The People of the Black Circle

How it begins

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales September, October, November 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The king of Vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echo in the gold-domed chamber where Bunda Chand struggled on the velvet-cushioned dais. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him. He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine.