In the centre of the semi–circle of women swung a thirteenth ring, held by strong golden chains dropping from the temple's roof. It was empty, the clasps of the heavy girdle open—
The thirteenth ring! The ring of the Warrior's Sacrifice! Open for—me!
I looked at the High–priest. He stood beside his priests squatting at their drums. His gaze was upon me. Tibur stood at the edge of the platform beside the anvil of Tubalka, in his hands the great sledge, on his face reflection of the gloating on that of the High–priest. The Witch–woman I could not see.
The High–priest stepped forward. He spoke into the dark vastness of the temple where was the congregation of the nobles.
"Here stands one who comes to us calling himself—Dwayanu. If he be Dwayanu, then will the Greater–than–Gods, mighty Khalk'ru, hear his prayer and accept the Sacrifices. But if Khalk'ru be deaf to him—he is proven cheat and liar. And Khalk'ru will not be deaf to me who have served him faithfully. Then this cheat and liar swings within the Warrior's Ring for Khalk'ru to punish as he wills. Hear me! Is it just? Answer!"
From the depths of the temple came the voices of the witnesses.
"We hear! It is just!"
The High–priest turned to me as if to speak. But if that had been his mind, he changed it. Thrice he raised his staff of golden bells and shook them. Thrice Tibur raised the hammer and smote the anvil of Tubalka.
Out of the depths of the temple came the ancient chant, the ancient supplication which Khalk'ru had taught our forefathers when he chose us from all the peoples of earth, forgotten age upon forgotten age ago. I listened to it as to a nursery song. And Tibur's eyes never left me, his hand on hammer in readiness to hurl and cripple if I tried to flee; nor did Yodin's gaze leave me.
The chant ended.
Swiftly I raised my hands in the ancient sign, and I did with the ring what the ancient ritual ordered—and through the temple swept that first breath of cold that was presage of the coming of Khalk'ru!
Hai! The faces of Yodin and Tibur when they felt that breath! Would that I could look on them! Laugh now, Tibur! Hai! but they could not stop me now! Not even the Smith would dare hurl hammer nor raise hand to loose arrow storm upon me! Not even Yodin would dare halt me—I forgot all that. I forgot Yodin and Tibur. I forgot, as ever I forgot, the Sacrifices in the dark exultation of the ritual.
The yellow stone wavered, was shot through with tremblings. It became thin as air. It vanished.
Where it had been, black tentacles quivering, black body hovering, vanishing into immeasurable space, was Khalk'ru!
Faster, louder, beat the drums.
The black tentacles writhed forward. The women did not see them. Their eyes clung to me…as though…as though I held for them some hope that flamed through their despair! I…who had summoned their destroyer…
The tentacles touched them. I saw the hope fade and die. The tentacles coiled round their shoulders. They slid across their breasts. Embraced them. Slipped down their thighs and touched their feet. The drums began their swift upward flight into the crescendo of the Sacrifice's culmination.
The wailing of the women was shrill above the drums. Their white bodies became grey mist. They became shadows. They were gone—gone before the sound of their wailing had died. The golden girdles fell clashing to the rock—
What was wrong? The ritual was ended. The Sacrifice accepted. Yet Khalk'ru still hovered!
And the lifeless cold was creeping round me, was rising round me…
A tentacle swayed and writhed forward. Slowly, slowly, it passed the Warrior's Ring—came closer—closer—
It was reaching for me!
I heard a voice intoning. Intoning words more ancient than I had ever known. Words? They were not words! They were sounds whose roots struck back and back into a time before ever man drew breath.
It was Yodin—Yodin speaking in a tongue that might have been Khalk'ru's own before ever life was!
Drawing Khalk'ru upon me by it! Sending me along the road the Sacrifices had travelled!
I leaped upon Yodin. I caught him in my arms and thrust him between me and the questing tentacle. I raised Yodin in my arms as though he had been a doll and flung him to Khalk'ru. He went through the tentacle as though it had been cloud. He struck the chains that held the Warrior's Ring. He swung in them, entangled. He slithered down upon the golden girdle.
Hands upraised, I heard myself crying to Khalk'ru those same unhuman syllables. I did not know their meaning then, and do not know them now—nor from whence knowledge of them came to me…
I know they were sounds the throats and lips of men were never meant to utter!
But Khalk'ru heard—and heeded! He hesitated. His eyes stared at me, unfathomably—stared at and through me.
And then the tentacle curled back. It encircled Yodin. A thin screeching—and Yodin was gone!
The living Khalk'ru was gone. Lucent yellow, the bubble–ocean gleamed where he had been—the black shape floated inert within it.
I heard a tinkle upon the rock, the ring of Yodin rolling down the side of the cup. I leaped forward and picked it up.
Tibur, hammer half raised, stood glaring at me beside the anvil. I snatched the sledge from his hand, gave him a blow that sent him reeling.
I raised the hammer and crushed the ring of Yodin on the anvil!
From the temple came a thunderous shout—
"Dwayanu!"
Chapter XVIII
Wolves of Lur
I rode through the forest with the Witch–woman. The white falcon perched on her gauntleted wrist and cursed me with unwinking golden eyes. It did not like me—Lur's falcon. A score of her women rode behind us. A picked dozen of my own were shield for my back. They rode close. So it was of old. I liked my back covered. It was my sensitive part, whether with friends or foes.
The armourers had fashioned me a jacket of the light chain–mail. I wore it; Lur and our little troop wore them; and each was as fully armed as I with the two swords, the long dagger and the thonged hammer. We were on our way to reconnoitre Sirk.
For five days I had sat on the throne of the High–priest, ruling Karak with the Witch–woman and Tibur. Lur had come to me—penitent in her own fierce fashion. Tibur, all arrogance and insolence evaporated, had bent the knee, proffering me allegiance, protesting, reasonably enough, that his doubts had been but natural. I accepted his allegiance, with reservations. Sooner or later I would have to kill Tibur—even if I had not promised Lur his death. But why kill him before he ceased to be useful? He was a sharp–edged tool? Well, if he cut me in my handling of him, it would be only my fault. Better a crooked sharp knife than a straight dull one.
As for Lur—she was sweet woman flesh, and subtle. But did she greatly matter? Not greatly—just then. There was a lethargy upon me, a lassitude, as I rode beside her through the fragrant forest.
Yet I had received from Karak homage and acclaim more than enough to soothe any wounded pride. I was the idol of the soldiers. I rode through the streets to the shouts of the people, and mothers held their babes up to look on me. But there were many who were silent when I passed, averting their heads, or glancing at me askance with eyes shadowed by furtive hatred and fear.
Dara, the bold–eyed captain who had warned me of Tibur, and Naral, the swaggering girl who had given me her locket, I had taken for my own and had made them officers of my personal guard. They were devoted and amusing. I had spoken to Dara only that morning of those who looked askance at me, asking why.