Again the fiery draught revived him.
"We reached Sirk…two days ago…across the river with Sri and twenty pygmies…it was easy…too easy…not a wolf howled, although I knew the beasts were watching us…stalking us…and the others did, too. We waited…then came the attack…and then I knew we had been trapped…How did you get over those geysers…Big Fellow…never mind…but…Evalie believes you sent the message…you…black treachery…"
His eyes closed. Cold, cold were his hands.
"Tsantawu—brother—you do not believe! Tsantawu—come back…speak to me…"
His eyes opened, but hardly could I hear him speak—
"You're not Dwayanu—Leif? Not now—or ever again?"
"No, Tsantawu…don't leave me!"
"Bend…your head…closer, Leif…keep fighting…save Evalie."
Fainter grew his voice:
"Good–bye…Degataga…not your fault…"
A ghost of the old sardonic smile passed over the white face.
"You didn't pick your…damned…ancestors!…Worse luck…We've had…hell of good times…together… Save…Evalie…"
There was a gush of blood from his mouth.
Jim was dead…was dead.
Tsantawu—no more!
Book of Leif
Chapter XXI
Return to Karak
I leaned over Jim and kissed his forehead. I arose. I was numb with sorrow. But under that numbness seethed a tortured rage, a tortured horror. Deadly rage against the Witch–woman and the Smith—horror of myself, of what I had been…horror of—Dwayanu!
I must find Tibur and the Witch–woman—but first there was something else to be done. They and Evalie could wait.
"Dara—have them lift him. Carry him into one of the houses."
I followed on foot as they bore Jim away. There was fighting still going on, but far from us. Here were only the dead. I guessed that Sirk was making its last stand at the end of the valley.
Dara, Naral and I and half–dozen more passed through the broken doors of what yesterday had been a pleasant home. In its centre was a little columned hall. The other soldiers clustered round the broken doors, guarding entrance. I ordered chairs and beds and whatever else would burn brought into the little hall and heaped into a pyre. Dara said:
"Lord, let me bathe your wound."
I dropped upon a stool, sat thinking while she washed the gash upon my head with stinging wine. Beyond the strange numbness, my mind was very clear. I was Leif Langdon. Dwayanu was no longer master of my mind—nor ever again would be. Yet he lived. He lived within as part of—myself. It was as though the shock of recognition of Jim had dissolved Dwayanu within Leif Langdon.
As though two opposing currents had merged into one; as though two drops had melted into each other; as though two antagonistic metals had fused.
Crystal clear was every memory of what I had heard and seen, said and done and thought from the time I had been hurled from Nansur Bridge. And crystal clear, agonizingly clear, was all that had gone before. Dwayanu was not dead, no! But part of me, and I was by far the stronger. I could use him, his strength, his wisdom—but he could not use mine. I was in control. I was the master.
And I thought, sitting there, that if I were to save Evalie—if I were to do another thing that now I knew, I would do or die in the doing, I must still outwardly be all Dwayanu. There lay my power. Not easily could such transmutation as I had undergone be explained to my soldiers. They believed in me and followed me as Dwayanu. If Evalie, who had known me as Leif, who had loved me as Leif, who had listened to Jim, could not understand—how much less could these? No, they must see no change.
I touched my head. The cut was deep and long; apparently only the toughness of my skull had saved it from being split.
"Dara—you saw who made this wound?"
"It was Tibur, Lord."
"He tried to kill me…Why did he not finish?"
"Never yet has Tibur's left hand failed to deal death. He thinks it cannot fail. He saw you fall—he thought you dead."
"And death missed me by a hair's–breadth. And would not, had not someone hurled me aside. Was that you, Dara?"
"It was I, Dwayanu. I saw his hand dip into his girdle, knew what was coming. I threw myself at your knees—so he could not see me."
"Why, because you fear Tibur?"
"No—because I wanted him to believe he did not miss."
"Why?"
"So that you would have better chance to kill Tibur, Lord. Your strength was ebbing with your friend's life."
I looked sharply at this bold–eyed captain of mine. How much did she know? Well, time later to find that out. I looked at the pyre. It was nearly complete.
"What was it he threw, Dara?"
She drew from her girdle a curious weapon, one whose like I had never seen. Its end was top–shaped, pointed like a dagger and with four razor–edged ribs on its sides. It had an eight–inch metal haft, round, like the haft of a diminutive javelin. It weighed about five pounds. It was of some metal I did not recognize—denser, harder than the finest of tempered steel. It was, in effect, a casting knife. But no mail could turn aside that adamantine point when hurled with the strength of one like the Smith. Dara took it from me, and pulled the short shaft. Instantly the edged ribs flew open, like flanges. The end of each was shaped like an inverted barb. A devilish tool, if I ever saw one. Once embedded, there was no way to get it out except cutting, and any pull would release the flanges, hooking them at the same time into the flesh. I took it back from Dara, and placed it in my own girdle. If I had had any doubts about what I was going to do to Tibur—I had none now.
The pyre was finished. I walked over to Jim, and laid him on it. I kissed him on the eyes, and put a sword in his dead hand. I stripped the room of its rich tapestries and draped them over him. I struck flint and set flame to the pyre. The wood was dry and resinous, and burned swiftly. I watched the flames creep up and up until smoke and fire made a canopy over him.
Then dry–eyed, but with death in my heart. I walked out of that house and among my soldiers.
Sirk had fallen and its sack was on. Smoke was rising everywhere from the looted homes. A detachment of soldiers marched by, herding along some two–score prisoners—women, all of them, and little children; some bore the marks of wounds. And then I saw that among those whom I had taken for children were a handful of the golden pygmies. At sight of me the soldiers halted, stood rigid, staring at me unbelievingly.
Suddenly one cried out…"Dwayanu! Dwayanu lives!"…They raised their swords in salute, and from them came a shout…"Dwayanu!"
I beckoned their captain.
"Did you think Dwayanu dead then?"
"So ran the tale among us, Lord."
"And did this tale also tell how I was slain?"
She hesitated.
"There were some who said it was by the Lord Tibur…by accident… that he had made cast at Sirk's leader who was menacing you…and that you were struck instead…and that your body had been borne away by those of Sirk…I do not know…"
"Enough, soldier. Go on to Karak with the captives. Do not loiter, and do not speak of seeing me. It is a command. For a while I let the tale stand."
They glanced at each other, oddly, saluted, and went on. The yellow eyes of the pygmies, filled with a venomous hatred, never left me until they had passed out of range. I waited, thinking. So that was to be the story! Hai! But they had fear at their elbows or they would not have troubled to spread that tale of accident! Suddenly I made decision. No use to wander over Sirk searching for Tibur. Folly to be seen, and have the counter–tale that Dwayanu lived be borne to the ears of Tibur and Lur! They should come to me—unknowing.