arose, huddled together with frightened faces as the troop rode through them. I looked up at the Witch-woman and the Laugher.
Tibur glowered down on me, his hand fumbling at his hammer; the two big men who had flanked him on the bridge edged close to me, long swords in hand. The Witch-woman said nothing, studying me intently yet with a certain cynical impersonality I found disquieting; evidently she still had not made up her mind about me and was waiting for some word or move of mine to guide her. I didn’t like the situation very much. If it came to a dog fight I would have little chance with three mounted men, to say nothing of the women. I had the feeling that the Witch-woman did not want me killed out-of-hand, but then she might be a bit late in succouring me — and beyond that I had no slightest wish to be beaten up, trussed up, carried into Karak a prisoner.
Also I began to feel a hot and unreasoning resentment against these people who dared bar my way, dared hold me back from whatever way I chose to go, an awakening arrogance — a stirring of those mysterious memories that had cursed me ever since I had carried the ring of Khalk’ru . . . .
Well, those memories had served me on Nansur Bridge when Tibur cast the hammer at me . . . and what was it Jim had said? . . . to let Dwayanu ride when I faced the Witch-woman . . . well, let him . . . it was the only way . . . the bold way . . . the olden way. . . . It was as though I heard the words! I threw my mind wide open to the memories, or to — Dwayanu.
There was a tiny tingling shock in my brain, and then something like the surging up of a wave toward that consciousness which was Leif Langton. I managed to thrust it back before it had entirely submerged that consciousness. It retreated, but sullenly — nor did it retreat far. No matter, so long as it did not roll over me . . . I pushed the soldiers aside and walked to Tibur. Something of what had occurred must have stamped itself on my face, changed me. Doubt crept into the Witch-woman’s eyes. Tibur’s hand fell from his hammer, and he backed his horse away. I spoke, and my wrathful voice fell strangely on my own ears.
“Where is my horse? Where are my arms? Where are my standard and my spearsmen? Why are the drums and the trumpets silent? Is it thus Dwayanu is greeted when he comes to a city of the Ayjir! By Zarda, but this is not to be home!”
Now the Witch-woman spoke, mockery in the clear, deep bell-toned voice, and I felt that whatever hold I had gained over her had in some way slipped.
“Hold your hand, Tibur! I will speak to — Dwayanu. And you — if you are Dwayanu — scarcely can hold us to blame. It has been long and long since human eyes rested on you — and never in this land. So how could we know you? And when first we saw you, the little yellow dogs ran you away from us. And when next we saw you, the little yellow dogs ran you to us. If we have not received you as Dwayanu has a right to expect from a city of the Ayjir, equally is it true that no city of the Ayjir has ever before been so visited by Dwayanu.”
Well, that was true enough, admirable reasoning, lucid and all of that. The part of me that was Lief Langdon, and engaged in rather desperate struggle to retain control, recognized it. Yet the unreasoning anger grew. I held up the ring of Khalk’ru.
“You may not know Dwayanu — but you know this.”
“I know you have it,” she said, levelly. “But I do not know how you came by it. In itself it proves nothing.”
Tibur leaned forward, grinning.
“Tell us where you did come from. Are you by — blow of Sirk?”
There was a murmur from the crowd. The Witch-woman leaned forward, frowning. I heard her murmur, half-contemptuously:
“Your strength was never in your head, Tibur!”
Nevertheless, I answered him.
“I come,” I said bleakly, “from the Mother-land of the Ayjir. From the land that vomited your shivering forefathers, red toad!”
I shot a glance at the Witch-woman. That had jolted her all right. I saw her body stiffen, her corn-flower eyes distend and darken, her red lips part; and her women bent to each other, whispering, while the murmur of the crowd swelled.
“You lie!” roared Tibur. “There is no life in the Mother-land. There is no life elsewhere than here. Khalk’ru has sucked earth dry of Life. Except here. You lie!”
His hand dropped to his hammer.
And suddenly I saw red; all the world dissolved in a red mist of red. The horse of the man closest to me was a noble animal. I had been watching it — a roan stallion, strong as the black stallion that had carried me from the Gobi oasis. I reached up, caught at its jaw, and pulled it down to its knees. Taken unaware, its rider toppled forward, somersaulted over its head and fell at my feet. He was up again like a cat, sword athrust at me. I caught his arm before he could strike and swung up my left fist. It cracked on his jaw; his head snapped back, and he dropped. I snatched up the sword, and swung myself on the rising horse’s back. Before Tibur could move I had the point of the sword at his throat.
“Stop! I grant you Dwayanu! Hold your hand!” It was the Witch-woman’s voice, low, almost whispering.
I laughed. I pressed the point of the sword deeper into Tiber’s throat.
“Am I Dwayanu? Or by-blow of Sirk?”
“You are — Dwayanu!” he groaned.
I laughed again.
“I am Dwayanu! Then guide me into Karak to make amends for your insolence, Tibur!”
I drew the sword away from his throat.
Yes, I drew it back — and by all the mad mixed gods of that mad mixed mind of mine at that moment I would that I had thrust it through his throat!
But I did not’, and so that chance passed. I spoke to the Witch-woman:
“Ride at my right hand. let Tibur ride before.”
The man I had struck down was on his feet, swaying unsteadily. Lur spoke to one of her women. She slipped from her horse, and with Tibur’s other follower helped him upon it.
We rode across the plaza, and through the walls of the black citadel.
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