‘And I the Black Seers of Yimsha,’ said Khemsa; ‘and my masters are
greater than yours, for they have accomplished by their arts what
Yezdigerd could not with a hundred thousand swords.’

* * * * *

Outside, the moan of the tortured thousands shuddered up to the stars
which crusted the sweating Vendhyan night, and the conchs bellowed like
oxen in pain.

In the gardens of the palace the torches glinted on polished helmets and
curved swords and gold-chased corselets. All the noble-born fighting-men
of Ayodhya were gathered in the great palace or about it, and at each
broad-arched gate and door fifty archers stood on guard, with bows in
their hands. But Death stalked through the royal palace and none could
stay his ghostly tread.

On the dais under the golden dome the king cried out again, racked by
awful paroxysms. Again his voice came faintly and far away, and again
the Devi bent to him, trembling with a fear that was darker than the
terror of death.

‘Yasmina!’ Again that far, weirdly dreeing cry, from realms
immeasurable. ‘Aid me! I am far from my mortal house! Wizards have drawn
my soul through the wind-blown darkness. They seek to snap the silver
cord that binds me to my dying body. They cluster around me; their hands
are taloned, their eyes are red like flame burning in darkness. _Aie_,
save me, my sister! Their fingers sear me like fire! They would slay my
body and damn my soul! What is this they bring before me?–_Aie!_’

* * * * *

At the terror in his hopeless cry Yasmina screamed uncontrollably and
threw herself bodily upon him in the abandon of her anguish. He was torn
by a terrible convulsion; foam flew from his contorted lips and his
writhing fingers left their marks on the girl’s shoulders. But the
glassy blankness passed from his eyes like smoke blown from a fire, and
he looked up at his sister with recognition.

‘Brother!’ she sobbed. ‘Brother–‘

‘Swift!’ he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational. ‘I know now
what brings me to the pyre. I have been on a far journey and I
understand. I have been ensorcelled by the wizards of the Himelians.
They drew my soul out of my body and far away, into a stone room. There
they strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul into
the body of a foul night-weird their sorcery summoned up from hell. Ah!
I feel their pull upon me now! Your cry and the grip of your fingers
brought me back, but I am going fast. My soul clings to my body, but its
hold weakens. Quick–kill me, before they can trap my soul for ever!’

‘I cannot!’ she wailed, smiting her naked breasts.

‘Swiftly, I command you!’ There was the old imperious note in his
failing whisper. ‘You have never disobeyed me–obey my last command!
Send my soul clean to Asura! Haste, lest you damn me to spend eternity
as a filthy gaunt of darkness. Strike, I command you! _Strike!_’

Sobbing wildly, Yasmina plucked a jeweled dagger from her girdle and
plunged it to the hilt in his breast. He stiffened and then went limp, a
grim smile curving his dead lips. Yasmina hurled herself face-down on
the rush-covered floor, beating the reeds with her clenched hands.
Outside, the gongs and conchs brayed and thundered and the priests
gashed themselves with copper knives.

2 A Barbarian from the Hills

Chunder Shan, governor of Peshkhauri, laid down his golden pen and
carefully scanned that which he had written on parchment that bore his
official seal. He had ruled Peshkhauri so long only because he weighed
his every word, spoken or written. Danger breeds caution, and only a
wary man lives long in that wild country where the hot Vendhyan plains
meet the crags of the Himelians. An hour’s ride westward or northward
and one crossed the border and was among the Hills where men lived by
the law of the knife.

The governor was alone in his chamber, seated at his ornately carven
table of inlaid ebony. Through the wide window, open for the coolness,
he could see a square of the blue Himelian night, dotted with great
white stars. An adjacent parapet was a shadowy line, and further
crenelles and embrasures were barely hinted at in the dim starlight. The
governor’s fortress was strong, and situated outside the walls of the
city it guarded. The breeze that stirred the tapestries on the wall
brought faint noises from the streets of Peshkhauri–occasional snatches
of wailing song, or the thrum of a cithern.

The governor read what he had written, slowly, with his open hand
shading his eyes from the bronze butterlamp, his lips moving. Absently,
as he read, he heard the drum of horses’ hoofs outside the barbican, the
sharp staccato of the guards’ challenge. He did not heed, intent upon
his letter. It was addressed to the _wazam_ of Vendhya, at the royal
court of Ayodhya, and it stated, after the customary salutations:

‘Let it be known to your excellency that I have faithfully carried
out your excellency’s instructions. The seven tribesmen are well
guarded in their prison, and I have repeatedly sent word into the
hills that their chief come in person to bargain for their release.
But he has made no move, except to send word that unless they are
freed he will burn Peshkhauri and cover his saddle with my hide,
begging your excellency’s indulgence. This he is quite capable of
attempting, and I have tripled the numbers of the lance guards. The
man is not a native of Ghulistan. I cannot with certainty predict
his next move. But since it is the wish of the Devi–‘

He was out of his ivory chair and on his feet facing the arched door,
all in one instant. He snatched at the curved sword lying in its ornate
scabbard on the table, and then checked the movement.