Thus it was that I put my mood of despair from me and tightened my grasp upon life.
These thoughts had gone whirling through my tortured brain while I dangled there in the darkness, helpless to thwart the flight of my princess, as she was borne from me into the unknown depths of night.
She at least had escaped, and was in the company of friends.
Now I must somehow make my escape as well.
By some miracle, I must elude my present perils, and flee from the city of my enemies.
But—first—there was the question of Klygon.
I looked up.
Above me another window yawned open to the night. I neither knew nor cared what might lie waiting within. It was a place of refuge, however temporary, from the twin deaths which crouched for me at either end of the line.
I had no plan, no scheme. Caught up helplessly in the swift tide of events beyond my control, I merely drifted from moment to moment. So I clambered back up the line and climbed into the window of the apartment above.
It was dark, and empty of occupancy. I did not at once realize that this was the apartment in which Zarqa the Kalood had been held prisoner by the Goddess, until set free by Prince Janchan. Then, in a glass case set against one wall of the ornate room, I spied several articles which must obviously have been taken from Zarqa when the minions of the temple first captured him. He must have forgotten to take them with him in the rush and confusion of escape, but there lay the zoukar, the powerful death-flash, the Witchlight, and the Weather Cloak! These magical implements were among those we had carried off from the Scarlet Pylon of Sarchimus the Wise on an earlier adventure.
Swiftly I stripped myself of the black, close-fitting Assassin’s garments, leaving myself naked save for boots, loincloth, and the warrior’s harness I had donned before leaving the house of Gurjan Tor. Then I broke open the crystal cabinet with the hilt of my poniard and took out the articles which his captors had taken from Zarqa. I slipped the Weather Cloak over my shoulders; the Witchlight was small enough to fit into the pocket pouch of my harness, and I slung the death-flash about my shoulders like a baldric. The other magical implements we had retrieved from Sarchimus were the Live Rope and the vial of Liquid Flame. These I had carried off with me when, earlier, I had left Zarqa sleeping while I sought to enter the city of Ardha on my own. The vial now slept in a small pouch concealed in my harness; and the Live Rope was the line by which I had descended the outer wall.
Having retrieved these articles I was now as well armed as a man could hope to be, under the circumstances. Clipped to my trappings in their scabbards were the poisoned stiletto and a slim-bladed longsword of superb workmanship and balance which I had personally selected from the armory of the Assassins.
Now I was prepared to attempt my escape from the temple of the Incarnate Goddess.
It would not be easy. By now, the alarm had been given and the fire was raging unchecked on the tier below me. The corridors were thronged with shouting men running hither and thither, attempting to douse the flames and secure the prisoners. It would be a chancy business, seeking to mingle with the excited, clamoring guards and servitors, and escape notice, but in the confusion I thought it at least a possibility. So long as there remained a fighting chance for freedom, I was willing to risk it.
All I have ever asked from life was a fighting chance.
I turned to go… and felt a chill creep up my back.
I felt the pressure of unseen eyes. That mysterious sixth sense that gives warning of danger warned me now. I whirled on my heel, my hand going to the hilt of my longsword.
A black-masked figure crouched on the sill of the open window, watching me with expressionless, inscrutable eyes.
The bony frame of the crouched figure was entirely clothed in black, and the visor of a silken mask concealed his features from me. But there was no concealing that great beak of a nose, or the clever, humorous twist of that thin-lipped mouth.
It was Klygon the Assassin.
Klygon, who had accompanied me here on zaiph-back from the house of Gurjan Tor.
Klygon, whom I had left on the ledge above, steadying the line down which I had clambered.
Klygon… who was sworn to slay me of I failed in this mission—as I had failed.
Chapter 2
The Vengeance of Gurjan Tor
Klygon climbed nimbly into the room, whipped off his mask, and peered at me with shrewd, clever eyes. The expression on his homely, wizened face was one of profound bewilderment.
“Now, by The World Above, lad, what is going on?” he demanded querulously. He rubbed his knobby lantern jaw with a long-fingered hand. “Saw you that remarkable flying thing? ‘Twere gold, I’ll swear on my Mother’s Pyre, but how a thing of heavy gold can fly as lightly as a fluttering leaf, I know not. Witchcraft—aye, that’s the name of it—witchcraft!”
I relaxed my warlike stance a bit, but held my silence, and my hand hovered very near the pommel of my sword. Klygon paid it no notice, peering around with bewilderment, cocking an ear at distant shouts and the thud of running feet in the corridor beyond our chamber. He lifted his huge beak of a nose and sniffed loudly; the smell of burning wood was very distinct. And we could hear the hiss and crackle of flames from the inferno that raged beneath our feet. We could almost feel the heat of the conflagration beating up against our soles.
The ugly little man shook his head woefully.
“Here’s a sorry business, lad! Gurjan Tor will not take the news sweetly, I fear! Aye, our kills snatched away to freedom from under our very noses, and all our clever little plans set at naught. There will be long faces in the House of the Assassins this night, aye, and long knives out and ready—for the two of us.”
I seized on that phrase and repeated it questioningly.
“The—two of us?”
“Aye, my lad, there’ll be two necks to be slit from this night’s sorry business—thine and mine!” He cocked his head, beady, clever little eyes peering up at me humorously, “What ails you, lad? Think you that ‘tis yourself alone for whose blood old Gurjan Tor will thirst, after this night’s failure? If so—not so, me boy, not so! You be a mere novice in the craft, after all, and even old Gurjan might be lenient on you, this being your first time out and all. But not so lenient will he be on poor old Klygon, nay! I be a Master Assassin, and for me to fail in a mission of such importance, why, ‘twill mean my death, lad. Aye, and a slow, lingering matter ‘twill be, if I know the cold brain of Gurjan Tor… slow and lingering, aye, with acid needles and heated hooks and many another cunning little toy.” He shuddered, turning pale.
“Then what’s to be done, Klygon?” I asked.
He slapped his palm against his brow and jerked his bony shoulders skyward, as if despairing of my faculties.
” ‘What’s to be done?’ the poor nitling asks! ‘What’s to be done?’ Why, heaven bless you, lad, there’s only flight! We must be gone from this ‘cursed place, aye, the both of us, as swifter than a zaiph in mating month.”
“Gone—you mean escape? Both of us?”
“Aye, lad, both of us. And why not? Two can flee as well as one, and if it comes to fighting—well, ‘tis well to have a friend at your back when it’s sword and gullet-slitting time. Why do you look so puzzled, boy? Because you fear I’ll remember me oath to Gurjan Tor and slip me knife ‘tween your ribs as price of failing? Aye, old Klygon can see by your face you knew all about that; but think, boy—use your wits! What’s me oath to Gurjan Tor worth now, with me own weasand ripe for the knife? I’d be a sorry nitling, that I would, to sink a bit of steel into the only comrade I got left in the world, and him a sturdy younker with a wrist of iron and courage enough in his guts for three full-grooved fightingmen! Forget it, Karn me lad! When every hand’s against you, a friend is a good thing to have.”