The People of the Black Circle
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THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK CIRCLE
By Robert E. Howard
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales September, October, November 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
1 Death Strikes a King
The king of Vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night thetemple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echoin the gold-domed chamber where Bunda Chand struggled on thevelvet-cushioned dais. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; hisfingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him. He was young; nospear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine. But his veins stoodout like blue cords on his temples, and his eyes dilated with thenearness of death. Trembling slave-girls knelt at the foot of the dais,and leaning down to him, watching him with passionate intensity, was hissister, the Devi Yasmina. With her was the _wazam_, a noble grown old inthe royal court.
She threw up her head in a gusty gesture of wrath and despair as thethunder of the distant drums reached her ears.
'The priests and their clamor!' she exclaimed. 'They are no wiser thanthe leeches who are helpless! Nay, he dies and none can say why. He isdying now--and I stand here helpless, who would burn the whole city andspill the blood of thousands to save him.'
'Not a man of Ayodhya but would die in his place, if it might be, Devi,'answered the _wazam_. 'This poison--'
'I tell you it is not poison!' she cried. 'Since his birth he has beenguarded so closely that the cleverest poisoners of the East could notreach him. Five skulls bleaching on the Tower of the Kites can testifyto attempts which were made--and which failed. As you well know, thereare ten men and ten women whose sole duty is to taste his food and wine,and fifty armed warriors guard his chamber as they guard it now. No, itis not poison; it is sorcery--black, ghastly magic--'
She ceased as the king spoke; his livid lips did not move, and therewas no recognition in his glassy eyes. But his voice rose in an eerycall, indistinct and far away, as if called to her from beyond vast,wind-blown gulfs.
'Yasmina! Yasmina! My sister, where are you? I can not find you. All isdarkness, and the roaring of great winds!'
'Brother!' cried Yasmina, catching his limp hand in a convulsive grasp.'I am here! Do you not know me--'
Her voice died at the utter vacancy of his face. A low confused moanwaned from his mouth. The slave-girls at the foot of the dais whimperedwith fear, and Yasmina beat her breast in anguish.
* * * * *
In another part of the city a man stood in a latticed balconyoverlooking a long street in which torches tossed luridly, smokilyrevealing upturned dark faces and the whites of gleaming eyes. Along-drawn wailing rose from the multitude.
The man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back into the arabesquechamber. He was a tall man, compactly built, and richly clad.
'The king is not yet dead, but the dirge is sounded,' he said to anotherman who sat cross-legged on a mat in a corner. This man was clad in abrown camel-hair robe and sandals, and a green turban was on his head.His expression was tranquil, his gaze impersonal.
'The people know he will never see another dawn,' this man answered.
The first speaker favored him with a long, searching stare.
'What I can not understand,' he said, 'is why I have had to wait so longfor your masters to strike. If they have slain the king now, why couldthey not have slain him months ago?'
'Even the arts you call sorcery are governed by cosmic laws,' answeredthe man in the green turban. 'The stars direct these actions, as inother affairs. Not even my masters can alter the stars. Not until theheavens were in the proper order could they perform this necromancy.'With a long, stained fingernail he mapped the constellations on themarble-tiled floor. 'The slant of the moon presaged evil for the king ofVendhya; the stars are in turmoil, the Serpent in the House of theElephant. During such juxtaposition, the invisible guardians are removedfrom the spirit of Bhunda Chand. A path is opened in the unseen realms,and once a point of contact was established, mighty powers were put inplay along that path.'
'Point of contact?' inquired the other. 'Do you mean that lock of BhundaChand's hair?'
'Yes. All discarded portions of the human body still remain part of it,attached to it by intangible connections. The priests of Asura have adim inkling of this truth, and so all nail trimmings, hair and otherwaste products of the persons of the royal family are carefully reducedto ashes and the ashes hidden. But at the urgent entreaty of theprincess of Khosala, who loved Bhunda Chand vainly, he gave her a lockof his long black hair as a token of remembrance. When my mastersdecided upon his doom, the lock, in its golden, jewel-encrusted case,was stolen from under her pillow while she slept, and anothersubstituted, so like the first that she never knew the difference. Thenthe genuine lock travelled by camel-caravan up the long, long road toPeshkhauri, thence up the Zhaibar Pass, until it reached the hands ofthose for whom it was intended.'
'Only a lock of hair,' murmured the nobleman.
'By which a soul is drawn from its body and across gulfs of echoingspace,' returned the man on the mat.
The nobleman studied him curiously.
'I do not know if you are a man or a demon, Khemsa,' he said at last.'Few of us are what we seem. I, whom the Kshatriyas know as Kerim Shah,a prince from Iranistan, am no greater a masquerader than most men. Theyare all traitors in one way or another, and half of them know not whomthey serve. There at least I have no doubts; for I serve King Yezdigerdof Turan.'
'And I the Black Seers of Yimsha,' said Khemsa; 'and my masters aregreater than yours, for they have accomplished by their arts whatYezdigerd could not with a hundred thousand swords.'
* * * * *
Outside, the moan of the tortured thousands shuddered up to the starswhich crusted the sweating Vendhyan night, and the conchs bellowed likeoxen in pain.
In the gardens of the palace the torches glinted on polished helmets andcurved swords and gold-chased corselets. All the noble-born fighting-menof Ayodhya were gathered in the great palace or about it, and at eachbroad-arched gate and door fifty archers stood on guard, with bows intheir hands. But Death stalked through the royal palace and none couldstay his ghostly tread.
On the dais under the golden dome the king cried out again, racked byawful paroxysms. Again his voice came faintly and far away, and againthe Devi bent to him, trembling with a fear that was darker than theterror of death.
'Yasmina!' Again that far, weirdly dreeing cry, from realmsimmeasurable. 'Aid me! I am far from my mortal house! Wizards have drawnmy soul through the wind-blown darkness. They seek to snap the silvercord that binds me to my dying body. They cluster around me; their handsare taloned, their eyes are red like flame burning in darkness. _Aie_,save me, my sister! Their fingers sear me like fire! They would slay mybody and damn my soul! What is this they bring before me?--_Aie!_'
* * * * *
At the terror in his hopeless cry Yasmina screamed uncontrollably andthrew herself bodily upon him in the abandon of her anguish. He was tornby a terrible convulsion; foam flew from his contorted lips and hiswrithing fingers left their marks on the girl's shoulders. But theglassy blankness passed from his eyes like smoke blown from a fire, andhe looked up at his sister with recognition.
'Brother!' she sobbed. 'Brother--'
'Swift!' he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational. 'I know nowwhat brings me to the pyre. I have been on
a far journey and Iunderstand. I have been ensorcelled by the wizards of the Himelians.They drew my soul out of my body and far away, into a stone room. Therethey strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul intothe body of a foul night-weird their sorcery summoned up from hell. Ah!I feel their pull upon me now! Your cry and the grip of your fingersbrought me back, but I am going fast. My soul clings to my body, but itshold weakens. Quick--kill me, before they can trap my soul for ever!'
'I cannot!' she wailed, smiting her naked breasts.
'Swiftly, I command you!' There was the old imperious note in hisfailing whisper. 'You have never disobeyed me--obey my last command!Send my soul clean to Asura! Haste, lest you damn me to spend eternityas a filthy gaunt of darkness. Strike, I command you! _Strike!_'
Sobbing wildly, Yasmina plucked a jeweled dagger from her girdle andplunged it to the hilt in his breast. He stiffened and then went limp, agrim smile curving his dead lips. Yasmina hurled herself face-down onthe rush-covered floor, beating the reeds with her clenched hands.Outside, the gongs and conchs brayed and thundered and the priestsgashed themselves with copper knives.