Closer came Tibur, and closer.
“Ready Dara—Naral?”
“Ready, Lord!”
I flung open the gate. I raced toward Tibur, head bent low, my little troop behind me. I swung against him with head uplifted, thrust my face close to his.
Tibur’s whole body grew rigid, his eyes glared into mine, his jaw dropped. I knew that those who followed him were held in that same incredulous stupefaction. Before the Smith could recover from his paralysis, I had snatched Evalie up from his saddle, had passed her to Dara.
I lifted my sword to slash at Tibur’s throat. I gave him no warning. It was no time for chivalry. Twice he had tried treacherously to kill me. I would make quick end.
Swift as had been my stroke, the Smith was swifter. He threw himself back, slipped off his horse, and landed like a cat at its heels. I was down from mine before his great sledge was half-raised to hurl. I thrust my blade forward to pierce his throat. He parried it with the sledge. Then berserk rage claimed him. The hammer fell clanging on the rock. He threw himself on me, howling. His arms circled me, fettering mine to my sides, like living bands of steel. His legs felt for mine, striving to throw me. His lips were drawn back like a mad wolf’s, and he bored his head into the pit of my neck, trying to tear my throat with his teeth.
My ribs cracked under the tightening vice of Tibur’s arms. My lungs were labouring, sight dimming. I writhed and twisted in the effort to escape the muzzling of that hot mouth and the searching fangs.
I heard shouting around me, heard and dimly saw milling of the horses. The clutching fingers of my left hand touched my girdle—closed on something there—something like the shaft of a javelin—
Tibur’s hell-forged dart!
Suddenly I went limp in Tibur’s grip. His laughter bellowed, hoarse with triumph. And for a split-second his grip relaxed.
That split-second was enough. I summoned all my strength and broke his grip. Before he could clench me again, my hand had swept down into the girdle and clutched the dart.
I brought it up and drove it into Tibur’s throat just beneath his jaw. I jerked the haft. The opened, razor-edged flanges sliced through arteries and muscles. The bellowing laughter of Tibur changed to a hideous gurgling. His hands sought the haft, dragged at it—tore it out— And the blood spurted from Tibur’s mangled throat; Tibur’s knees buckled beneath him, and he lurched and fell at my feet… choking… his hands still feebly groping to clutch me…
I stood there, dazed, gasping for breath, the pulse roaring in my ears.
“Drink this, Lord!”
I looked up at Dara. She was holding a wine-skin to me. I took it with trembling hands, and drank deep. The good wine whipped through me. Suddenly I took it from my lips.
“The dark girl of the Rrrllya—Evalie. She is not with you.”
“There she is. I set her on another horse. There was fighting, Lord.”
I stared into Evalie’s face. She looked back at me, brown eyes cold, implacable.
“Better use the rest of the wine to wash your face, Lord. You are no sight for any tender maid.”
I passed my hand over my face, drew it away wet with blood.
“Tibur’s blood, Dwayanu, thank the gods!”
She brought my horse forward. I felt better when I was in its saddle. I glanced down at Tibur. His fingers were still faintly twitching. I looked about me. There was a shattered company of Karak’s archers at the bridge-end. They raised their bows in salute.
“Dwayanu! Live Dwayanu!”
My troop seemed strangely shrunken. I called—“Naral!”
“Dead, Dwayanu. I told you there had been fighting.”
“Who killed her?”
“Never mind. I slew him. And those left of Tibur’s escort have fled. And now what. Lord?”
“We wait for Lur.”
“Not long shall we have to linger then, for here she comes.”
There was the blast of a horn. I turned to see the Witch-woman come galloping over the square. Her red braids were loose, her sword was red, and she was nigh as battle-stained as I. With her rode a scant dozen of her women, half as many of her nobles.
I awaited her. She reined up before me, searching me with wild bright eyes.
I should have killed her as I had Tibur. I should have been hating her. But I found I was not hating her at all. All of hate I had held seemed to have poured out upon Tibur. No, I was not hating her.
She smiled faintly:
“You are hard to kill, Yellow-hair!”
“Dwayanu—Witch.”
She glanced at me, half-contemptuously.
“You are no longer Dwayanu!”
“Try to convince these soldiers of that, Lur.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, and stared down at Tibur. “So you killed the Smith. Well, at least you are still a man.”
“Killed him for you, Lur!” I jeered. “Did I not promise you?”
She did not answer, only asked, as Dara had before her:
“And now what?”
“We wait here until Sirk is emptied. Then we ride to Karak, you beside me. I do not like you at my back, Witch-woman.”
She spoke quietly to her women, then sat, head bent, thinking, with never another word for me.
I whispered to Dara:
“Can we trust the archers?”
She nodded.
“Bid them wait and march with us. Let them drag the body of Tibur into some corner.”
For half an hour the soldiers came by, with prisoners, with horses, with cattle and other booty. Small troops of the nobles and their supporters galloped up, halted, and spoke, but, at my word and Lur’s nod, passed on over the bridge. Most of the nobles showed dismayed astonishment at my resurrection; the soldiers gave me glad salute.
The last skeleton company came through the gap. I had been watching for Sri, but he was not with them, and I concluded that he had been taken to Karak with the earliest prisoners or had been killed.
“Come,” I said to the Witch-woman. “Let your women go before us.”
I rode over to Evalie, lifted her from her saddle and set her on my pommel. She made no resistance, but I felt her shrink from me. I knew she was thinking that she had but exchanged Tibur for another master, that to me she was only spoil of war. If my mind had not been so weary I suppose that would have hurt. But my mind was too weary to care.
We passed over the bridge, through the curling mists of steam. We were halfway to the forest when the Witch-woman threw back her head and sent forth a long, wailing call. The white wolves burst from the ferns. I gave command to the archers to set arrows. Lur shook her head.
“No need to harm them. They go to Sirk. They have earned their pay.”
The white wolves coursed over the barren to the bridge-end, streamed over it, vanished. I heard them howling among the dead.
“I, too, keep my promises,” said the Witch-woman.
We rode on, into the forest, back to Karak.
CHAPTER XXII.
GATE OF KHALK’RU
We were close to Karak when the drums of the Little People began beating.
The leaden weariness pressed down upon me increasingly. I struggled to keep awake. Tibur’s stroke on my head had something to do with that, but I had taken other blows and eaten nothing since long before dawn. I could not think, much less plan what I was going to do after I had got back to Karak.
The drums of the Little People drove away my lethargy, brought me up wide-awake. They crashed out at first like a thunderburst across the white river. After that they settled down into a slow, measured rhythm filled with implacable menace. It was like Death standing on hollow graves and stamping on them before he marched.
At the first crash Evalie straightened, then sat listening with every nerve. I reined up my horse, and saw that the Witch-woman had also halted and was listening with all of Evalie’s intentness. There was something inexplicably disturbing in that monotonous drumming. Something that reached beyond and outside of human e
xperience—or reached before it. It was like thousands of bared hearts beating in unison, in one unalterable rhythm, not to be still till the hearts themselves stopped… inexorable… and increasing in steadily widening area… spreading, spreading… until they beat from all the land across white Nanbu.
I spoke to Lur.
“I am thinking that here is the last of my promises, Witch-woman. I killed Yodin, gave you Sirk, I slew Tibur—and here is your war with the Rrrllya.”
I had not thought of how that might sound to Evalie! She turned and gave me one long level look of scorn; she said to the Witch-woman, coldly, in halting Uighur:
“It is war. Was that not what you expected when you dared to take me? It will be war until my people have me again. Best be careful how you use me.”
The Witch-woman’s control broke at that, all the long pent-up fires of her wrath bursting forth.
“Good! Now we shall wipe out your yellow dogs for once and all. And you shall be flayed, or bathed in the cauldron—or given to Khalk’ru. Win or lose—there will be little of you for your dogs to fight over. You shall be used as I choose.”
“No,” I said, “as I choose, Lur.”
The blue eyes flamed on me at that. And the brown eyes met mine as scornfully as before.
“Give me a horse to ride. I do not like the touch of you—Dwayanu.”
“Nevertheless, you ride with me, Evalie.”
We passed into Karak. The drums beat now loud, now low. But always with that unchanging, inexorable rhythm. They swelled and fell, swelled and fell. Like Death still stamping on the hollow graves—now fiercely—and now lightly.
There were many people in the streets. They stared at Evalie, and whispered. There were no shouts of welcome, no cheering. They seemed sullen, frightened. Then I knew they were listening so closely to the drums that they hardly knew we were passing. The drums were closer. I could hear them talking from point to point along the far bank of the river. The tongues of the talking drums rose plain above the others. And through their talking, repeated and repeated:
“Ev-ah-lee! Ev-ah-lee!”
We rode over the open square to the gate of the black citadel. There I
stopped.
“A truce, Lur.”
She sent a mocking glance at Evalie.
“A truce! What need of a truce between you and me—Dwayanu?”
I said, quietly:
“I am tired of bloodshed. Among the captives are some of the Rrrllya. Let us bring them where they can talk with Evalie and with us two. We will then release a part of them, and send them across Nanbu with the message that no harm is intended Evalie. That we ask the Rrrllya to send us on the morrow an embassy empowered to arrange a lasting peace. And that when that peace is arranged they shall take Evalie back with them unharmed.”
She said, smiling:
“So—Dwayanu—fears the dwarfs!”
I repeated:
“I am tired of bloodshed.”
“Ah, me,” she sighed. “And did I not once hear Dwayanu boast that he kept his promises—and was thereby persuaded to give him payment for them in advance! Ah, me—but Dwayanu is changed!”
She stung me there, but I managed to master my anger; I said:
“If you will not agree to this, Lur, then I myself will give the orders. But then we shall be a beleaguered city which is at its own throat. And easy prey for the enemy.”
She considered this.
“So you want no war with the little yellow dogs? And it is your thought that if the girl is returned to them, there will be none? Then why wait? Why not send her back at once with the captives? Take them up to Nansur, parley with the dwarfs there. Drum talk would settle the matter in a little while—if you are right. Then we can sleep this night without the drums disturbing you.”
That was true enough, but I read the malice in it. The truth was that I did not want Evalie sent back just then. If she were, then never, I knew, might I have a chance to justify myself with her, break down her distrust—have her again accept me as the Leif whom she had loved. But given a little time—I might. And the Witch-woman knew this.
“Not so quickly should it be done, Lur,” I said, suavely. “That would be to make them think we fear them—as the proposal made you think I feared them. We need more than hasty drum talk to seal such treaty. No, we hold the girl as hostage until we make our terms.”
She bent her head, thinking, then looked at me with clear eyes, and smiled.
“You are right, Dwayanu. I will send for the captives after I have rid myself of these stains of Sirk. They will be brought to your chamber. And in the meantime I will do more. I will order that word be sent the Rrrllya on Nansur that soon their captured fellows will be among them with a message. At the least it will give us time. And we need time, Dwayanu—both of us.”
I looked at her sharply. She laughed, and gave her horse the spurs. I rode behind her through the gate and into the great enclosed square. It was crowded with soldiers and captives. Here the drumming was magnified. The drums seemed to be within the place itself, invisible and beaten by invisible drummers. The soldiers were plainly uneasy, the prisoners excited, and curiously defiant.
Passing into the citadel I called various officers who had not taken part in the attack on Sirk and gave orders that the garrison on the walls facing Nansur Bridge be increased. Also that an alarm should be sounded which would bring in the soldiers and people from the outer-lying posts and farms. I ordered the guard upon the river walls to be strengthened, and the people of the city be told that those who wished to seek shelter in the citadel could come, but must be in by dusk. It was a scant hour before nightfall. There would be little trouble in caring for them in that immense place. And all this I did in event of the message failing. If it failed, I had no desire to be part of a massacre in Karak, which would stand a siege until I could convince the Little People of my good faith. Or convince Evalie of it, and have her bring about a peace.
This done, I took Evalie to my own chambers, not those of the High-priest where the Black Octopus hovered over the three thrones, but a chain of comfortable rooms in another part of the citadel. The little troop, which had stood by me through the sack of Sirk and after, followed us. There I turned Evalie over to Dara. I was bathed, my wound dressed and bandaged, and clothed. Here the windows looked out over the river, and the drums beat through them maddeningly. I ordered food brought, and wine, and summoned Evalie. Dara brought her. She had been well cared for, but she would not eat with me. She said to me:
“I fear my people will have but scant faith in any messages you send, Dwayanu.”
“Later we will talk of that other message, Evalie. I did not send it. And Tsantawu, dying in my arms, believed me when I told him I had not.”
“I heard you say to Lur that you had promised her Sirk. You did not lie to her, Dwayanu—for Sirk is eaten. How can I believe you?”
I said: “You shall have proof that I speak truth, Evalie, Now, since you will not eat with me, go with Dara.”
She had no fault to find with Dara. Dara was no lying traitor, but a soldier, and fighting in Sirk or elsewhere was part of her trade. She went with her.
I ate sparingly and drank heavily. The wine put new life in me, drove away what was left of weariness. I put sorrow for Jim resolutely aside for the moment, thinking of what I intended to do, and how best to do it. And then there was a challenge at the door, and the Witch-woman entered.
Her red braids crowned her and in them shone the sapphires. She bore not the slightest mark of the struggles of the day, nor sign of fatigue. Her eyes were bright and clear, her red lips smiling. Her low, sweet voice, her touch upon my arm, brought back memories I had thought gone with Dwayanu.
She called, and through the door came a file of soldiers, and with them a score of the Little People, unbound, hatred in their yellow eyes as they saw me, curiosity too. I spoke to them, gently. I sent for Evalie. She came, and the golden pygmies ran to her, threw themselves upon her like a crow
d of children, twittering and trilling, stroking her hair, touching her feet and hands.
She laughed, called them one by one by name, then spoke rapidly. I could get little of what she said; by the shadow on Lur’s face I knew she had understood nothing at all. I repeated to Evalie precisely what I had told Lur—and which, at least in part, she knew, for she had betrayed that she understood the Uighur, or the Ayjir, better than she had admitted. I translated from the tongue of the dwarfs for Lur.
The pact was speedily made. Half of the pygmies were to make their way at once over Nanbu to the garrison on the far side of the bridge. By the talking drums they would send our message to the stronghold of the Little People. If they accepted it, the beating of the war drums would cease. I said to Evalie:
“When they talk on their drums, let them say that nothing will be asked of them that was not contained in the old truce—and that death will no longer lie in wait for them when they cross the river.”
The Witch-woman said:
“Just what does that mean, Dwayanu?”
“Now Sirk is done, there is no longer much need for that penalty, Lur. Let them gather their herbs and metals as they will; that is all.”
“There is more in your mind than that—” Her eyes narrowed.
“They understood me, Evalie—but do you also tell them.”
The Little People trilled among themselves; then ten of them stepped forward, those chosen to take the message. As they were moving away, I stopped them.
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 158