him. Bourtai stood on tiptoe to whisper “She is very lovely, Wan Tengri, and a fit mate for thee.”

  Wan Tengri glowered and did not answer. He had felt the pull of the girl’s spirit, and of her lovely flesh. It might be she was part of the kingdom he would carve in this fabulous, wealthy East. It might be—

  “You will rise, my people,” said the princess, “and you will bow again to the new god, Christos, who has freed me through his disciple, Prester John.”

  The people obeyed, and the princess turned impatiently to Prester John. “Now then, fifty thousand have bowed to thy Christos, or shall before I am through. Tomorrow, that same fifty thousand could bow again—”

  “Nay,” rumbled Prester John. “It will not serve. I have thy promise, princess,”

  “Aye.” The princess’ eyes were cool. “Aye, and there is still that third wish.”

  “There is,” Prester John acknowledged.

  The princess turned to the people. “Fifty men will remain,” she said curtly. “Those who own galleys and those who own slaves. Do not seek to evade me, for my wizards know you all.”

  Men shambled forward and the princess regarded them with a calm air of possession. “The largest galley in the harbor will be outfitted for Prester John, who is my high councilor and the commander of my army and my fleet. You will man it with slaves and soldiers. Send fifty slaves here to bear riches to that galley. That is all; you may go.” She turned to Prester John and there was a question and a warning in her voice: “Thou seest, Prester John, I keep my promises.”

  Prester John stood over her, and there was a grim tightening of his mouth corners, and there was a part of him that wanted one thing, and there was a part that wanted another. And there was his reason that saw the flaw.

  “Princess,” he said, with harshness in his voice, “I am a free man and a free soul, even as thou art. We are two strong people, thou and I.”

  “We are two strong people,” the princess acknowledged, and there was still a questioning reserve in her voice.

  “Would you then bow the knee to me?” Prester John demanded roughly.

  “Oh, gladly, Prester John!”

  “And for how long?”

  Bourtai was plucking at Prester John’s sleeve and his small whisper reached up to his ear faintly. “Careful, sire. Oh, tread carefully! Thou walkest a way from which no man can turn back. Once thou hast spoken—”

  The crushing weight of Prester John’s hand upon Bourtai’s shoulder shut off his words.

  “For how long, princess?” Prester John insisted. “Thou who canst be merciless and can be bold; thou who canst rule thy people with an iron hand. How long wilt thou bow the knee to any man?”

  The princess’ teeth showed white between her red ripe lips, but it was not a smile. “I think,” she said softly, “I think it is time that Prester John made his third wish!”

  Prester John strained his chest against the armor, and held the breath for so long that his head swung with dizziness. He blew it out and the red thick hair of his mustache fluttered.

  “Princess,” he said doggedly, “I ask thy leave to take my galley and go.”

  “Ah!” The princess’ hand flew to her heart, and found there the hilt of her dagger. “Ah—” she said more softly.

  “Exactly,” Prester John agreed. “We are two strong people, thou and I—and my princess keeps her promises.”

  The princess’ face had the white coldness of marble, of the alabaster altar against which Prester John had fought and almost died. Her nostrils swelled and still the white shine of her teeth came from between her red lips.

 
When she spoke, it was coldly, with a flat venom that pierced like a serpent’s tooth, and Prester John felt the trembling of Bourtai, crouching behind him.

  “So far as is the scope of my power,” said the princess softly, “and within the limits of Turgohl, I gave my promise that thou shouldst have thy wishes. Thou hast permission to go.”

  “With my galley, princess, and the riches, of course.”

  “With thy galley, Prester John, and the riches.”

  Prester John bent stiffly to a knee. “I do now, princess, what I have never done before. I kneel to a woman. Let the memory prove to you my heart!”

  The princess made a strangled sound, and the knuckles of the hand that clutched the dagger hilt were white, bone-white.

  “Thou hast my permission to go!”

  Prester John lurched to his feet and turned away. As he walked his pace quickened, and he swung in the eternal rhythm of men who march. The sword swung a little at his side, and its clanking rang softly to the vault of the temple. His eyes bored into the darkness of the night, and he could see the far glitter of the stars on Baikul. At his side, skittering, dancing sideways, piping his thin protests up at Prester John, danced Bourtai in his gown of gold, half angry and wholly fearful.

  “Thou art a fool, Prester John,” he said. “Thou wilt never reach thy galley, or if thou dost, wilt never sail from this harbor with thy riches. Thou art a fool, Prester John. And alas, I am thy fool, for I must go with thee—else feel the rope of that waspish princess round my throat.”

  The galley was the largest in the harbor and through the night slaves carried gold aboard. Bourtai stood chuckling and shivering in alternate hope and fear beside Prester John and watched the riches, the brocades and silk and cloth of gold, the gems and spices and rich furs.

  “Nay, sire,” he whispered, “perhaps thou wert right. I will tell thee tomorrow when we are safe away. For surely the princess is a sweet, soft thing to gaze upon, but steel is her soul. She would rule thee or break thee, sire.”

  Prester John rumbled a throaty laugh as his eyes sought the far horizon of Baikul Sea. “Still I keep my rank in thy eyes, eh, Monkey-face? Still am I thy sire?”

  “Still and always, sire,” Bourtai said fervently.

  Prester John grunted and shouted an order to the slaves. The Hour of the Dog was past, and it was only a brief while more to the Hour of the Ox. He had wrested great riches from Turgohl, Kassar had been avenged, and some small pan of his pledge to Christos had been fulfilled. Prester John touched briefly the bit of the True Cross about his throat.

  “A hundred thousand, Christos,” he muttered, “and they shall believe, as I believe, no matter what throats must be slit.”

  He bent down and whispered to Bourtai. “We will fool this cold princess, apeling,” he whispered. “She will expect us to linger for the last peppercorn, the last cubit of silk. Already there is an emperor’s ransom aboard. Get below and get the slaves to their oars. When I give the signal, have them give way with a will! For twixt thee and me, small twisted ape, I do not trust this princess of ours overmuch. Listen, I will stamp twice upon the deck.”

  Bourtai scampered below, and the shrillness of his voice echoed up to Prester John upon the deck. Cautiously he moved along, and twice his sword flashed up and down, so that only one more rope bound them to the shore. The ship trembled slightly under his feet and he frowned. Strange that a galley of this bulk should tremble for so slight a cause! He hurried toward the only other rope. A chain of slaves, bowed beneath their loads, was approaching, but Prester John did not delay. Once more his sword rose and fell, and he stamped twice upon the wooden deck.

  Once more, it seemed to him, the galley trembled, strangely insubstantial under his heel, but perhaps it was the lash of the oars all taking hold at once. Perhaps—Prester John hurried to the steering oar and, with a mighty heave of his shoulder, settled it into its socket. The sun’s golden rim lifted above the Volapoi hills and sent a shaft of light to kindle anew the fire in his hair. The flame wind moaned and was still. Prester John threw back his great head and hurled his laughter at the heavens. He was away, away—with riches under the hatches and the far, blue seas-ahead. Bourtai cackled at his side, and the freshness of salt wind was in Prester John’s nostrils. For a heavily loaded galley his ship rode strangely high in the water. It bobbed with each passing wave, but it held its course true under Prester John’s grip upon the oar.

  “Thou callest me a fool, Monkey-face,” Prester John jeered.

  “Nay, sire, I wronged thee. Thou art as great as thy magic.”

  “No, man,” quoth Prester John, “is greater than his magic.” He began to sing, and time skipped by and the Hour of the Ox drew near, the hour when his rule would end. There was blue sea all about them, and the shores off Turgohl were dim blue behind them. Only the faint lift of a purple island ahead broke the circuit of sky and sea.

  “How think you, Bourtai, that I used my one day of rule?” Prester John asked presently. “When the sands of this glass have run it will end.”

  “Ah, well, sire! Well!” Bourtai lolled on a rich rug spread upon the deck, yet he seemed hunched and uncomfortable. “I shall watch these last sands run out and glory in them. Thou hast been great.”

  Prester John felt some uneasiness as he saw the last sands dimple in their center and slide more swiftly, it seemed, through the small neck of the hourglass. He would feel that uneasiness until the sands had truly run out. He glanced down at Bourtai, and there was no comfort there, for all the small wizard’s reassurance.

  “The princess was generous,” Prester John said slowly, “it could not be considered that we robbed her, for we earned what she gave us. Think you so, Bourtai?”

  Bourtai flung back his head until his scrawny neck was stretched. “How could it be robbery, sire?” he cackled. “Besides, she hath not thought away the things she gave! That I take as proof self-evident. Sire, the last of the sands trickle through.”

  Prester John’s eyes riveted on the hourglass. His chest swelled. It was almost over, this day of his rule, and it had been good, good. He was fabulously rich and free—there remained his vow, of course, but that could wait. A few grains of sand lingered, then they slid through. The galley lifted more sluggishly on the waves, and—

  Prester John closed his eyes in relief. The last of the sands had run out. His day of rule was over, and—Bourtai uttered a strangled cry and Prester John opened his eyes. He swore a tearing oath and stared about him. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. Where was the rich-laden galley and the splashing oars? Where was the slave crew and the gallant mast? This boat in which he rode was no more than a leaking cockleshell, borne along by the currents of Baikul, and each moment sinking lower in the blue waters!

  “Christos!” whispered Prester John. “I will fulfill my vow!”

  Bourtai forced out a voice that strangled with rage: “I was looking right at it and it vanished, like a snap of the fingers, like a jewel. By Ahriman, the princess has thought away her gift!”

  “What?” whispered Prester John. “What say you?”

  “The princess has thought away her riches and her galley, thou fool, like any other wizard of Turgohl!”

  Prester John stared into Bourtai’s glittering, angry eyes through a long moment, then he threw back his head and bellowed his laughter at the empty vault of the heavens.

  “What said the prophecy, Bourtai? That I should rule for one day and thereafter there would be only one wizard left behind? The wizard is left behind—our little princess! And her magic is subtle; oh, quite as subtle as thine! For you see, we wanted to believe in this galley she conjured up for us, and in the riches with which she heaped us. Aye, aye, there is a princess for you. For you, but not for me! Thank Christos, there are leagues of sea ‘twixt her and us.”

  “Thou art a fool!” Bourtai snapped.

  “What, ‘sire’ no longer?” Prester John controlled his laughter with an effort. “Why, we have a boat of sorts, small twisted wizard w
ith the soul of a mouse. There is an island ahead, and beyond are other lands and riches—but, I hope, no more princesses. By Ahriman, by Mithra and by Christos, it was well done, princess. My helmet is off to you!”

  He lifted his hand to his fiery head, and a ludicrous look came across his face. He stared then and found he was naked, with only his sword and his bow and his quiver strapped about him—and his great thundering laughter rolled out anew.

  “By all the gods,” he gasped, “she hath… she hath left us only our skins!”

  The steering oar hung lax in his hand while his laughter rolled, and presently a sour grin touched the face of Bourtai

  “Thou art a fool, Prester John,” Bourtai grumbled, “but a gay, brave fool—and, is it Christos you swear by? By Christos, she hath left me you, and you to me. And may you share the joy of it!” Then he cackled, and the thin sound blended with the thunder of Prester John’s laughter and they drifted on, laughing, in a leaking little cockleshell upon the breast of blue Baikul toward an island purple with promise in the sun.