terrible march upon the tiger’s trail had brought him near death, indeed. Tortured body and fevered mind recovered but slowly.
Then one afternoon, when Yarmud entered the room, a stately, august figure in his long, oddly fashioned black abba, Price awoke. His mind was suddenly sane and clear again. He rose to meet the old Arab, though his limbs felt yet weak.
Old Yarmud smiled flashingly in pleasure, to see him rise.
“Salaam aleikum, Lord Iru,” he called. And, to Price’s astonishment, he dropped to his knees on the floor.
Price returned the immemorial desert formula, and Yarmud rose, anxiously inquiring about his health.
“Oh, I’m coming round all right,” he assured the Arab. “How long have I been here?”
“Five days ago your camel—or the camel of the maiden Aysa, who went to wake you—came to the lake. You, Iru, were fastened upon the beast, with a halter-rope around your body and the pommels of the saddle.”
He knew, then, that this must be the town of El Yerim, from which Aysa had fled. These people thought him the legendary king of Anz, awakened to free them from bondage to the golden beings. No great wonder that, since he had ridden out of the desert with the weapons of the ancient ruler, looking more dead than alive.
“The mountain where Malikar lives,” he asked, “is it near?”
Yarmud gestured with a lean arm. “Northwest. The journey of half a day.”
Price realized then that his hejin, when it tried to turn aside on the last day of the ride to the mountain, had been trying to come to the oasis here. He supposed that, after abandoning his insane hammering upon the golden gate, he had retained consciousness enough to mount the dromedary and tie himself to the saddle, though he recalled nothing of it. And the loyal animal had brought him here.
“Aysa?” he asked Yarmud, eagerly. “Know you where she is?”
“No. She was chosen by Malikar to go to the mountain with the snake’s tribute. She escaped, none knew how,” the old Arab glanced at Price, with the suggestion of a wink, “and went in search of Anz, the lost city, to waken you. You know not where she is?”
Price’s heart went out to Yarmud, with the certainty that he had connived at Aysa’s escape.
“No. Malikar came, and carried her off. He left me locked in the old catacombs. I got out, and followed the tracks of his tiger. They led to the mountain.”
“We shall free her,” said Yarmud, “when we destroy the golden folk.”
Noticing Price’s weakness, the old ruler soon departed, leaving him to decide one problem that had risen. These Arabs obviously considered Price the miraculous resurrection of their ancient king. As such, they were no doubt ready to follow him in a war against the golden beings.
Since he had the old king’s arms—mail, ax and shield were beside his bed—and since he knew the ax-song, it might be easy enough for him to play the part. But Price was naturally frank, straightforward. Everything in him revolted at assuming false colors.
Next morning he was feeling stronger. And he had made his decision.
When Yarmud entered again, and was about to kneel, Price stopped him. “Wait. You call me by the name of the king of lost Anz. But I am not Iru. My name is Price Durand.”
Yarmud gaped at him.
“I was born in another land,” Price explained. “I came here across the sea and the mountains.”
The Arab recovered, remonstrated excitedly:
“But you must be Iru! You are tall: you have the blue eyes, the flaming hair! Aysa went to seek you, found you. You yourself say that you broke from the tomb. You come from Anz with the ax of Iru, and whispering his ax-song.”
Price began an explanation of his life, and the expedition into the desert, of how he had come to meet Aysa.
“Yes, those strangers are here,” Yarmud agreed. “They camp across the lake. They take our food, and turn their camels on our pasture, and give us no pay. They wish my warriors to march with them
Then one afternoon, when Yarmud entered the room, a stately, august figure in his long, oddly fashioned black abba, Price awoke. His mind was suddenly sane and clear again. He rose to meet the old Arab, though his limbs felt yet weak.
Old Yarmud smiled flashingly in pleasure, to see him rise.
“Salaam aleikum, Lord Iru,” he called. And, to Price’s astonishment, he dropped to his knees on the floor.
Price returned the immemorial desert formula, and Yarmud rose, anxiously inquiring about his health.
“Oh, I’m coming round all right,” he assured the Arab. “How long have I been here?”
“Five days ago your camel—or the camel of the maiden Aysa, who went to wake you—came to the lake. You, Iru, were fastened upon the beast, with a halter-rope around your body and the pommels of the saddle.”
He knew, then, that this must be the town of El Yerim, from which Aysa had fled. These people thought him the legendary king of Anz, awakened to free them from bondage to the golden beings. No great wonder that, since he had ridden out of the desert with the weapons of the ancient ruler, looking more dead than alive.
“The mountain where Malikar lives,” he asked, “is it near?”
Yarmud gestured with a lean arm. “Northwest. The journey of half a day.”
Price realized then that his hejin, when it tried to turn aside on the last day of the ride to the mountain, had been trying to come to the oasis here. He supposed that, after abandoning his insane hammering upon the golden gate, he had retained consciousness enough to mount the dromedary and tie himself to the saddle, though he recalled nothing of it. And the loyal animal had brought him here.
“Aysa?” he asked Yarmud, eagerly. “Know you where she is?”
“No. She was chosen by Malikar to go to the mountain with the snake’s tribute. She escaped, none knew how,” the old Arab glanced at Price, with the suggestion of a wink, “and went in search of Anz, the lost city, to waken you. You know not where she is?”
Price’s heart went out to Yarmud, with the certainty that he had connived at Aysa’s escape.
“No. Malikar came, and carried her off. He left me locked in the old catacombs. I got out, and followed the tracks of his tiger. They led to the mountain.”
“We shall free her,” said Yarmud, “when we destroy the golden folk.”
Noticing Price’s weakness, the old ruler soon departed, leaving him to decide one problem that had risen. These Arabs obviously considered Price the miraculous resurrection of their ancient king. As such, they were no doubt ready to follow him in a war against the golden beings.
Since he had the old king’s arms—mail, ax and shield were beside his bed—and since he knew the ax-song, it might be easy enough for him to play the part. But Price was naturally frank, straightforward. Everything in him revolted at assuming false colors.
Next morning he was feeling stronger. And he had made his decision.
When Yarmud entered again, and was about to kneel, Price stopped him. “Wait. You call me by the name of the king of lost Anz. But I am not Iru. My name is Price Durand.”
Yarmud gaped at him.
“I was born in another land,” Price explained. “I came here across the sea and the mountains.”
The Arab recovered, remonstrated excitedly:
“But you must be Iru! You are tall: you have the blue eyes, the flaming hair! Aysa went to seek you, found you. You yourself say that you broke from the tomb. You come from Anz with the ax of Iru, and whispering his ax-song.”
Price began an explanation of his life, and the expedition into the desert, of how he had come to meet Aysa.
“Yes, those strangers are here,” Yarmud agreed. “They camp across the lake. They take our food, and turn their camels on our pasture, and give us no pay. They wish my warriors to march with them
Similar Books
