Flame Winds (10 page)

“If thou shouldst claw me, small wizard,” he said softly, “thou wouldst fall—and as a tiger, canst die as quickly as any man!”

There was a snarl of terror and rage in the beast’s throat, and the animal mask faded, became the sweet, appealing face of a girl whose soft eyes pleaded, whose lips were lax with fear. “Master,” she whispered, “this is the true Bourtai. See, are my eyes not gray? Lift me to thy arms, and I will be thy slave!”

“Aye, that thou wilt,” Wan Tengri said softly. “Where hast hidden thy soul?”

“Thou wouldst not drop me, master. I could never come to thy arms!”

“Where hast thou hidden thy soul?”

The girl vanished and, instead, there was only a coldness in Wan Tengri’s palm, and he saw that his cupped hand held clear, sparkling water. He tipped his hand slightly, and let a drop spill off into space, and the water screamed, and a hand clutched Wan Tengri’s wrist and once more it was the small, twisted thief Bourtai, who dangled from his grip. Wan Tengri’s arm ached now to the shoulder, and his fingers were growing numb. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, and in those of Wan Tengri there was no weakening.

“Wilt thou kill me, then?” whispered Bourtai. “Without me, thou canst never reach the princess, canst never rule Turgohl.”

“I will risk that, father of lies,” said Wan Tengri. “Thy soul?”

Bourtai’s face twisted, but no words came from his mouth. His head sagged. “Merciless one, it is in my shoe. For who, think you, Wan Tengri, would steal the shoe of a thief?”

With a strong heave of his shoulders, Wan Tengri tossed Bourtai to the steps and instantly pinned him down while he wrenched off the shoes. “They are filthy enough to contain thy soul, thou scum.” He stood erect and, behind him, he twisted one shoe and then the other, and as he twisted the shoe in his left hand, Bourtai shivered and dropped to his knees. Once more, Wan Tengri twisted and Bourtai cried aloud in pain.

“It is well,” Wan Tengri said. “Thou hast not lied. Thou shall lead me through the tunnels to the enchanted wall through which sometimes comes the heat of the flames about the tower. Tonight, at the Hour of the Ox, I shall put out the magic fire, brush aside these guards and learn the secret of the crystal ball.”

Bourtai’s wrinkled smile held mockery. “And how, master, wilt thou brush aside these many guards? Know, then, that their number has been tripled since last you gazed on the fountain and the tower. Nay, master, I swear to thee,” cried Bourtai. “As thou holdest my soul, it is a thing I cannot do. Those guards were placed there by the power of the Seven, and no one man can brush them aside. Not even my own great magic can do it.”

Wan Tengri scowled. “Something of thy magic I know, and something of my own. In the Hind, there were wizards who could raise so dense and black a fog that no man could see his neighbor. That much you can do?”

“That much, surely, master.”

“When a twelfth part of the Hour of the Ox has passed,” Wan Tengri said slowly, “thou shall release thy fog, then join me at the entrance to the Flame Tower. Meantime, thy thieving vermin shall fill twelve bags with salt so that they seem to be the corpses of slaves borne to feed the flames. And, at the Hour of the Ox, they shall carry these bags of salt to the entrance of the tower—and wait for me.”

“And thou, master? Think not that I care what happens to thy sun-crowned head, my master, but I have regard for my soul in my shoe.”

Wan Tengri threw back his head and sent his laughter rocketing up through the tower. “I could love thee, Bourtai, wert thou not a wizard.” He pulled Bourtai to his feet and clapped a heavy hand on the twisted shoulder. “I could love thee—now that I carry thy soul. And because I carry thy soul, Bourtai, make sure that these things I have ordered are done. Nay, after thee, small thieving wizard!”

They traveled down many stairs and, at the foot on the stones over which Bourtai had hung, there was a small, splattering drop, but it was not water that had splashed; it was blood. They went through the cellar and down the rickety ladder to the tunnels and turned toward the Flame Tower. Wan Tengri marked the way that led up into the warehouse of furs. Even here, far below them, their stench penetrated. A hundred cubits beyond, Bourtai thrust a smoking torch into a wall notch and nodded toward the end of the tunnel where close-fitted stones blocked the way.

“There, master, is the enchanted wall.” Wan Tengri eyed it and his lips grimly smiled. “It is well. I shall increase the number of salt bags, little wizard. Every man and woman in the caverns must bear one, and mind there is no waiting after the Hour of the Ox!”

Bourtai’s face held a thin mockery. “I hear and obey, master.” He limped off bare footed into the dark, and Wan Tengri slung the thief s sandals about his neck and turned back to stare at the wall of stone. He was humming softly through his nose as he set about his magic. A dozen stout men with a brass-headed battering-ram would make short work of this enchanted wall, but he was one man—and he had no ram. Deliberately, Wan Tengri strolled back to the ladderway that led up into the fur warehouse and clambered up to spread clothing and weapons on the floor. He retained only his sword and lariat and, with those bound about his naked waist, he climbed swiftly down again into the salt tunnels. With the clean, keen steel of his scimitar, he began to hack out the packed and hardened earth that bound together the rocks in the enchanted wall.

Sometimes, as he worked, he hummed through his nose, and sometimes he laughed a little to himself. Wizards had this weakness. Because they leaned on sorcery themselves, they had no strength save in sorcery. There was no problem here that a strong man and bold could not solve, as there had been nothing in the arena that Prester John had not mastered. Prester John considered that perhaps he had learned something in those battles.

Wan Tengri had allowed himself two hours for the work of mining the wall of the flaming moat that circled the tower, and like all men where clocks were few, he had an acute sense of time. The Hour of the Swine had been past when he began his work and the Hour of the Rat had sped. Finally, his sword slid through the hard-packed earth and came back wet in his hand—and in its wake a thin stream of liquid trickled, then thrust out boldly, glittering in the red light of the torch.

Swiftly then, Wan Tengri worked. The water helped, and his sword hacked out the balance of the dirt beneath the rock. As he watched, the great, smooth-sided slab of stone squeezed toward him! Sharply, he threw his shoulder against its face. It was not yet the Hour of the Ox. It had been easier than he had thought. With one hand, he unfastened the belt that held his sword scabbard, and hooking the flat buckle on the point of the blade thrust it into the crack. When it had slid clear into the moat beyond, he pulled the belt tight—and the buckle flattened and held. Rapidly, he knotted the lariat to the belt while water sprayed warm across his thighs. Now all was ready. He reached up and caught the torch and dug its flaming end into the softening mud of the floor, braced the butt against the lower edge of the rock and slowly eased his weight away. He blew out a sharp breath, for the sensitive touch of his fingertips told him that the stone had not moved—would not move until he was ready.

He was humming again as he uncoiled the lariat, looped it about the brace and, naked sword in his fist, felt his way along the utter blackness of the tunnel. When he reached the lariat’s end, he knotted it to his sword and stuck it upright in the floor, in the middle of the tunnel. The time was drawing near. Carefully, he took numbered, even paces along the tunnel, while his hand, brushing the wall, sought the knobs that led upward into the fur warehouse.

“Nine-and-twenty,” he muttered as his fingers found the purchase he sought. He clambered high enough to make sure, then dropped down to the floor and numbered his paces back. At twenty-nine he paused and his out-reaching hand touched the upright hilt of the sword. He stood, waiting, and dimly to his ears there came a hoarse, united shouting. By Ahriman, had he miscalculated the time? Or had Bourtai too soon loosed his black fog upon the fountain guards? No time to lose. With a jerk on the lariat, Wan Tengri jerked loose the torch prop about which the rope was looped. He clenched the sword between his teeth, then he drew the rope steadily taut, twined it about his forearms and set the arched power of his back.

He lifted a foot and groped for purchase on the wall. Slowly, steadily, he loosed the power of his mighty muscles. There was a slight yielding and then the rope snubbed short. The lariat began to bite into his forearms; his breath hissed past the steel between his teeth. Thighs and back were straining to their utmost—and the stone did not yield. Savagely, Wan Tengri sawed from side to side of the tunnel, yanked and tugged. He bent forward for a new grip while the shouting that reached his ears dimly lifted to a crescendo. There was liquid in the floor of the tunnel, running warm about his ankle, but that was not enough. The entire rock must come loose or all would be lost. He had been a fool not to use some of the thieves to help him. His accursed vanity. His body was bent like a bow. With explosive force, he hurled weight and strength into one wrenching, violent backward heave.

The rope went lax in his hands, and Wan Tengri pitched backward to the floor. His hand flashed quickly to the sword between his teeth and snatched it clear an instant before his naked back splashed into the water. For the instant it took him to scramble to his feet, he thought that he had failed, then there was a sullen thud of a great weight falling and, afterward, a rising roar and pound of rushing waters. Wan Tengri whirled. He was frowning in concentration as deliberately he picked up his numbered steps. His fall had thrown his calculations out, and already the water was rising, tugging at his legs. He hurried his paces, his hand dragging along the wall. If he missed that knob, he would never have a second chance!

“Three-and-twenty, four-and-twenty. Five… six—” He should be near the spot now, but how to gauge the length of his stride with water racing halfway to his knees. His fingers brushed a projection in the wall. Was this it? He scrambled upward, reaching above him, and there were no more knobs. The wrong place! In the darkness, Wan Tengri laughed. So far, he had succeeded—but the waters he had released might put an end to his successes. For one day, he was to rule. And perhaps that day had passed while he slept, while in the streets the people still chanted: “Thou art the man.”

No use to count now. He had lost all sense of distance, but his fingers still groped along the wall. Another knob. Was this the right one? He would have no further chance, he knew. The water was above his knees, and the hollow rush of it sent wind to whine in his ears. By Ahriman, not even Father Tiber in flood could run so swiftly. He must chance it. He reached upward into the dark, and lifted the weight. Another knob, another—He had found the way to the warehouse. The stench of the furs came down thinly to his nostrils, sucked down by the rushing waters. Wan Tengri hummed softly as he scrambled up the remaining distance and began to fumble rapidly into his clothes. He had lost a good lariat and an excellent sword belt, but he had his life and, if the gods favored, if Christos favored—he would have the city by dawn!

He darted across the warehouse cellar and threw his shoulder against the trapdoor, staggered up to the ground-level floor. There was no flicker from the flame dance coming in through the arrow slit. That could mean only one thing. His mine would not yet have drained off the flaming moat. Bourtai had loosed his black fog! Three long, stumbling strides took him to the door, and his impatience made short work of the barrier. He leaped out into the cleanness of the night air, was blinded instantly by the dark, surging fog that crowded close to earth. It had a pungent odor like burning spices, and Wan Tengri smiled briefly at this magic of Bourtai as he turned his long strides toward the furious shouting that beat up to heaven; toward the crystal ball and the fountain.

A thrust shoved his sword through slits in the white coat of the khan, and a few quick movements strung his bow. He paused, and three times his bow-string sang, three times arrows whisked off into the darkness, traveling at the height of a man’s heart. There were fresh crescendos of sound, and shrill, soaring screams echoed the twang of his bowstring. Moving slowly forward, taking his bearings from the building he had left, Wan Tengri sent his arrows searching before him. If the multi-colored guard were not already fighting, he thought they soon would be. He made a half turn to the left and sped three arrows that way, did the same to the right. Now, he could hear the welcome clangor of steel and men’s battle shouts of rage. Deftly, he swung his bow upon his back and took his keen sword in his hand. Ah, if he had had this beauty in the arena, the battles would not have lasted so long! He swung it singing through the air, and stepped out confidently.

A shadow loomed out of the dusk, and the sword of Prester John struck without hesitation. A man fell, groveling, to the earth, and when Wan Tengri stepped over him, he saw the faint glimmer of a golden tunic. There were other bodies in his path, showing dimly through the fog. Two bore the tuft of Wan Tengri’s arrows, but there were many others with their throats cut. Probably, they had struck each other down the instant the fog fell. Wan Tengri began to run, lightly, with long-striding legs. Through the diminishing fury of the battle, he could catch faintly the tinkle of the perfumed fountain. He came on it suddenly, his feet tripping over its verge, and strained his eyes to see—to see that the crystal ball no longer hobbled in the jet!

A fearful shout of anger strained Wan Tengri’s throat. Now he knew for certainty that he had not miscalculated his time. Bourtai had dared to deceive him, to work this sly treachery. Bourtai had possession of the key to mastery of the city and its treasures! He had carried off the crystal ball!

VIII

WAN TENGRI strained his eyes through the thinning fog, through the smarting in his eyeballs, and peered toward the Flame Tower. He could make out the white loom of it faintly, and the flames in the moat were dying, thanks to his magic. That was where he would find the wolfish Bourtai. Wan Tengri’s lips twisted in a grim smile, and he lifted his hand for the sandals he had swung about his neck while his long stride carried him toward the tower.