Collected Fiction, page 58
Elak got heavily to his feet and kicked Lycon off his couch. “Wake up!” He commanded. “We might have had our throats slit as you slept, drunken little dog.”
“More mead,” murmured the drunken little dog, still apparently engrossed in vinous dreams. “Alas, the cup is empty . . .”
Elak hauled his companion upright by the scruff of the neck. “I said ‘wake up,’ ” he grunted. “We’re in some wizard’s den or other, and your sword may be needed. I see you’ve still got it.” He glanced down with satisfaction at the slim rapier at his own belt.
Lycon opened mildly disapproving eyes. “Our throats are safe, for a while anyhow. They had plenty of time to kill you, if they’d wanted to, last night.”
“What d’you mean?”
“That I woke up to find myself alone in here. I hammered on the door and swore in seven languages, but vainly. So, as there was nothing better to do, I went to sleep again.”
“Where’s the princess?” Elak asked suddenly. Lycon shrugged.
“How should I know? Wait till somebody opens the door, Elak. Then we can use our blades. Until then—” he left the sentence unfinished. A low throbbing musical note sounded, and simultaneously a slit widened in the farther wall.
A man stood in the gap, yellow-haired, slightly built, wearing a loose robe of scarlet. He was unarmed. He lifted his arm in a beckoning gesture.
Elak’s hand was on his rapier hilt as he moved forward. “Where are we?” he asked shortly. “Where’s——”
“You will come with me,” the other said. Elak paused at the expression in the man’s blue eyes. They seemed, somehow, withdrawn, as though they looked upon invisible things. No hint of curiosity stirred in their depths. Vaguely, absently, the man looked at Elak, and he said again, “Come.”
Lycon swaggered to the threshold. “Lead on,” he commanded. “But you’d best play no tricks. My sword’s sharp!”
The red-robed one turned, led the way along a corridor of white stone, windowless and doorless. Elak and Lycon followed, down the passage, up a winding staircase, lit with the cool pallor of hanging lamps, and down a sloping hall to a door of bronze. A gong clanged, peremptory, harsh. The portals opened.
Beyond the threshold was a great room, high-ceilinged, paved with strangely figured mosaic. Blue smoke drifted up from censers. At the farther end of the room was a dais, and upon it—two thrones.
A throne of gleaming metal, red as sunset-clouds, black-cushioned. And one of pale silver. In the silver seat was a man Elak recognized, small and blond, with lazily amused eyes. In the red throne sat a woman.
Tyrala! Elak did not need to see the goblet on a pedestal at her right hand to recognize her. The black eyes watched enigmatically; slim white fingers and ivory shoulders gleamed against the blaze of crimson that was Tyrala’s robe.
Above the thrones and between them, high on the wall, was a phoenix, delicately carved. Coils of incense slid past the jutting beak.
ELAK’S guide gestured him on. Slowly the two men walked toward the dais. As they paused before it Elak caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye; he turned to see Esarra hurrying toward them, while another of the slim, yellow-haired men stood watchfully beside an open door.
“Elak!” The girl’s face was white against the clustering chestnut curls; she clung to Elak, trembling a little. A silver gown had replaced the shredded nightdress, and there were silver slippers on the princess’s small feet.
“Elak!” she said breathlessly. “I was afraid——”
Now Esarra saw the two upon the thrones. She swung to face them, shrinking against Elak’s protective arm about her waist.
The red-clad woman, Tyrala, glanced aside at her companion. She spoke in an undertone. The man nodded. He leaned forward.
“Have no fear,” he said. “You have suffered no injury as yet—is that not so?”
Now Elak remembered his vision. He said, “Perhaps we have you to thank for that—Ithron.”
The woman caught her breath. Ithron’s eyebrows lifted.
“Perhaps,” was his only comment. “However, strangers come to Nyrvana seldom. The Kings of Sarhaddon—yes. They are of the Phoenix blood. But they come only after death, and not for many ages—aye, longer than you think!—have living men come from above.”
“I don’t understand you,” Elak said. “Where are we? Last I remember was falling down a hole in some damned cavern—are we underground?”
“Aye,” Ithron nodded. “You are in Nyrvana. Far and far is this land from the world above; Nyrvana is within a cave, but a cave so vast you could not span its breadth or height with your eyes.”
Esarra whispered, “The land of the gods! Where Assurah dwells—” She looked up at the sculptured phoenix.
“And we rule under Assurah,” Ithron said, “Tyrala and I. Before the phoenix slept, he gave us this charge: to rule Nyrvana and to guard—guard—” He hesitated, glanced at Tyrala. The woman’s baleful gaze dwelt on Elak.
“They are here for judgment,” she said. “Well? Let us judge!”
“Why are you here?” Ithron asked.
Esarra pulled free from Elak. Standing erect before the dais, regal head raised proudly, she told her story. And as she spoke, Tyrala’s gaze grew darker and more ominous, while startled amazement crept into Ithron’s eyes.
“So Xandar rules Sarhaddon,” the girl finished. “And he has slain my father. The law of the Phoenix has been broken. Baal-Yagoth has been freed from his chains——”
“Now by Assurah!” Ithron whispered—and his pale eyes were wide now, and blazing as he glared at the enthroned woman beside him. “By Assurah and Iod! This is your work, Tyrala!”
Tyrala sprang up, her slim fingers flexing into claws. She spat words at the man.
“Aye—my work! And what of that? It has been long since Assurah ruled, and he has no power now. Shall I rule over this land of shadows for ever, with these pallid slaves of yours to serve me—to drink my wine——”
Elak saw a touch of horror in Ithron’s face as he glanced at the chalice beside Tyrala’s throne. The woman went on bitterly.
“And if I have called on Baal-Yagoth—what then, my lord Ithron? Who are you to halt me? Serve Assurah then, if you will—rule over Nyrvana! But I have made a pact with a priest of Sarhaddon, and for him I have freed Baal-Yagoth from his chains. Soon now I shall go to the outer world, where there are strong men—men with flame and life blazing within them, like this one here”—she slung out her hand toward Elak—“and they shall taste my wine!”
“Stop!” Ithron was facing the woman now, his face grim and hard. “You dare—under the very symbol of Assurah——”
“Aye—I dare! Nor can you thwart me, Ithron. Now I warn you—stay here. Rule Nyrvana. But if you think to meddle with my plans, you may taste my wine yourself!”
Laughing, Tyrala swept down from the dais, across the room and through open doors of bronze. Ithron turned, flung up his arms at the carven Phoenix on the wall. His voice was a rolling thunder.
“Assurah! Waken! Let your wrath pour down upon this harlot and utterly destroy her!”
The incense drifted up . . .
“Lord of Nyrvana—waken! Baal-Yagoth is risen from his prison and hangs like a shadow over all the world. Smite him with your lightnings; rend him with your iron beak!
“Assurah—god of Sarhaddon! Waken!”
3. Duel of Gods
The night is gone and the sword is drawn
And the scabbard is thrown away!
—John G. Neihardt
VERY slowly the wall behind the thrones began to move. It slid up, the Phoenix rising with it, and revealed a hazy depth beyond, dimly lit with silver radiance. Ithron turned.
“You three—follow.”
He moved forward confidently. Elak hesitated, felt Esarra tug at his arm. Warily he went toward the gap where the wall had been. Lycon trailed them. His sword brushed the pedestal beside Tyrala’s throne, set the goblet rocking. He glanced at it and shuddered.
“Ishtar! I would not taste that wine——”
They stood in glowing haze. The wall dropped behind them. Nothing existed now but silvery fog; somehow Elak had a weird feeling that they stood on the very brink of a gulf that fell away to abysmal depths.
At their feet lay an open coffin. In it was King Phrygior, his dead face relaxed and peaceful. He wore a white robe, and an unsheathed sword rested on his breast.
Esarra dropped to her knees beside the sarcophagus. She whispered something Elak did not hear. Her brown curls fell forward, hiding the cameo face.
Ithron touched the coffin; it slid forward and was gone. The silver mists brightened. Far below came the rolling of deep thunder.
And behind them—the clash of arms! A woman’s voice, commanding, angry.
Ithron turned swiftly, gripped Elak’s arm. “Your bracelet! Hold it—thus—” He lifted Elak’s wrist. “Stay here! Tyrala is mad. But her madness gives her strength; I must keep her at bay till Assurah wakes——”
He was gone. A deep-throated roar came faintly to Elak’s ears. Dimly he heard Ithron’s voice.
But nothing existed but the mist, and two shadows beside him—Esarra and Lycon, waiting . . . and Elak stood with his arm raised, the Phoenix bracelet shining . . .
Queer tingles darted through his wrist, ran down into his shoulder, racing into every nerve of his body. A flood of power poured into him, shaking the citadel of his mind with its alien strength . . .
The fog alternately darkened and lightened; the muttering of thunder grew louder. And dimly he heard Tyrala’s voice raised in a cry of triumph from the throne room beyond the wall.
“I have won, my lord Ithron! None can waken Assurah now. And you—you shall taste my wine!”
The thunder bellowed ominously. The fog brightened with a blaze of silver radiance, and before him Elak saw something rise up, a Cyclopean shadow, almost formless, yet with a suggestion of sweeping wings and a beaked, upthrust head . . .
He heard Esarra cry out, felt Lycon drop to his knees, breath rasping in his throat. From the Phoenix bracelet a tide of primal magic raced through him. The colossal shadow waited in the mist.
Elak felt words rising to his lips without will of his own. He heard himself crying.
“Assurah! Baal-Yagoth is risen! He has burst his chains——”
Elak was never to understand what happened in the next amazing moment. The power that the bracelet had given him was nothing to the inconceivable flood that crashed down on him from the risen god—flood of strange magic, blinding and deafening him, flaming through his brain like lightning. And dimly he heard a voice within his mind.
“I give you strength. Go forth and slay!”
Forthwith the tide lifted Elak and bore him weightless back; he had a vague impression of walls and rooms flickering past like segments of a dream, and yet he knew, somehow, that Esarra and Lycon kept pace with him, shoulder to shoulder. Something was in his mind, and Elak’s fingers closed about the hilt of a sword—a blade of flame, white and terrible. All about him the very air shook with unimaginable power . . .
Elak’s vision cleared; he stood in a room and remembered—the room of his dream, where he had first seen Tyrala. The walls were blue as infinity, and in that clear depth hung the glowing flower-things he had already seen. Avidly they waited, with a horrible air of expectation in their attitude, seemingly watching the horror before them.
A muffled drumming throbbed out; shrill insane flutings piped weirdly. There were monstrously misshapen beings that squatted on scaled haunches, demonic 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 throne room 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 throne-room; 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 throne room 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix 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!”
