Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 193 - The Invincible Shiwan Khan

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THE INVINCIBLE SHIWAN KHAN
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SPELL OF THE PAST
? CHAPTER II. DEATH'S CHOICE
? CHAPTER III. THE MASTER SPEAKS
? CHAPTER IV. THREADS TO CRIME
? CHAPTER V. FROM SIX TO SEVEN
? CHAPTER VI. THE BRONZE KNIFE
? CHAPTER VII. THE SECOND SUICIDE
? CHAPTER VIII. QUEST OF MISSING MEN
? CHAPTER IX. THE LONE TRAIL
? CHAPTER X. PATH OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER XI. THE DOUBLE THRUST
? CHAPTER XII. TWISTED BATTLE
? CHAPTER XIII. WITHIN THE LAIR
? CHAPTER XIV. THE DOUBLE TRAIL
? CHAPTER XV. ONE MAN'S PRICE
? CHAPTER XVI. WORD FROM BELOW
? CHAPTER XVII. THE GREAT DRAGON
? CHAPTER XVIII. WITHIN THE THRONE ROOM
? CHAPTER XIX. THE WAY OF SHIWAN KHAN
? CHAPTER XX. SHIWAN KHAN ESCAPES
? CHAPTER XXI. THE HAND FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER XXII. THE HOST DIVIDED
CHAPTER I. SPELL OF THE PAST
STRANGE was the golden room, singular the hush that lay within its squarish walls. Windowless, it
formed a metallic cubicle pervaded by a rich, yet dullish, gleam.
Golden, too, was the attire of the room's lone occupant. He was robed in the richly woven cloth, its hue
relieved only by the purple trimmings of a kingly jacket. Purple, too, was the skullcap that topped his
head.
His face placed him as an Oriental. Saffron in shade, it produced a chameleon effect, blending with the
golden light to render his features almost colorless.
Oddly, though, the result was a sharpness of those features. Absorbing the light about them, they stood
out with a clarity that revealed every line in the man's demoniac countenance.
No brush could have portrayed a face so fiendish as that which the gold-robed man produced in life
through his own emotionless effort.
Wide of forehead, tapering to pointed chin, the face was an inverted triangle. Its eyes were greenish, like
those of a night-prowling beast. Above those eyes were brows that made curved streaks, clear to the
wide temples. Between the eyes a sharp, downward line marked a thin, high-bridged nose.
Brownish lips, scarcely discernible until they opened, were topped by thin, drooping mustaches; while a
tuft of beard, dabbed to the thin-pointed chin, gave the final touch to a human physiognomy that a Satan
could have envied.
The monstrous master of the golden room reclined in a gilded throne. He was resting his chin upon an
elbow propped hand; his body, slanted across the broad throne, looked snakelike in the folds of the
ornamented robe.
His free hand stretched its long-nailed fingers to a gilded taboret, plucked a small vial from the tiny table.
Like a bird's claws, those fingers clutched the vial snapped between them. Instantly, the square-walled
room was filled with the perfume of lilacs.
Catlike eyes fixed in a glistening stare. Brownish lips opened; from them dripped words that carried a
clear tinkle, like ice against the sides of a glass.
"I am Shiwan Khan," spoke the man in gold. He paused, as though his words were directed to a gallery
of listeners. Then: "I am Shiwan Khan, the Golden Master!"
The hush returned to the golden room; yet, from his expression, Shiwan Khan seemed to catch the faint
hum of a city's roar. It was as if he had cast a mental message upon the wind, and all New York had
answered!
Livid eyes bored toward the opposite wall. Amazing in their sharpness, they could have detected the
cracks of a sliding door that the reflected shimmer hid from ordinary sight. But Shiwan Khan was looking
beyond that barrier.
Though solid obstructions could not melt before his gaze, Shiwan Khan's mental efforts could produce
the same effect. The perfume that filled the golden room tuned his brain to its objective. From the leer
that spread upon his lips, it was plain that he had completed a process of mental television.
He spoke again, his tone clear as a bell:
"Lana Luan... Lana Luan... You hear me... you will obey... Lana Luan -"
The repeated words stood out amid a low murmur, which faded curiously under the power of the Golden
Master's tone.
Shiwan Khan, himself, was no longer conscious of the walls about him. Even the atmosphere was icy,
like his voice. But the chill still held the odor of lilacs.
STRANGE, the fragrance of lilacs. Standing by a train gate in the Pennsylvania Station in New York,
Beatrice Chadbury breathed the aroma of the flowers that she held. She favored lilacs, and it was
thoughtful of Paul Brent to present her with this bouquet as a farewell gift before he left for Washington.
Somehow, when Beatrice smelled the lilacs everything else faded away. The vast spaces of the great
railway terminal absorbed the murmurs of the passing throngs. The girl's eyes seemed to close of their
own accord. Beatrice was in a void, a pleasant one, where distance seemed endless.
The through train from Boston was ten minutes late. People crowded close as the attendant opened the
gate. Then the throng was pressing through. Brushed aside, Beatrice stood unnoticed, except by a few
persons who happened to glance her way.
They were a bit puzzled when they saw a very beautiful raven-haired girl whose face was inclined toward
the lovely bouquet of lilacs that she carried. Primly attired in a dress of midnight blue, with large white
cuffs and collar, Beatrice looked quite young and sentimental. Perhaps that was why passers smiled.
They did not hear the voice that spoke to the girl in a far-away, frigid tone. It was speaking a name that
Beatrice remembered from long ago:
"Lana Luan... Lana Luan -"
"Yes!" The girl's lips barely opened. "Yes! I am Lana Luan."
"I am Shiwan Khan," announced the voice. "I am the Golden Master -"
"Yes!"
As Beatrice's lips moved in reply, a young man detached himself from the throng that was going through
the gate. He was carrying magazines and newspapers that he had hurriedly purchased for his journey.
The arrival was Paul Brent. His tanned squarish face lost its serious expression, his eyes showed
sympathy, as his lips relaxed into a smile. Paul was starting on a journey that might lead to a longer one;
he could understand why Beatrice felt sentimental over the lilacs that were his parting gift.
Impulsively, Paul gathered the girl into his arms, along with the newspapers and magazines.
"Good-by, darling," he said softly. "Maybe I won't be gone long. Even if I am, I'll write often. We
certainly won't have to postpone our wedding day. I can promise you that!"
The lilacs were pressed deep against Paul's shoulder, and Beatrice's face was buried with them. Paul
wondered if she was crying because of his departure. Gently, he whispered:
"Do you hear me, darling?"
Beatrice didn't hear him. What she heard was that cold, far-away voice that alone could reach her brain
amid the overwhelming fragrance of the lilacs. It was a spell from the past, repeating the name that
seemed her own.
"Lana Luan -" As the voice paused, Beatrice waited breathless. "You hear me... Lana Luan?"
"I hear you!" gasped Beatrice. "Yes, I hear you!"
Paul thought that the reply was addressed to him. He tilted Beatrice's chin up toward him, smiled as he
saw the girl's closed eyes. Paul's kiss was earnest; Beatrice's seemed the same, though her response was
almost mechanical.
The gateman was about to close the gate. Anxious for a few parting words, Paul ended the caress too
soon to notice Beatrice's lack of ardor.
"Good by," he said. "You'll go right back to your apartment, won't you, darling? You know how tired
you've been all day -"
Again, it was another voice that Beatrice heard. A voice repeated:
"Lana Luan... you will obey -"
"Yes." Beatrice's closed eyes were turned toward Paul. "I shall obey."
TURNING, the girl walked away from the gate, toward the exit leading to the taxicabs. Though her reply
had fitted Paul's final question, it struck him as quite odd. But there wasn't time to ponder over Beatrice's
curious statement; the train gate was about to close. Besides, there was something else that caught Paul's
attention at that moment.
A lilac had dropped from Beatrice's bouquet. It was lying near the train gate. Scooping up the precious
flower, Paul turned, dashed through the gate and down the steps to the waiting train.
A conductor was shouting, "All aboard," but it didn't matter. Paul was through the gate; they'd have to
wait for him. As he neared the bottom of the steps, the young man smilingly raised the lilac and breathed
its perfume.
Then Paul Brent was stopped stock-still, staring with fixed gaze, oblivious of the platform, the train, or
the conductor's final call. Like Beatrice, Paul had caught the spell of the past.
He heard the voice - distant, like a bell, fainter, perhaps, than it had seemed to Beatrice, yet clear enough
to awaken horror as it repeated the name: "Lana Luan... Lana Luan -"
Train doors clanked shut. Under the smooth tug of an electric locomotive, the limited glided from the
station. Passing porters grinned at the unseeing man, who stood entranced, a lilac in his hand. Like the
conductor, they thought that Paul had been too late to bid farewell to some girl who was leaving on the
train.
"Lana Luan!"
Mechanically, Paul spoke the name, as the flower dropped from his listless fingers. A forgotten name,
that Paul had never expected to hear again. A name that Beatrice Chadbury had accepted while under
the control of an insidious master.
To Beatrice, the name of Lana Luan could be irresistible, when uttered in the icy tone that she had heard;
whereas to Paul, it was a token of dreadful recollection.
That distant call had not been meant for Paul Brent. Nevertheless he, too, had heard it. Only with a
fearful shudder was he able to wrench himself from the partial trance that had accidentally gripped him.
Then, in a tone that sounded hollow and sepulchral in the cavernous depths surrounding the underground
platform, Paul voiced another name that, to his mind, meant evil incarnate and all-powerful:
"Shiwan Khan!"
CHAPTER II. DEATH'S CHOICE
RIDING in a taxicab, Paul Brent found himself wondering how he had got there. He could remember
dashing frantically about the Pennsylvania Station, looking everywhere for Beatrice. He knew that he
must have finally reached the taxicabs, the only place where Beatrice could have gone.
Leaning through the partition, Paul repeated the address of the girl's apartment. The driver gave a
sympathetic grin.
"I'm getting you there, bud," he said. "That's the fifth time you've told me where you want to go. Your girl
friend took a cab, all right; the porters remembered her when you told them what she looked like. Maybe
I'll get you there ahead of her. So sit back and relax."
Paul couldn't relax. He was remembering too many monstrous things. He was thinking of Shiwan Khan,
the Oriental crime wizard, whose return to America meant calamity. Paul knew how Shiwan Khan could
sway the minds of men and make them parties to schemes of evil.
In such plans, Shiwan Khan used go-betweens, choosing other dupes to play the part. He made them
forget their real personalities, to become mental slaves who adopted other names and subjected
themselves to his insidious bidding.
Of such dupes, Beatrice Chadbury had been Shiwan Khan's first choice. She had served him as Lana
Luan, working to enmesh others in his toils. Beatrice had been freed of that mental bondage, when
Shiwan Khan had been forced to abandon his schemes and flee to his homeland of Sinkiang near Tibet.
(Note: See "The Golden Master," Vol. XXXI, No. 2.)
But the menace of the Golden Master had not been ended, even in defeat.
Shiwan Khan had returned, to attempt new evil. Again defeated, he had managed escape. (Note: See
"Shiwan Khan Returns," Vol. XXXII, No. 1.) On that second venture, he had ignored his former targets,
Paul Brent and Beatrice Chadbury. But he was back again, with all his wizardry, and Beatrice had
already succumbed to his far-reaching sway!
One being, alone, had managed to cope with Shiwan Khan. He was a fighter whose ways of mystery
rivaled those of the Golden Master, and he stood for justice, as opposed to evil.
The Shadow!
Superfoe of crime, The Shadow moved beneath the shroud of night itself. In this hour of despair, Paul
could only hope that The Shadow had somehow learned of Shiwan Khan's return. It was already
evening; the cab was speeding along darkened streets. To Paul, night's encroachment was not a thing to
fear.
It symbolized The Shadow, rather than Shiwan Khan. If harm had actually befallen Beatrice, perhaps The
Shadow could rescue her, as he had once before!
Jamming to a stop in front of a secluded apartment house, the cab actually disgorged Paul Brent. The
young man tossed a bill to the driver and dashed into the little entry. There, Paul fumbled with the bell to
Beatrice's apartment.
As he spoke into the telephone, Paul thought that he heard the girl reply. It didn't occur to him that he had
called there so often before that he might, in his present stress, be imagining echoes from the past.
Strange moods, uncontrollable hallucinations, could grip persons who cut in on the mental
pronouncements of Shiwan Khan, as Paul had tonight!
At least Paul's ring was answered, for the door buzzed to release the automatic lock. Pushing through,
Paul hurried up to the third floor, and knocked at the door of Beatrice's apartment. There was no
response until he rapped again; then the door swung open under his hand.
DESPITE his anxiety to find Beatrice, Paul halted on the threshold. He remembered the traps that
Shiwan Khan could lay; how the Golden Master employed mighty fighting men in the shape of huge
Mongols, who were murderers by trade.
The place was lighted by a floor lamp in the corner. A quick inspection of the little apartment showed that
the girl was not there.
Stopping by a writing desk, Paul happened to gaze beyond the furniture piece.
Something, stirred. Grabbing the desk telephone as a weapon, Paul made a lunge past the desk.
The thing rose to meet him, a human monstrosity that seemed the outgrowth of a tropical nightmare. Paul
was faced by a creature that could be termed human only for want of another description.
Its baldish head was fronted by a face of yellow-brown, with features that were chiefly eyes and teeth, all
glistening white. The head was mounted on a scrawny body that looked like a tawny drumhead stretched
over struts that served as ribs.
Clawish hands, on the ends of arms that seemed as thin as polo sticks, lunged into the light. About its
waist, the unlimbered creature wore a drab-gray loin cloth. Its legs, long and spidery, looked like
skeleton limbs.
Paul Brent was husky. He expected little difficulty with this scrawny foe. His charge was powerful, but he
didn't complete it. Half way to the corner, Paul was stopped by a numbing shock that floored him.
He thought, at first, that it came from the telephone; but when the instrument clanked the floor, away from
him, Paul still felt the paralyzing pangs that racked his whole body.
The spidery man was a human electric eel, who could deliver a staggering impulse even without contact!
As he hissed a triumphant snarl between his gleaming teeth, the human skeleton whisked a long-bladed
knife from his girdling belt. The weapon seemed to leap forward in his clawish clutch; he was restraining
it, not thrusting, as he poised the point above Paul's heart.
Paul Brent was marked for doom. No living hand could have stayed death's choice. The thing that saved
him was a token that seemed more than human, a shuddering challenge that demanded answer ahead of
any other deed.
Helpless though he was, Paul recognized that weird mockery, knew the rescuer that it represented.
The Shadow!
WITH a quick half-jerk, the brownish killer wrenched his poised blade away from Paul's breast and gave
his bony hand a twisting thrust toward the door. The knife seemed to launch from his fingers like a living
thing unleashed.
In the doorway was a moving target, a tall black-cloaked form that was actually driving in to meet the
knife when the brownish assassin loosed it.
The blade scarcely flashed along its course; judged by eyesight alone, it might have been traveling at
bullet speed. Yet it missed despite the accuracy of the throw.
The lunging figure in the doorway was twisty, too, when occasion demanded it. With his taunt, calculated
to save Paul's life, The Shadow was taking measures to preserve his own.
He knew what the brownish assassin was, the moment that he saw the fellow's livid eyes. The man was a
naljorpa, an ascetic reputed to have magic powers, the sort who could be met in the Himalaya
Mountains, on the borders of Tibet.
Familiar with others of that ilk, The Shadow had made his rapid lunge, not to start a useless attack, but to
clear the doorway and make a sideward dive to the floor. His forced sprawl was under way when the
knife blade zimmed through the folds of his coat sleeve, slashing the arm beneath it.
Cold steel produced a red-hot sensation as it slithered past. As The Shadow rolled across the floor, he
heard an oncoming hiss. An instant later, the wiry naljorpa was flinging hard upon him, intent to complete
the murderous work that his blade had begun.
Whatever the power of the naljorpas - whether it existed in themselves, or in the minds of those they met
- there was no question that it worked.
The numbness that had flattened Paul Brent was a common thing in Northern India, encountered often by
those unwise enough to trouble wandering mystics from Tibet. Just as Paul had expected easy victory
over the brownish man, so, in his turn, did the naljorpa plan a quick end for The Shadow.
Claws shot for the cloaked throat, hoping to choke a numbed foe into oblivion. But there was no
paralysis in the hands that clamped the Tibetan's forward-driving arms. The Shadow had a peculiar ability
of his own - he was immune to the shocking current that emanated from the naljorpa.
Undeterred by his wounded arm, he twisted the spidery assassin, as if about to tie him into knots. His
spindly body bent almost to the breaking point, the naljorpa writhed in helpless fury until, by a lucky side
twist that drove his shoulder against The Shadow's gashed arm, he gained release.
It was exactly as if a huge steel coil had sideslipped under the increasing pressure of a binding machine.
Bent double, the naljorpa suddenly lengthened, shot from The Shadow's grip and arrowed through the
door, out into the hallway.
Straight ahead, the knife was sticking in the baseboard. The Tibetan's lurch carried him to it; he grabbed
the blade and wrenched it from the woodwork.
Again, it seemed that the weapon was swifter than the hand, as it came slashing back across the
brownish shoulder. But the naljorpa had taken too long, despite the swiftness of his moves.
PRONE on the floor, The Shadow had whipped an automatic from beneath his cloak. Aiming the
weapon with a speed that outdid his opponent's fling, the cloaked fighter fired.
Ribs crackled under the bullet's impact. The naljorpa emitted a high-pitched cry: a shriek of anger, not of
pain. Anguish was a thing unknown to his breed; in their years of training, they tortured all such sensations
from their systems.
Up from the floor, The Shadow lunged through the doorway, his gun shoved ahead of him, ready to beat
his foeman to the next thrust. Recoiling from the jabbing muzzle, the wounded naljorpa made another of
his tremendous bounds; not amazing, considering that he had strength proportionate to more than twice
his weight.
Catlike, the creature reached the ledge of an open window nearly twenty feet away. His body lighted,
twisting; the hand that held the knife was whipped about as if by the weapon's weight. The blade slid
loose as The Shadow's automatic blasted.
Again The Shadow had won, by the fraction of a second. The slug from his .45 carried a bone-crushing
wallop that swept the withered assassin clear across the sill. The knife, launched a few degrees before the
required angle, went through the cloak again, slicing a harmless path between The Shadow's body and
the half-raised arm beside it.
Hurtled out into the darkness, the naljorpa sent back a trailing cry as he plunged to the concrete
courtyard, three floors below. The call was one that carried malice, not terror; it was a plea for revenge,
that must be meant for someone close enough to combat The Shadow.
Swinging full about, The Shadow helped Paul Brent to his feet. He hastened him down a stairway and out
to the courtyard.
Spreading the beam of a tiny flashlight, he looked for the fallen Tibetan. The courtyard was empty;
amazingly, the dead man had vanished.
Unquestionably, there had been others, in reserve; for a dead naljorpa could not have vaulted a ten-foot
wall.
Of all the incredible fighters that The Shadow had encountered during his exploits, never had he found
foemen more unusual than these naljorpas. Torn from the solitude where they dwelt, they had come half
around the world, to reach New York.
There were sounds of sirens from the distance. The Shadow's shots had been heard in the neighborhood;
police would soon be here. But on the way, the officers would not encounter traces of a brown-skinned
squad, carrying away a fallen member. The naljorpas were too well versed in ways of stealth to be
detected, even with a burden.
The Shadow, too, had ways of blending into darkness. Aiding Paul back into the building, he steered him
through a rear door on the ground floor, out into an alleyway.
They reached a waiting cab that whisked them away just before a patrol car turned the corner. Slumped
in the rear seat, Paul was pressing his hand to his head, while he muttered disjointed words. He had
suffered a slight concussion in his fall to the floor; he would need a rest before he could remember facts
and relate their details.
But The Shadow did not need to hear the name that Paul so vainly tried to utter. He already knew it.
Those naljorpas could never have been induced to leave the Himalayas and come to America, except by
some supermind who knew their ways; who actually dwelt among them as a tulku, or living deity.
Even in Tibet, tulkus were rare; and The Shadow knew of only one who had ever deserted his native
land, to come to America. He was a master mind who had turned his Oriental wizardry to crime.
A superfoe who had met defeat, yet whose return The Shadow had expected as positively as the dawn
of a coming day:
Shiwan Khan!
CHAPTER III. THE MASTER SPEAKS
BEATRICE CHADBURY was still riding in a cab. It wasn't the same cab that she had taken from the
Pennsylvania Station; she had transferred from that one, near Times Square.
In fact, this was the fourth cab that she had used in her zigzag journey up and down Manhattan. Each
time that she left one cab to take another, Beatrice had responded to the call of a mental voice that
addressed her as Lana Luan.
The lilacs were still with her. Breathing their perfume, the girl stared fixedly ahead when she spoke an
address to the driver. The motion of her lips was mechanical, as though actuated by some one other than
herself.
Nodding wisely, the cab driver watched the mirror as he drove southward. He recognized the address in
question. It was just within the borders of Chinatown; he had taken other fares there, before. The cabby
didn't regard it as any of his business that the place was an opium den, managed by a Chinaman named
Loo Dow.
The cab reached the entrance of a too-narrow Chinatown alleyway.
Mechanically, Beatrice placed a wadded bill in the driver's hand and stepped out into the darkness.
With hurried pace, she reached a doorway deep in the alley, where she could scarcely be seen. The door
was of the sliding type, fitting into a wall of grimy brick.
Beatrice rapped. A singular thing happened. The cab driver didn't notice it; if he had, he would have
gaped, instead of driving away.
The door did not move. Instead, a portion of the brick wall slid across and covered the metal barrier. As
Beatrice stepped through the opening, the grimy surface slithered back in place again, so neatly that the
protruding bricks interlocked like clenching teeth.
Instead of entering by the narrow passage that led to Loo Dow's opium house; Beatrice had taken
another route that ran beside it, separated by a thick partition, She was in a passage unknown to Loo
Dow's patrons, as well as to Loo Dow himself!
The passage was short. It ended in a steep stairway that descended below a blocking wall. At the
bottom, it turned left, twice, setting Beatrice on a reversed course that led beneath the alley. Beyond that
were other steps, upward.
All along the route dim lights appeared, subsiding after the hurrying girl had passed them. Breathless,
Beatrice took no notice of the many turns that she followed, seemingly by sheer instinct. She was
repeating the name that she accepted as her own:
"Lana Luan... Lana Luan -"
She wanted to be Lana Luan again. The history of these underground channels, once used in tong wars
and forgotten afterward, did not interest her in the least. Her goal was at the end of the maze; nothing else
counted.
There, Lana Luan could be rid of the ridiculous American attire that didn't belong to her. Once clad in
Oriental garments she would be a true Chinese. Seeing an open door at the top of a short flight of steps,
the girl gave a glad cry in a singsong pitch that befitted Lana Luan.
She had tugged her arms from the dress sleeves by the time she reached the open room. She was letting
her hair fall across her bare shoulders as she closed the door.
The room was a tiny boudoir fitted in Chinese style; draped in a corner were the gorgeous silk pajamas
and Chinese slippers that belonged to Lana Luan.
Soon, the transformation was completed. As Lana Luan, Beatrice actually appeared to be a Chinese.
Her oval face, with languorous lashes and ruddy lips, gave her an Oriental expression. The silken
costume, embroidered with poppy leaves and peacocks, seemed the proper garb for a daughter of Old
Cathay.
Even her complexion had changed; due, probably, to the subdued yellowish light that filled the boudoir.
Under a different glow, the face of Lana Luan would certainly have shown American traces; but that was
no disadvantage, so far as the schemes of Shiwan Khan were concerned.
The Golden Master needed a messenger who could go from place to place without attracting too much
notice. A type like this was therefore suitable, in a city like New York. She had become a chameleon,
who could pass as American or Chinese, according to whichever appearance might be required by
circumstance.
AS Lana Luan stood admiring her new guise in the mirror, her eyes took on a fixed expression. Through
her mind, clear as a bell, came the tone of a voice that ordered:
"Come!"
The girl opened the door. On the threshold, she stepped back, as a small procession came along the
passage. The advancing group would have horrified Beatrice Chadbury; but Lana Luan merely surveyed
the procession with a mild curiosity.
Scrawny brown-skinned men made up the parade. One, with glaring eyes and large glistening teeth, was
in the lead; others were bringing a crude stretcher on which lay the distorted figure of a comrade.
They were the naljorpas bringing in the shattered corpse of the assassin who had failed in battle with The
Shadow. In death, the Tibetan still wore his ugly expression; if anything, it was more pronounced.
The whitish eyes were glazed, shrunken lips drawn back from the bulging teeth they surrounded. Bashed
ribs, broken limbs, gave the body a mangled look. Yet the dead Tibetan's fists were clenched.
One locked claw, poked crazily upward from his disjointed body, kept wagging as the bearers took the
stretcher forward, as if its owner were still expressing hate toward the formidable foe who had bested
him.
Lana Luan let the procession pass. The human caravan was marching toward a golden door that shone
from the passage end. While the girl waited, the Tibetans finished their march and ascended curved steps
leading to the door. The portal slid back to admit them.
In his gilded room, Shiwan Khan was lounging on his throne. The bearers propped their burden at the
doorway, so that the Golden Master could meet the glare of the dead naljorpa.
Attentively, Shiwan Khan heard the story that one naljorpa told. The speaker had evidently been near the
scene of combat between his now dead comrade and The Shadow.
"You have done well, Ramjan," declared Shiwan Khan. "Later, you shall have opportunity for vengeance.
As for Kushod" - he bowed toward the gruesome figure on the litter - "he has already completed his long
journey.
"Kushod was a delog, like yourselves. A delog who, in his trances, had visited the bardo, or land
beyond. No delog can find peril in the bardo; therefore, all is well."
The listeners joined in a chorus of strange, gargly cries, expressing elation over Shiwan Khan's words.
Turning toward them, Ramjan pointed to the Golden Master and exclaimed:
"Shiwan Tulku! Shiwan Tulku!"
With a peculiar sidelong gait, the naljorpas filed from the throne room, carrying the dead Kushod with
them. As the golden door slid shut, Shiwan Khan let his slitted lips form a strange smile.
摘要：

THEINVINCIBLESHIWANKHANMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SPELLOFTHEPAST?CHAPTERII.DEATH'SCHOICE?CHAPTERIII.THEMASTERSPEAKS?CHAPTERIV.THREADSTOCRIME?CHAPTERV.FROMSIXTOSEVEN?CHAPTERVI.THEBRONZEKNIFE?CHAPTERVII.THESECONDSUICIDE?CHAPTERVIII.QUESTOFMISSIN...

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