THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK CIRCLE
By Robert E. Howard
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird TalesSeptember, October, November 1934. Extensive research did not uncoverany 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