THE INVINCIBLE SHIWAN KHAN
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 1, 1940.
From out of Tibet swings the Oriental monster, Shiwan Khan, for another
meeting with The Shadow!
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
