Beyond the Phœnix, page 3
A muffled drumming throbbed out; shrill insane flutings piped weirdly. There were monstrously misshapen beings that squatted on scaled haunches, demoniac toad-like creatures whose flaming eyes dwelt on the two figures that danced before an altar.
Tyrala—and Ithron! Both nude, Ithron’s pale body in strange contrast to the dark vividness of the witch-woman—and Ithron dancing, whirling like a weightless leaf in Tyrala’s grasp. An empty goblet lay on the stones. Ithron had tasted the dreadful wine!
The two figures moved in a swift, grotesque saraband, to the tune of the evil drumming and the pipes. The flower-things in the walls waited. And as Tyrala and Ithron danced, the strength seemed to be draining from the man—the life itself—pouring as though sucked by evil vampirism into the body of the witch.
Ithron grew shrunken, paper-white, skeletal. And Tyrala’s vivid body seemed to drink in life—whirling and swaying with increased energy. Sparks danced eerily in her streaming black hair. Her eyes were pools of lambent radiance.
“Strike!” a voice whispered in Elak’s mind.
He scarcely seemed to move, yet the flaming sword in his hand swung up. From its blade poured a cascade of lightnings, crackling, flashing, veiling the room with light. Through the blaze he heard Tyrala’s scream, knife-edged, keening with an agony beyond life. . . .
And other cries came, thin, utterly horrible. He knew that the glowing flower-things were dying. . . .
* * *
The curtain of light faded. And now nothing existed within the chamber but an altar, blackened and twisted; the walls were burned and blank, and there were mounds of dust on the floor.
The power caught Elak again, lifting him. He caught a momentary glimpse of a broad vista spread far beneath him, a land of sluggish rivers and dark forests stretching into the distance—and it was gone. Brief blackness, and then a flash of metallic walls sliding past, a shaft up which he sped with frightful rapidity, knowing Esarra and Lycon were beside him. . . .
A cavern now, and high gates. A river, under the warm radiance of the sun, tumbling through a craggy gorge. Then a valley—and Sarhaddon, the castles and walls of Sarhaddon, lay beneath him, and he was slanting down through empty air. . . .
Down he swept, through gates and walls and barriers, until he stood in the throneroom of Sarhaddon’s kings. On the great carven chair, ornate with gems and precious metals, sat Xandar the priest, his twisted body hung with royal robes. A circlet of gold crowned the bald head. The scarred half of the priest’s face was deftly disguised with paints that could not hide the frightful deformity.
A girl lay before the throne, strapped to an engine of torture. Her body was reddened with sword-cuts. She was screaming as cords slowly wrenched her limbs apart.
Around the room stood nobles and priests. On almost every face Elak saw thinly-hidden horror and disgust. One man turned away, and Xandar saw him.
“Ho, you Chemoch!” he roared. “Are you daintier than your king? Would you share this maiden’s couch?”
White-faced, the man looked again at the tortured girl. Yet his hand closed convulsively on his sword-hilt.
And then—the voice whispered again in Elak’s mind.
“Slay!”
Elak lifted his blade. A great cry went up within the throneroom; the crowd surged back against the tapestried walls. If they had not seen Elak before—he was surely visible now!
The monster on the throne thrust out clawing hands. He bellowed,
“Baal-Yagoth! Yagoth!”
A cloudy veil swept down over the priest, hiding him in shadow like a shroud. A foul, miasmic stench was strong in Elak’s nostrils. He swung the sword.
Lightnings blazed out crashing. They thundered down on the priest, enveloping him in flame. They licked at his armor of black fog, and drew back—impotent!
The air was choked with that charnel smell. The darkness crept out from the priest, fingering toward Elak. Again he lifted his sword.
Again the lightnings flared. And this time Elak moved forward, confidently, doggedly, slashing with blade of fire at the dark tendrils that crept in toward him. As he neared Xandar a cold revulsion shuddered through Elak’s flesh. He sensed the nearness of an alien thing, a being so evil that it could exist only in the blackness of the pit.
Lightning and shadow clashed, and the castle rocked with thunderous conflict. The priest roared insane blasphemy.
* * *
The blackness coalesced into a tenebrous cloud. Out of it rose a head, malefic and terrible, with serpent eyes of ancient evil. A flattened head that swayed and arose on shimmering scaled coils—
The head of Baal-Yagoth!
It swung down at Elak. He countered desperately with his sword—felt himself driven back.
The shadow of cyclopean wings filled the throneroom with rushing winds. Something, unseen yet tangible, dropped toward that monstrous head. A blinding flare of consuming light crashed out, and for a brief moment Elak saw a gleam of blood-red feathers, eyes golden as the moon, and a striking silver beak.
And the shadow surrounding Xandar faded and was gone. The rearing serpent-head had vanished. Only the priest stood before the throne, stripped of his magic and his power, contorted lips wide in a despairing shriek. His face was a Gorgon mask, seared and blackened into a charred cindery horror.
Eyes of insane rage glared at Elak. The priest sprang forward, hands clawing for Elak’s throat.
Once more, and for the last time, the alien voice whispered within Elak’s brain.
“Strike!”
Sword of flame screamed through the air. Bone and brain and flesh split under that blow, and for a second Xandar stood swaying, cloven in half from skull to navel, blood spurting in a red tide. A moment the priest stood, and crashed down at Elak’s feet dead in a widening crimson pool.
From the court a great cry went up—of triumph and thanksgiving. Elak felt the sword plucked from his hand; it was a flash of light in the air—and then was gone. He stood alone before the throne of Sarhaddon.
The magic had fled. Power of the Phœnix and evil spell of Baal-Yagoth alike were vanished. The nobles pressed forward, shouting.
Elak turned, saw Esarra cutting the last of the cords that bound Xandar’s victim to her rack. A guardsman lifted the sobbing girl, bore her out. Esarra obeyed Elak’s gesture.
He led her to the throne, seated her in it, and on her slender wrist clasped the Phœnix bracelet he took from his own arm. Elak swung to face the room. His rapier came out, was lifted.
And a hundred swords were unsheathed, shimmering together, at his shout,
“Esarra of Sarhaddon!”
“Esarra!” roared the nobles.
They dropped to their knees, heads bent, paying homage to the girl. But Elak felt a soft hand on his shoulder as he knelt, and looked up into Esarra’s eyes. The girl whispered,
“Elak—you will stay in Sarhaddon?”
Slowly he nodded, and Esarra sank back on her throne, a little smile curving her red lips, as the nobles arose and came forward one by one, sword-hilts extended for her touch. Elak made his way through the group, looking for Lycon. He found him at last investigating the contents of a drinking-horn.
“We stay in Sarhaddon—for a while anyhow,” he told the little man.
“As you will,” Lycon said, smiling wisely. He glanced toward the throne. “No doubt you’ll be content enough for a few moons. As for me”—he buried his round face in the horn and gulped noisily—“as for me,” he finished, wiping his mouth with a pudgy hand, “I hear good reports of the royal wine-cellars. And may the gods blast me if I don’t get the keys to ’em before sunset!”
[The end of Beyond the Phoenix by Henry Kuttner]
Henry Kuttner, Beyond the Phœnix
