“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.
“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.”