The Moon Pool & Dwellers in the Mirage. Abraham Merritt

men; there were not many of them, a dozen perhaps. They, too, had the red polls and blue eyes. The older wore short beards, the younger were clean-shaven. They were not so tall by several inches as the run of the women. None, men nor women, came within half a head of my height. They bore no weapons.

      They halted a few yards from me, looking at me in silence. Their eyes ran over me and stopped at my yellow hair, and rested there.

      There was a bustle at the edge of the crowd. A dozen women pushed through and walked toward me. They wore short kirtles; there were short swords in their girdles and they carried javelins in their hands; unlike the others, their breasts were covered. They ringed me, javelins raised, so close that the tips almost touched me.

      The leader’s bright blue eyes were bold, more soldier’s than woman’s.

      “The yellow-haired stranger! Luka has smiled on us this day!”

      The woman beside her leaned and whispered, but I caught the words:

      “Tibur would give us more for him than Lur.”

      The leader shook her head.

      “Too dangerous. We’ll enjoy Lur’s reward longer.”

      She looked me over, quite frankly.

      “It’s a shame to waste him,” she said.

      “Lur won’t,” the other answered, cynically.

      The leader gave me a prod of her javelin, and motioned toward the citadel wall.

      “Onward, Yellow Hair,” she said. “It’s a pity you can’t understand me. Or I’d tell you something for your own good — at a price, of course.”

      She smiled at me, and prodded me again. I felt like grinning back at her; she was so much like a hard-boiled sergeant I’d known in the War. I spoke, instead, sternly:

      “Summon Lur to me with fitting escort, O! woman whose tongue rivals the drum stick.”

      She gaped at me, her javelin dropping from her hand. Quite evidently, although an alarm had been sounded for me, the fact that I could speak the Uighur had not been told.

      “Summon Lur at once,” I said. “Or, by Khalk’ru —”

      I did not complete the sentence. I turned the ring and held up my hand.

      There was a gasp of terror from the crowd. They went down on their knees, heads bent low. The soldier-woman’s face whitened, and she and the others dropped before me. And then there was a grating of bars. An immense block opened in the wall of the citadel not far away.

      Out of the opening, as though my words had summoned them, rode the Witch-woman with Tibur beside her, and at their heels the little troop who had watched me from Nansur Bridge.

      They baited, staring at the kneeling crowd. Then Tibur spurred his horse; the Witch-woman thrust out a hand and stayed him, and they spoke together. The soldier touched my foot.

      “Let us rise. Lord,” she said. I nodded, and she jumped up with a word to her women. Again they ringed me. I read the fear in the leader’s eyes, and appeal. I smiled at her.

      “Don’t fear. I heard nothing,” I whispered.

      “Then you have a friend in Dara,” she muttered. “By Luka — they would boil us for what we said!”

      “I heard nothing,” I repeated.

      “A gift for a gift,” she breathed. “Watch Tibur’s left hand should you fight him.”

      The little troop was in motion; they came riding slowly toward me. As they drew near I could see that Tibur’s face was dark, and that he was holding in his temper with an effort. He halted his horse at the edge of the crowd. His rage fell upon them; for a moment I thought he was going to ride them down.

      “Up, you swine!” he roared. “Since when has Karak knelt to any but its rulers?”

      They 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