Twice the green night had filled the bowl of the land beneath the mirage while I feasted and drank with Lur and her women. Sword-play there had been, and the hammer-play and wrestling. They were warriors — these women! Tempered steel under silken skins, they pressed me hard now and again — strong as I was, quick as I might be. If Sirk were soldiered by such as these, it would be no easy conquest.

By the looks they gave me and by soft whispered words I knew I need not be lonely if Lur rode off to Karak. But she did not; she was ever at my side, and no more messengers came from Tibur; or if they did I did not know it. She had sent secret word to the High-priest that he had been right — I had no power to summon the Greater-than-Gods — that I was either imposter or mad. Or so she told me. Whether she had lied to him or, lied now to me I did not know and did not greatly care. I was too busy — living.

Yet no more did she call me Yellow-hair. Always it was Dwayanu. And every art of love of hers — and she was no novice, the Witch-woman — she used to bind me tighter to her.

It was early dawn of the third day; I was leaning from the casement, watching the misty jewel-fires of the luminous lilies fade, the mist wraiths that were the slaves of the waterfall rise slowly and more slowly. I thought Lur asleep. I heard her stir, and turned. She was sitting up, peering at me through the red veils of her hair. She looked all Witch-woman then . . . .

“A messenger came to me last night from Yodin. To-day you pray to Khalk’ru.”

A thrill went through me; the blood sang in my ears. Always had I felt so when I must evoke the Dissolver — a feeling of power that surpassed even that of victory. Different — a sense of inhuman power and pride. And with it a deep anger, revolt against this Being which was Life’s enemy. This demon that fed on Ayjirland’s flesh and blood — and soul. She was watching me. “Are you afraid, Dwayanu?” I sat beside her, parted the veils of her hair. “Was that why your kisses were doubled last night, Lur? Why they were so — tender? Tenderness, Witch-woman, becomes you — but it sits strangely on you. Were you afraid? For me? You soften me, Lur!” Her eyes flashed, her face flushed at my laughter. “You do not believe I love you, Dwayanu?” “Not so much as you love power. Witch-woman.” “You love me?”

“Not so much as I love power. Witch-woman,” I answered, and laughed again.

She studied me with narrowed eyes. She said:

“There is much talk in Karak of you. It grows menacing. Yodin regrets that he did not kill you when he could have — but knows full well the case might be worse if he had. Tibur regrets he did not kill you when you came up from the river — urges that no more time be lost in doing so. Yodin has declared you a false prophet and has promised that the Greater-than-Gods will prove you so. He believes what I have told you — or perhaps he has a hidden sword. You”— faint mockery crept into her voice —“you, who can read me so easily, surely can read him and guard against it! The people murmur; there are nobles who demand you be brough forth; and the soldiers would follow Dwayanu eagerly — if they believed you truly he. They are restless. Tales spread. You have grown exceedingly — inconvenient. So you face Khalk’ru today.”

“If all that be true,” I said, “it occurs to me that I may not have to evoke the Dissolver to gain rule.”

She smiled.

“It was not your old cunning which sent that thought. You will be closely guarded. You would be slain before you could rally a dozen round you. Why not — since there would then be nothing to lose by killing you? And perhaps something to be gained. Besides — what of your promises to me?”

I thrust my arm around her shoulders, lifted and kissed her.

“As for being slain-well, I would have a thing to say to that. But I was jesting, Lur. I keep my promises.”

There was the galloping of horses on the causeway, the jangle of accoutrement, the rattle of kettle-drums. I went over to the window. Lur sprang from the bed and stood beside me. Over the causeway was coming a troop of a hundred or more horsemen. From their spears floated yellow pennons bearing the black symbol of Khalk’ru. They paused at the open drawbridge. At their head I recognized Tibur, his great shoulders covered by a yellow cloak, and on his breast the Kraken.

“They come to take you to the temple. I must let them pass.”

“Why not?” I asked, indifferently. “But I’ll go to no temple until I’ve broken my fast.”

I looked again toward Tibur.

“And if I ride beside the Smith, I would you had a coat of mail to fit me.”

“You ride beside me,” she said. “And as for weapons, you shall have your pick. Yet there is nothing to fear on the way to the temple — it is within it that danger dwells.”

“You speak too much of fear, Witch-woman,” I said, frowning. “Sound the horn. Tibur may think I am loath to meet him. And that I would not have him believe.”

She sounded the signal to the garrison at the bridge. I heard it creaking as I bathed. And soon the horses were trampling before the door of the castle. Lur’s tire-woman entered, and with her she slipped away.

I dressed leisurely. On my way to the great hall I stopped at the chamber of weapons. There was a sword there I had seen and liked. It was of the weight to which I was accustomed, and long and curved and of metal excellent as any I had ever known in Ayjirland. I weighed it in my left hand and took a lighter one for my right. I recalled that someone had told me to beware of Tibur’s left hand . . . ah, yes, the woman soldier. I laughed — well, let Tibur beware of mine. I took a hammer, not so heavy as the Smith’s . . . that was his vanity . . . there was more control to the lighter sledges . . . I fastened to my forearm the strong strap that held its thong. Then I went down to meet Tibur.

There were a dozen of the Ayjir nobles in the hall, mostly men. Lur was with them. I noticed she had posted her soldiers at various vantage points, and that they were fully armed. I took that for evidence of her good faith, although it somewhat belied her assurance to me that I need fear no danger until I had reached the temple. I had no fault to find in Tibur’s greeting. Nor with those of the others. Except one. There was a man beside the Smith almost as tall as myself. He had cold blue eyes and in them the singular expressionless stare that marks the born killer of men. There was a scar running from left temple to chin, and his nose had been broken. The kind of man, I reflected, whom in the olden days I would have set over some peculiarly rebellious tribe. There was an arrogance about him that irritated me, but I held it down. It was not in my thoughts to provoke any conflict at this moment. I desired to raise no suspicions in the mind of the Smith. My greetings to him and to the others might be said to have had almost a touch of apprehension, of conciliation.

I maintained that attitude while we broke fast and drank. Once it was difficult. Tibur leaned toward the scar-face, laughing.

“I told you he was taller than you, Rascha. The grey stallion is mine!”

The blue eyes ran over me, and my gorge rose.

“The stallion is yours.”

Tibur leaned toward me.

“Rascha the Back-breaker, he is named. Next to me, the strongest in Karak. Too bad you must meet the Greater-than-Gods so quickly. A match between you two would be worth the seeing.”

Now my rage swelled up at this, and my hand dropped to my sword, but I managed to check it, and answered with a touch of eagerness.

“True enough — perhaps that meeting may be deferred . . .”

Lur frowned and stared at me, but Tibur snapped at the bait, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“No — there is one that may not be kept waiting. But after — perhaps . . .”

His laughter shook the table. The others joined in it. The scar-face grinned. By Zarda, but this is not to be borne! Careful, Dwayanu, thus you tricked them in the olden days — and thus you shall trick them now. I drained my goblet, and another. I joined them in their laughter — as though I wondered why they laughed. But I sealed their faces in my memory. We rode over the causeway with Lur at my right and a close half-circle of her picked women covering us.

Ahead of us went Tibur and the Back-breaker with a dozen of Tibur’s strongest. Behind us came the troop with the yellow pennons, and behind them another troop of the Witch-woman’s guards.

I rode with just the proper touch of dejection. Now and then the Smith and his familiars looked ‘back at me. And I would hear, their laughter. The Witch-woman rode as silently as I. She glanced at me askance, and when that happened I dropped my head a little lower.

The black citadel loomed ahead of us. We entered the city. By that time the puzzlement in Lur’s eyes had changed almost to contempt, the laughter of the Smith become derisive.

The streets were crowded with the people of Karak. And now I sighed, and seemed to strive to arouse myself from my dejection, but still rode listlessly. And Lur bit her lip, and drew close to me, frowning.

“Have you tricked me. Yellow-hair? You go like a dog already beaten!”

I turned my head from her that she might not see my face. By Luka, but it was hard to stifle my own laughter!

There were whisperings, murmurings, among the crowd. There were no shouts, no greetings. Everywhere were the soldiers, sworded and armed with the hammers, spears and pikes ready. There were archers. The High-priest was taking no chances.

Nor was I.

It was no intention of mine to precipitate a massacre. None to give Tibur slightest excuse to do away with me, turn spears and arrow storm upon me. Lur had thought my danger not on my way to the temple, but when within it. I knew the truth was the exact opposite.

So it was no conquering hero, no redeemer, no splendid warrior from the past who rode through Karak that day. It was a man not sure of himself — or better, too sure of what was in store for him. The people who had waited and watched for Dwayanu felt that — and murmured, or were silent. That well pleased the Smith. And it well pleased me, who by now was as eager to meet Khalk’ru as any bridegroom his bride. And was taking no risks of being stopped by sword or hammer, spear or arrow before I could.

And ever the’ frown on the face of the Witch-woman grew darker, and stronger the contempt and fury in her eyes.

We skirted the citadel, and took a broad road leading back to the cliffs. We galloped along this, pennons flying, drums rolling. We came to a gigantic doorway in the cliff — many times had I gone through such a door as that! I dismounted, h............