The noise of battle sensibly diminished. Coper and his stylors and I worked on in a feverish bustle, for we knew we must instantly show the people that we were not as other conquerors had been, and that we really meant what we said about the welfare of the Djangs of Djanduin. Presently Chan of the Wings appeared. He was walking. His leather flying gear showed a streak of blood, and he held his djangir in his hand. When he advanced to stand before me at the long tables set up in the court of the Stux of Zodjuin, he looked not so much tired as regretful and resentful of his errand. This was most unlike a merker.
“Well, Chan of the Wings,” I said, scribbling notes at the foot of a distribution list — that was for palines, I noticed, having asked to inspect the paline supply position personally — and looking up sharply. “You have a message?”
“Aye, Notor Prescot, whom henceforth men will hail as King of Djanduin. The last remnants of the leemsheads are barricaded within the sacred court. Kov Kytun Kholin Dom pens them there. And the Opaz-forsaken rast of a Kov Nath Jagdur has sent a message-”
Instantly my mind flew back seven years, to the moment when I had appeared by the Star Lords’
command in Djanduin, beside the burning inn. And I could hear myself shouting, so as to give a little breathing space, throw a little bafflement into the picture, half-taunting this Nath Jagdur, Kov of Hyr Khor. His men had been hurling stuxes at me, and loosing when they could, and he had been trying to get at me with that damned great sword which now swung at my side. I remembered letting him have a curse and an offer.
“By the Black Chunkrah, Kov Nath! Let you and me settle this between ourselves, like true Horters.”
And he had laughed and said he was no Horter.
Neither am I, when it comes down to it. If I had to cut him up or stick him I would do so, fairly or foully.
“I am coming, Chan of the Wings,” I said, and rose and clapped my left hand to that great sword of the island of Djanduin that I had cut down into an imitation longsword of the Eye of the World. I strode off toward the sacred court of the warrior gods.
Chan shook his head.
“You seem ever able, Notor, to read a man’s mind.”
How easy to have said, in the old harsh way, “Believe it!”
But that would have been cheap.
Kytun met me, blood-spattered, angry, alive with his deep humor and his fighting blood aroused and baffled.
“By the blood of Holy Djan-kadjiryon!” he bellowed. “The yetch challenges you, Dray! He challenges you to single combat!”
“He but takes up a challenge issued seven years ago, Kytun.” I spoke mildly. I had no wish, now, to fight this wild leem of a rebellious Kov who had made himself king; but I would so do. I would do so for the sake of this new country of mine. For, make no mistake, Djanduin had become a country I counted and honored.
Coper had also pushed up with us, and now he squeaked his own outrage.
“If he kills you, Dray, if he does — why — it is all for nothing, for he will be the rightful king still-”
“I do not think Djanduin would care for that.”
“No — we would have to kill him then, ourselves. And the country-” Kytun flicked blood-drops from his sword. “By Djan! This is a sorry business. The challenge should never have been allowed!”
“But it has been, good Kytun, and I accept. Is all prepared?”
“Aye, Dray. It will be as the old laws prescribe. Man against man, and no other man will raise his hand to help either, no matter what the outcome.”
So I walked forward between the arcades with the sculptured and painted friezes — fine work but nothing to compare with what I had seen elsewhere on Kregen. Fresh torches were brought and they cast their flickering erratic light down into the sacred court of the warrior gods. Kov Nath sat on the faerling throne. He looked as I had last seen him, save that his once-smooth helmet of copper hair had now grown long and was disarranged. Many dead Djangs lay about the court. I marked them. The night was very dark, and the stars sparkled down with unwonted brilliance.
“Bring torches!” bellowed Kytun.
I went with my people in a kind of procession into the sacred court; the thought occurred to me then: almost as though we marched ceremoniously into the Jikhorkdun where we would perform our bloody rituals.
Still more torches were brought. Their golden light streaked upon the chemzite carvings of the walls, upon the mosaics of the floor, now dabbled in blood, upon the gold and silver and ivory of the faerling throne, and upon the huge and solidly gem-plated hood which rose, high and domed and arching, above. Like a hollow benediction of gold and jewels the sacred hood of the faerling throne rose over the throne itself, both protecting and threatening. As Kov Nath stood up to reveal himself, clad only in a scarlet breechclout, I loosened my longsword and drew it forth.
Kov Nath stepped down the six golden steps and trod upon the mosaic floor. His four hands were empty.
Thinking it a useful ploy to be seen not to have the advantage of armor I started to strip it off, and Wil of the Bellows was there, unstrapping and carefully removing all the dinted pieces from my body. He took my sword. I held out my hand for the weapon.
An old Dwadjang came forward with a wide and shallow balass box. Wil clung on to my sword, his eyes wide and fear filled upon me. The old Djang opened the box. Inside were ranked eight djangirs. The short broad blades of the double-edged swords glittered in the torchlight.
“This is by the customs of the ancients of Djanduin!” he cried out in a reedy voice. “The challenge has been made and accepted. It is man against man and the prize is the crown and the faerling throne!”
In the rustling silence the spit and crackle of the torches sounded loud and ominous. I stood, all manner of thoughts rushing and colliding in my head.
“Come, cramph, the rast men call Notor Prescot! Select your weapons!”
Slowly I drew out two djangirs.
Kov Nath Jagdur laughed with immense scorn. He plunged his four hands in and withdrew four djangirs. This was the way of it, then! This was the ancient custom! In Djanduin the Djangs fight duels and ritual battles with their national weapon, the djangir.
We faced each other. Two men, alike in so many ways, for had Kov Nath not possessed an extra pair of arms he would have been apim. And — because of a little fad, a weakness, of mine which made me don my old scarlet breechclout on the morning of battle — we both stood naked but for a scarlet loincloth.
He fell into a fighting crouch and then surged up, laughing, gleeful, swinging his arms. I stand as though mesmerized at those four whirling djangirs.
So he faced me, at the end, Nath Jagdur, Kov of Hyr Khor, who was once of the Djin tan. The torchlight threw two stars of mocking gold into his eyes, and his four arms wove a flickering silver net before my eyes. He leaped for me, and in his four hands the whirling blades swung into a lethal wheel of deadly steel!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The marvelous world of Kregen is blessed with two suns and seven moons. Usually at night a combination of moons sends down their streaming pinkish rays, sometimes golden, sometimes jade, as seasons change and the mists rise. Sometimes there falls a night in which no moons are visible. There are two suns and seven moons, and each has many names, and the tenth is called Notor Zan, the Tenth Lord, the Lord of Blackness.
The Djangs are ferocious warriors.
Had I my trusted longsword — or a thraxter and shield — or a rapier and main-gauche — for it might perhaps have been too much to ask that I gripped the superb Savanti sword I had left with Delia — I would have gone up against Kov Nath with greater confidence.