Абрахам Меррит - Dwellers in the Mirage

It was hard waiting, that! Jim's face over the camp–fire. Jim's face grinning at me in the trenches. Jim's face above mine when I lay on the moss bank of the threshold of the mirage—Jim's face under mine on the street of Sirk…

Tsantawu! Aie—Tsantawu! And you thought that only beauty could come from the forest I

Evalie? I cared nothing for Evalie then, caught in that limbo which at once was ice and candent core of rage.

"Save…Evalie!" Jim had bade. Well, I would save Evalie! Beyond that she mattered no more than did the Witch–woman…yes, a little more…I had a score to satisfy with the Witch–woman…I had none with Evalie…

The face of Jim…always the face of Jim…floating before me. …

I heard a whisper—

"Dwayanu—Tibur comes!"

"Is Lur with him, Dara?"

"No—a group of the nobles. He is laughing. He carries the dark girl on his saddle–bow."

"How far away is he, Dara?"

"Perhaps a bow–shot. He rides slowly."

"When I ride out, close in behind me. The fight will be between me and Tibur. I do not think those with him will dare attack me. If they do…"

Naral laughed.

"If they do, we shall be at their throats, Dwayanu. There are one or two of Tibur's friends I would like to settle accounts with. We ask you only this: waste neither words nor time on Tibur. Kill him quickly. For by the gods, if he kills you, it will be the boiling pot and the knives of the flayers for all of us he captures."

"I will kill him, Naral."

Slowly I opened the great door. Now I could see Tibur, his horse pacing toward the bridge–end. Upon the pommel of his saddle was Evalie. Her body drooped; the hair of blue–black was loosened and covered her face like a veil. Her hands were tied behind her back, and gripped in one of Tibur's. There were a score of his followers around and behind him, nobles—and the majority of them men. I had noticed that although the Witch–woman had few men among her guards and garrisons, the Smith showed a preference for them among his friends and personal escort. His head was turned toward them, his voice, roaring with triumph, and his laughter came plainly to me. By now the enclosure was almost empty of soldiers and captives. There was none between us. I wondered where the Witch–woman was.

Closer came Tibur, and closer.

"Ready Dara—Naral?"

"Ready, Lord!"

I flung open the gate. I raced toward Tibur, head bent low, my little troop behind me. I swung against him with head uplifted, thrust my face close to his.

Tibur's whole body grew rigid, his eyes glared into mine, his jaw dropped. I knew that those who followed him were held in that same incredulous stupefaction. Before the Smith could recover from his paralysis, I had snatched Evalie up from his saddle, had passed her to Dara.

I lifted my sword to slash at Tibur's throat. I gave him no warning. It was no time for chivalry. Twice he had tried treacherously to kill me. I would make quick end.

Swift as had been my stroke, the Smith was swifter. He threw himself back, slipped off his horse, and landed like a cat at its heels. I was down from mine before his great sledge was half–raised to hurl. I thrust my blade forward to pierce his throat. He parried it with the sledge. Then berserk rage claimed him. The hammer fell clanging on the rock. He threw himself on me, howling. His arms circled me, fettering mine to my sides, like living bands of steel. His legs felt for mine, striving to throw me. His lips were drawn back like a mad wolf's, and he bored his head into the pit of my neck, trying to tear my throat with his teeth.

My ribs cracked under the tightening vice of Tibur's arms. My lungs were labouring, sight dimming. I writhed and twisted in the effort to escape the muzzling of that hot mouth and the searching fangs.

I heard shouting around me, heard and dimly saw milling of the horses. The clutching fingers of my left hand touched my girdle—closed on something there—something like the shaft of a javelin—

Tibur's hell–forged dart!

Suddenly I went limp in Tibur's grip. His laughter bellowed, hoarse with triumph. And for a split–second his grip relaxed.

That split–second was enough. I summoned all my strength and broke his grip. Before he could clench me again, my hand had swept down into the girdle and clutched the dart.

I brought it up and drove it into Tibur's throat just beneath his jaw. I jerked the haft. The opened, razor–edged flanges sliced through arteries and muscles. The bellowing laughter of Tibur changed to a hideous gurgling. His hands sought the haft, dragged at it—tore it out—And the blood spurted from Tibur's mangled throat; Tibur's knees buckled beneath him, and he lurched and fell at my feet…choking…his hands still feebly groping to clutch me…

I stood there, dazed, gasping for breath, the pulse roaring in my ears.

"Drink this, Lord!"

I looked up at Dara. She was holding a wine–skin to me. I took it with trembling hands, and drank deep. The good wine whipped through me. Suddenly I took it from my lips.

"The dark girl of the Rrrllya—Evalie. She is not with you."

"There she is. I set her on another horse. There was fighting, Lord."

I stared into Evalie's face. She looked back at me, brown eyes cold, implacable.

"Better use the rest of the wine to wash your face, Lord. You are no sight for any tender maid."

I passed my hand over my face, drew it away wet with blood.

"Tibur's blood, Dwayanu, thank the gods!"

She brought my horse forward. I felt better when I was in its saddle. I glanced down at Tibur. His fingers were still faintly twitching. I looked about me. There was a shattered company of Karak's archers at the bridge–end. They raised their bows in salute.

"Dwayanu! Live Dwayanu!"

My troop seemed strangely shrunken. I called—"Naral!"

"Dead, Dwayanu. I told you there had been fighting."

"Who killed her?"

"Never mind. I slew him. And those left of Tibur's escort have fled. And now what. Lord?"

"We wait for Lur."

"Not long shall we have to linger then, for here she comes."

There was the blast of a horn. I turned to see the Witch–woman come galloping over the square. Her red braids were loose, her sword was red, and she was nigh as battle–stained as I. With her rode a scant dozen of her women, half as many of her nobles.

I awaited her. She reined up before me, searching me with wild bright eyes.

I should have killed her as I had Tibur. I should have been hating her. But I found I was not hating her at all. All of hate I had held seemed to have poured out upon Tibur. No, I was not hating her.

She smiled faintly:

"You are hard to kill, Yellow–hair!"

"Dwayanu—Witch."

She glanced at me, half–contemptuously.

"You are no longer Dwayanu!"

"Try to convince these soldiers of that, Lur.”

"Oh, I know," she said, and stared down at Tibur. "So you killed the Smith. Well, at least you are still a man."

"Killed him for you, Lur!" I jeered. "Did I not promise you?"

She did not answer, only asked, as Dara had before her:

"And now what?"

"We wait here until Sirk is emptied. Then we ride to Karak, you beside me. I do not like you at my back, Witch–woman."

She spoke quietly to her women, then sat, head bent, thinking, with never another word for me.

I whispered to Dara:

"Can we trust the archers?"

She nodded.

"Bid them wait and march with us. Let them drag the body of Tibur into some corner."

For half an hour the soldiers came by, with prisoners, with horses, with cattle and other booty. Small troops of the nobles and their supporters galloped up, halted, and spoke, but, at my word and Lur's nod, passed on over the bridge. Most of the nobles showed dismayed astonishment at my resurrection; the soldiers gave me glad salute.