PodCastle

* Authors : C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner
* Narrator : Kaitlyn Zivanovich
* Host : Matt Dovey
* Audio Producer : Devin Martin
*
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Previously published by Weird Tales, November 1937


PG-13
Quest of the Starstone
by C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner
 
Jirel of Joiry is riding down with a score of men at her back,
For none is safe in the outer lands from Jirel’s outlaw pack;
The vaults of the wizard are over-full, and locked with golden key,
And Jirel says, “If he hath so much, then he shall share with me!”
And fires flame high on the altar fane in the lair of the wizard folk,
And magic crackles and Jirel’s name goes whispering through the smoke.
But magic fails in the stronger spell that the Joiry outlaws own:
The splintering crash of a broadsword blade that shivers against the bone,
And blood that bursts through a warlock’s teeth can strangle a half-voiced spell
Though it rises hot from the blistering coals on the red-hot floor of Hell!

The rivet-studded oaken door crashed open, splintering from the assault of pikebutts whose thunderous echoes still rolled around the walls of the tiny stone room revealed beyond the wreck of the shattered door. Jirel, the warrior-maid of Joiry, leaped in through the splintered ruins, dashing the red hair from her eyes, grinning with exertion, gripping her two-edged sword. But in the ruin of the door she paused. The mail-clad men at her heels surged around her in the doorway like a wave of blue-bright steel, and then paused too, staring.
For Franga the warlock was kneeling in his chapel, and to see Franga on his knees was like watching the devil recite a paternoster. But it was no holy altar before which the wizard bent. The black stone of it bulked huge in this tiny, bare room echoing still with the thunder of battle, and in the split second between the door’s fall and Jirel’s crashing entry through its ruins Franga had crouched in a last desperate effort at — at what?
His bony shoulders beneath their rich black robe heaved with frantic motion as he fingered the small jet bosses that girdled the altar’s block. A slab in the side of it fell open abruptly as the wizard, realizing that his enemy was almost within sword’s reach, whirled and crouched like a feral thing. Blazing light, cold and unearthly, streamed out from the gap in the altar.
“So that’s where you’ve hidden it!” said Jirel with a savage softness.
Over his shoulder Franga snarled at her, pale lips writhed back from discolored teeth. Physically he was terrified of her, and his terror paralyzed him. She saw him hesitate, evidently between his desire to snatch into safety what was hidden in the altar and his panic fear of her sword that dripped blood upon the stones.
Jirel settled his indecision.
“You black devil!” she blazed, and lunged like lightning, the dripping blade whistling as it sheared the air.
Franga screamed hoarsely, flinging himself sidewise beneath the sword. It struck the altar with a shivering shock that numbed Jirel’s arm, and as she gasped a sound that was half a sob of pain and fury, half a blistering curse, he scurried crabwise into a corner, his long robe giving him a curiously amorphous look. Recovering herself, Jirel stalked after him, rubbing her numbed arm but gripping that great wet sword fast,