Collected Short Fiction, page 150
Price turned, reeling uncertainly. He saw a sickening thing.
Standing about him were two-score Beni Anz warriors, afoot, as he was. All were frozen in rigid paralysis, staring up into the mirage. Mute, helpless terror was on their white, sweat-beaded faces. Their eyes were glazed, they breathed slowly, gaspingly. And Malikar was murdering them.
The gold giant had dismounted from the yellow tiger, which stood two-score yards away. Swiftly he was passing from one to another of the motionless, paralyzed men, methodically stabbing each in the breast with a long, two-edged sword.
The men stood in tense paralysis, staring at the fatal mirage, heads turning a little to follow the swaying, hypnotic eyes of the snake. Helpless, naked horror was on their faces; they were unaware of Malikar, so near.
The yellow man worked swiftly, driving his blade with dexterous skill into unguarded breasts, withdrawing it with a jerk as he pushed his victims backward, to sprawl with red blood welling out.
Outraged, half sick with the brutal horror of it, Price shouted something, sprang toward him.
Malikar turned suddenly, his red robe dripping with new blood. A moment he was startled, motionless, with fear unmistakable in his shallow, tawny eyes. Then he leapt to meet Price, brandishing his reeking blade.
Price met the sword-thrust with the golden buckler, and swung the ax. The yellow man sprang back; but the ax-blade grazed his shoulder, the bloody sword clattered from his fingers.
Price ran forward over the rocky ground, to follow up his advantage. Luck was against him. A loose stone turned under his foot; he stumbled, went heavily to his knees.
As he staggered back to his feet, Malikar leapt away, picked up a heavy block of lava, flung it at him. Price tried in vain to dodge. He felt the impact of the missile against his head; crimson flame seemed to burst from it, flaring through all his brain.
WHEN Price groaned and sat up it was just past sunset. The cool wind that had roused him was blowing down from the black mass of the mountain across the bleak lava flows northward. In the fading, rosy light the gold-and-white palace above the frowning walls was a splendorous coronal. And the mirage was gone.
Price woke where Malikar had felled him. The wadi’s stony floor was red with piles of thawed flesh and shattered bone. Near him were the score of men Malikar had stabbed as they were helpless in that dread fascination of the snake, dark abbas and white kafiyehs scarlet-stained.
He was alone with the dead. Malikar was gone, with the tiger. And the Beni Anz, and Fouad’s men, and Jacob Garth’s. But the little tank still stood there, where the ray of cold had stopped it, in the middle of the wadi.
With a dull and heavy sense of despair, Price realized that once again Malikar had defeated him. Bitterly he recalled the stone that had turned under his foot. The Durand luck had failed again.
His allies must have retreated in mad haste; perhaps they had broken the spell of the mirage, even as he had done, and fled. The abandonment of the tank, of himself and the possessions of the men about him, was proof enough of flight.
Not again, after this reverse, would the Beni Anz follow him, he knew. “Iru” would be discredited. And Aysa—lovely Aysa of the many moods, serious and smiling, demure and gay, strange, daring fugitive of the sand-waste—was still locked in the mountain fortress ahead, more than ever hopelessly lost.
A missile flicked past Price’s head and clattered startlingly on the bare lava. He heard the clatter of running feet, a hoarse shout of rage and hate. Still dazed, stiff of movement, Price staggered to his feet, turned to face the assailant who had crept up behind him in the twilight.
Wicked yellow yataghan upraised, the man was charging at him in the dusk, a dozen yards away. A tall Arab in a queerly hooded robe of blue. He must, like Price, be a survivor of the battle. He limped as he ran, or hopped grotesquely. And one side of his face was red horror, from which a wild eye, miraculously unharmed, glared with fanatic hate. On his high forehead was the gleaming yellow brand of a coiled serpent.
What Price Durand found in the golden city makes an amazing tale that will hold your breathless interest. You can not afford to miss this sensational narrative, in the July WEIRD TALES.
Golden Blood
A tale of weird adventures in the hidden land of Arabia, and a golden folk that, ride upon a golden-yellow tiger and worship a golden snake
The Story Thus Far
DYNAMITING their schooner behind them upon the south coast of Arabia, a little band of desperate adventurers struck out into the hostile mystery of the Rub’ Al Khali, crudest and least-known desert of the earth. Their leaders were Price Durand, wealthy, world-weary American soldier of fortune, Jacob Garth, enigmatic Englishman, and Joao de Castro, unsavory Macanese.
Equipped with an army tank, machine-guns, and mountain artillery, and acccompanied by the sheikh Fouad d Akmet and his renegade Bedouins, they are raiding the forbidden “golden land,” which is guarded by the uncanny scientific powers of its weird rulers, the “golden folk”—a man, an exotic woman, a huge, domesticated tiger, and a gigantic snake, all four of which appear amazingly to be of eternal yellow metal, yet immortally alive.
Price Durand fell immediately in love with Aysa, a strange, lovely fugitive of the desert, whom he rescued from de Castro. When she was carried off by Malikar, the golden man, Price set out at once to recover her liberty.
He had armed himself with battle-ax, chain-mail, and shield of strangely tempered gold that he found in an ancient tomb, and he discovered that the Beni Anz, the Arabs of the lost oasis, thought him the reincarnation of their long-dead hero, Iru, to whom the golden armor had belonged.
The natives joined the invaders in an attack upon the mountain in which the golden folk dwelt, where Aysa had been taken. The attempt was defeated by the astounding scientific instrumentalities of the yellow beings—invisible rays of deadly cold, and the dread, hypnotic eyes of the golden serpent which appeared in an inexplicable, mirage-like phenomenon. Price, recovering consciousness on the deserted field of battle, has just been attacked by a member of the cult of the golden snake.
17. The Slave of the Serpent
AS PRICE DURAND stumbled to his feet, the world tilted and spun beneath him. His head drummed with pain. He reeled, and fought to keep his balance, while the stony wadi floor, strewn with the dead, whirled around him.
The blacky basaltic mass of Hajar Jehannum, its gold-and-marble crown sullen in the red sunset, was first on one hand, then on the other. A wave of blackness rose about him, receded. Then the rocking desert steadied.
For a moment Price lost his attacker. Then he saw the Arab again, limping fiercely forward, whirling the yataghan.
One leg half dragging, he came with a series of bounding hops. Half his face was a scarlet, grinning smear; in his eyes was the lust of the killer.
Price fought to master his dizziness, and staggered backward to gain time. The heavy golden ax lay on the ground behind him, but he had neither time to reach it, nor strength, at the moment, to wield it.
He stumbled on the rough lava, swayed, regaining his balance with difficulty. But a measure of his strength was returning.
In a flash the snake-man was upon him, silent, breathing with quick, hot gasps like a struggling animal, driven by savage, fanatic hate. The double-curved yataghan swung up, and Price darted forward beneath it, one hand rushing for the Arab’s sword-arm.
The mad rush of the wounded man flung them together. Despite Price’s guarding arm, the yellow blade came against his side, rasping upon the linked golden mail he wore. Then his arms were around the snake-man, and they toppled together to the stony ground.
With demoniac energy the Arab tried to tear himself free, to use his wicked blade. Price clung desperately to his hold, biting his lip to keep back dizziness.
Suffering only from concussion and exhaustion, his muscles stiffened from his long period of unconsciousness, Price was steadily recovering his strength with activity. And the snake-man, having lost much blood, animated merely by blind, mad hatred, rapidly collapsed.
His struggles weakened, and suddenly he relaxed in Price’s arms, unconscious. The wound in his thigh was bleeding, opened again by his struggles.
Appropriating the yataghan, Price moved a little away and stood, breathing hard, warily watching the snake-man.
“Mr. Durand?” Price started as the interrogative voice spoke unexpectedly behind him. He whirled, to see the tall, lank Kansan, Sam Sorrows, staggering up behind him, arms laden.
“Why, Sam!” he ejaculated.
“Thought it must be you, Mr. Durand, in that golden coat. I didn’t know there was anybody else alive around here.”
“I didn’t either, Sam. But there were three of us.”
“Three?”
Price pointed to the unconscious Arab.
“Tie him up,” the Kansan said, “and come on over to the tank. I’ve some loot here, for supper.” He nodded at the bundles in his arms.
Price bound the snake-man’s wrists and ankles with kafiysbs taken from the dead Beni Anz warriors, roughly bandaged his bleeding thigh-wound, which was shallow and not serious, and followed Sam Sorrows to the side of the tank, where the old man was unloading his burden—small sacks of dried dates, coarse flour, and dried, powdered camel-flesh; and a full water-skin.
“Found these up in the trenches.” He nodded across the wadi.
Squatting by the gray metal bulk looming in the dusk, they ate and drank.
“The mirrors got you, in the tank?” Price said after a time.
“Yes. Mawson was with me. The limey. He’s dead. I was down driving. Guess I was better protected. But I must have been out quite a while.
“I was pretty sick when I came to. Cold as hell, shivering all over. And Mawson there, already stiff. I started to crawl out in the sunshine.
“I got my head out the manhole, and saw a lot of Arabs around the tank. Everything was quiet. All were looking up in the mirage, at that damned snake. The thing was swaying back and forth. Had them all charmed. I didn’t more than glance at it, believe me!
“Then I saw the old tiger, standing there, big as an elephant, with the saddle on him. And a yellow man, down in front of him, stabbing those fellows that were looking in the mirage.
“Then you went at the yellow feller, and he knocked you out with a rock.
“About that time, I guess, some of the others were coming out of that damned spell. I heard the cannon go off a time or two, and shrapnel screaming over. The yellow man ran for his tiger again, and the Arabs broke and beat it. About that time I went under again.”
“Jacob Garth?” demanded Price. “He got away?”
“I think so. Looked like they were packing up the guns when I went out again. Guess they’d had enough.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“I was feeling pretty much knocked out when I came around again, an hour or so ago.” The old man laughed a little. “Went out to see about rations. Thought I’d sleep aboard tonight, and try running back to the oasis in the morning. That okay with you? We ought to make it by noon.”
Price merely nodded. He was thinking.
RETURNING to his captive an hour later, Price found the snake-man conscious again. After a moment’s effort against his bonds, he lay quiet, glaring up at Price with hate-filled eyes.
“Who are you?” Price asked, in the archaic Arabic of the Beni Ana.
He did not answer, but the stubborn movement of his head, in the moonlight, told Price that he had understood.
Price returned to the tank, where Sam Sorrows was tinkering with his motor in anticipation of an early start, and brought back a canteen half full of water. He sloshed it noisily beside the man and repeated the question.
After half an hour, the Arab moved, and a voice spoke from the red ruin of his face:
“I am Kreor, a slave of the snake, under Malikar, priest of the snake.”
And he whimpered for the water. “No,” Price told him. “You must tell me more, and promise to help me, if you would drink again.”
“I am sworn to the snake,” the man hissed. “And you are Iru, the ancient enemy of the snake and of Malikar. The eyes of the snake will seek me out and slay me, if I betray it.”
“I’ll see you are dakhile [protected],” Price assured him. “Forget the snake, if you would drink, and serve me.”
A long time the Arab was silent, staring scornfully up into the moon-swept sky. Price felt a surge of pity for him. He was near abandonment of his plan, when the snake-man whispered.
“So be it I renounce the snake, and the service of Malikar under the snake. I am your slave, Iru, And dakhile?”
“Dakhile,” Price assured him again. But the voice of the Arab had a ring of cunning duplicity that he did not like. He wished that the moonlight were brighter, so that he could see the man’s face.
“Now give me water, Lord Iru.”
Price thrust back his feelings again.
“First you must prove yourself. Answer me this question: Where is the girl named Aysa, whom Malikar brought from Anz?”
The snake-man hesitated, spoke reluctantly: “Aysa sleeps in the mists of gold, in the serpent’s lair.”
“What’s that? Where is the serpent’s lair?”
“Under the mountain. In the temple above the abyss of the mists of gold.”
“Asleep, you say. What does that mean?” Panic edged his voice. “You don’t mean she’s dead?”
“No. She sleeps the long sleep of the golden vapor. Malikar honors her. She becomes one of the golden folk.”
“Better explain this a little,” Price said, menacingly. “Tell a straight story, if you want to drink again. What’s this about golden mist?”
Again the Arab hesitated, glaring at him with crafty eyes in which hate was not wholly dead. Price sloshed the canteen; the other yielded.
“In the caverns beneath the mountain rises the vapor of gold, the breath of life. They who breathe it sleep. And sleeping, they become golden, as Malikar is golden, and deathless.”
“Aysa, then, is being turned into gold?” Price inquired, incredulous.
“Yes. Soon her blood will be golden.
When she wakes she will be priestess of the snake. And Vekyra indeed is wroth to know that Malikar has tired of her.”
“Vekyra?” Price queried. “Who’s she?”
“She is the old priestess of the snake. A woman of gold. Priestess—and Malikar’s mistress.”
“She’s the one we saw in the mirage, over the mountain.”
“In the sky? Yes. She is mistress also of the shadow. Vekyra has power of her own. Malikar will not easily be rid of her.”
Price did not trust the man. Truth was hardly to be expected from a bound, helpless prisoner, who had been at one’s throat an hour before. Moreover, thinly veiled hatred and scorn crept again and again into his voice. But, obviously, the Arab did not want to die. Some aid, some true information might be got from him. It would be a game of wits between them.
Was Aysa actually being turned into another monster of gold, by some diabolical chemical? It might easily be a fantastic lie on the snake-man’s part. But the tale had a certain grim plausibility that edged Price’s nerves with alarm.
“Do you know any way,” Price demanded, “that we could get secretly into the mountain? To where Aysa is? Is that tunnel always guarded?”
Kreor lay silent again; he trembled.
“Answer me!” Price demanded. “Tell me if you can lead me to where the girl is?”
“The wrath of the snake, and Malikar,” the Arab muttered.
“Remember, you are dakhile.”
“But I am wounded,” the snake-man protested. “I could never reach the mountain.”
“Your wounds aren’t serious,” Price assured him. “You can walk tomorrow, though perhaps a bit painfully. Speak.”
“You could never get past the gates. They are always locked, and guarded.”
“Is there another way?”
Again the man hesitated, and squirmed on the ground.
“Another way there is, Lord Iru. But perilous indeed.”
“What is it?”
“High on the north wall of the mountain is a crevice. It leads into a great cave. From the cave is a way into the passages that lead down into the golden mist. But great is the peril, Iru. The climb is not easy; above the place of the snake are guards.”
“We are going there,” Price told him levelly, “as soon as you can walk. And unlucky it will be for you if you haven’t told the truth.”
He let the man drink. Bringing food from the tank, he loosened his hands, so that he could eat, and then bound him again.
PRICE and Sam Sorrows slept and watched by turns that night. As Price sat, leaning against the tank through the long hours of his watch, with the keen desert air about him and the cool stars looking down, he thought a great deal about the course of his adventures in this lost world, about what he should do on the morrow.
In the morning he could ride back to El Yerim in the tank, and the adventure would be over. The Beni Anz, he was certain, would not be willing to fight again under his leadership; old Yarmud would be remembering that he had denied being Iru. And he could hardly join Jacob Garth’s party again, Joao de Castro hating him as he did.
If he turned back, there would be nothing to do save procure a camel or two, and strike out for civilization. He could never solve the weird riddles that had confronted him: the mystery of the mirage, of the golden folk. Infinitely worse, he would never see Aysa again.
On the other hand, he could remain with Kreor until the man recovered, and assault the mountain alone. It was a desperate plan. The Arab obviously hated him, would certainly betray him if opportunity presented. And opportunity was almost certain to appear.
The chance that he should ever leave the mountain alive appeared extremely slight. None the less, Price never really hesitated. The decision was inevitable.
“Back at camp by noon,” lanky old Sam Sorrows predicted genially, as they breakfasted in the dawn.
