Collected Short Fiction, page 158
Beast and reptile seemed evenly matched; Price’s former allies, for the moment, were masters of the situation. He saw them gathered about the tank—but pigmies in this colossal place. Thick, gross Jacob Garth. Joao de Castro, small, alert, active. Huge, ape-like Paiic, the Montenegrin. A dozen others.
Sam Sorrows, Price’s staunch friend, who might have aided him again, was not with them. Sam, he recalled, had returned to the oasis with orders for the planes. Muller was now driver of the tank.
Garth and Joao de Castro appeared to be arguing with Muller, who was looking through the manhole. The man shrugged, and retired into the machine. The motor roared again, and the tank lumbered on through the thick yellow mist.
The Cyclopean battle was still at issue. The coils of the snake were constricting ever tighter about the tiger’s body. The reptile had ceased to hiss; but golden fangs still flashed.
The tiger, far from conquered, was tumbling upon the gold-powdered floor, tearing desperately at the serpent’s coils with yellow, savage claws. The glistening, metal-scaled body of the snake was ripped in many places, oozing bright, golden blood.
THE tiger, evidently alarmed as the tank roared at them, staggered to its feet, lifting the squeezing snake clear of the floor. But the tank struck before it could leap aside. The force of the collision sent it reeling and staggering toward the abyss. It fell again, the inexorable coils of the serpent constricting ever tighter.
Perilously near the brink of the abyss the tiger had fallen. And seemingly it realized the danger, for, abandoning its attempts to rid itself of the snake, it struggled laboriously to its feet again, already half dead from the pressure of golden coils.
The tank’s motor had stalled. For a little time the gray fighting-machine was motionless; then it roared into life again. The snake-burdened tiger was just heaving to its feet when the tank struck it. The impact sent it staggering once more toward the chasm’s lip. The tank paused, roared after it.
It may be that the driver momentarily lost control of the tank, or perhaps he had not seen the abyss. At any rate, tank, tiger and snake went over the brink as one mass. Price watched them, falling free into the green-gold void, turning slowly about, the tiger still squeezed in an embrace of death. Yellow vapor hid them. . . .
The roar of the madly racing motor died away below, and Price looked back across the abyss.
His former allies were victorious, masters at last of the treasure for which they had struggled so long. He faintly heard their feverish, excited voices, saw them falling upon their knees, scraping up the thick encrustation of golden crystals from the floor with bare hands.
He watched Joao de Castro and Pasictoil madly to fill a little cloth sack, in which they had carried food, with the yellow dust. When it was full, both laid hands upon it. Pasic snatched it easily away; the Eurasian flung himself upon him, knife flashing. They struggled, and the gold spilled unnoticed on the yellow floor. Deliberately Jacob Garth drew out his automatic and shot them down in cold brutality.
Insane with the gold-lust, the others paid no heed. They remained scraping at the xanthic dust, until the sinister sleep of the golden vapor fell upon them. Jacob Garth took alarm at last, staggered toward the entrance with a hoarse cry of warning. But too late. . . .
No, the men had not won mastery of the gold—it had conquered them. They lay sprawled where they had fallen, motionless in the sleep that would endure until they were men of gold.
When Price realized all this meant, his heart skipped a beat with incredulous relief. The way was cleared, now, for him to carry Aysa out. When she was safe, he could return and give these men what aid he could. But the hope of his glorious moment was rudely shattered.
Malikar came striding into the enormous room, grim, diabolical giant in his crimson robes, a spiked golden mace upon his shoulder. With a caution worthy of his antiquity, he had kept clear of his enemies until they were helplessly sleeping.
One by one, he visited the inert men. Ruthlessly, methodically, he changed their slumber into one that would not end. He stood among them, then, for a little time, leaning upon the great mace—it was now no longer yellow, but encrimsoned with blood and brains—a golden Nemesis, red-robed.
Then, shouldering the reddened mace, he started across the bridge.
31. Kismet
IT HAD been a tactical error to meet Vekyra upon the bridge, Price realized, because she had been quicker and more agile than himself. But, in Malikar’s case, the same arguments did not apply. Vekyra had proved amazingly strong; Malikar’s far bulkier body was doubtless far stronger. In a contest merely of strength, Price could be certain of defeat; he must make it a battle of skill. And skill, quickness, would count for far more upon the giddy span.
Black premonition of doom was in his heart. Three times before he had encountered Malikar; three times he had been bested.
He bent, brushed the golden frost from Aysa’s lips with his own. A few moments before he had seen himself carrying the girl into sunlight and the open air, where she would surely wake. Now his brief cup of joy was shattered. Malikar, his other enemies gone, was more dangerous than ever.
A roar of startled rage told Price that Malikar had seen him through the mist. Brandishing the bloody mace, the yellow giant came at a run. Replacing the damp cloth over the girl’s face, Price snatched up the ancient ax and ran out to meet the priest.
Upon recognizing him, Malikar stopped. Resting the great club carelessly upon the narrow path, he laughed with a bellow of triumphant evil.
“Iru, again?” he shouted. “Fool, know you not that I am a god who can never die?”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Price, still advancing.
“You can never conquer kismet!” The yellow priest chuckled thickly, with leering evil in his shallow, tawny eyes. “Three times we have met. And three times has fate struck you down.
“In the catacombs of Anz, kismet willed that your ax-helve should break. When we fought in the wadi, fate placed a loose stone beneath your foot. Again we met here, and kismet sent sleep upon you.
“You fight not me alone. Kismet is against you!”
Realizing that Malikar meant the boast merely as an attack upon his morale, Price ran forward to begin the battle, but the priest’s mocking words had already served their purpose. They had filled him with the baseless but disturbing idea that all this adventure had been but a play of unseen forces, of sporting gods handling puppet strings, the idea that he was but a toy of cruelly jesting fate.
At his approach Malikar lifted the bloody mace, whirled it aloft and down. Oval buckler lifted, Price took the blow. It drove the shield down upon his head with stunning force, numbed his arms and shoulder.
An instant he reeled. The green-golden depths beneath the narrow bridge whirled confusingly. He made a desperate effort to clear his brain.
Korlu, the ancient ax, was lifted. And Malikar had not yet recovered the mace from his terrific blow. Price put every atom of his strength into a swing for the priest’s red skull-cap.
Malikar ducked, but the hewing blade caught his shoulder.
The blow went true; it would have split an ordinary man to the abdomen. But Malikar was semi-metal. His skin was gashed, and bright yellow blood oozed out, but the wound was insignificant.
The violence of his own blow sent Price half off the bridge. He staggered awkwardly to regain his balance, as Malikar swung up the spiked club for another blow.
Price regained his balance, stepped backward and let the mace go past. As the force of his swing swayed Malikar toward the edge of the bridge, Price struck swiftly with the ax, in the hope of upsetting his balance. Malikar recovered easily, and evaded the ax.
Price struggled against grim despair. Human muscle and bone could not endure many such terrific blows as he had received; and the ax, swung true with his full strength behind it, had not seriously wounded the golden man. In any mere exchange of blows, Price knew, he was doomed. He had but a single chance of victory—to catch Malikar in a critical position, knock him off the bridge into the yawning abyss. And the priest appeared to possess caution and a cat-like sense of equilibrium.
Perforce, Price changed his tactics. No more did he come to close quarters. He kept his distance, tempting Malikar to strike, avoiding—when he could—the smashing mace, waiting for the moment when a quick blow might send the priest into the abyss.
The yellow giant pressed forward continually, so that Price was forced to give ground before each blow, retreating at grave risk of missing his footing on the dizzy way. Moreover, each step back brought Price nearer the niche where Aysa lay, lessening his chance of victory. For, once Malikar gained the platform, the battle would be lost.
Twice again the ax went home. It was splashed with golden blood; but Malikar seemed not inconvenienced by his wounds.
Price was reeling. Again and again the mace had fallen upon his buckler, despite his efforts to avoid it. His left arm and shoulder ached from the terrific shocks. His head rang from concussion, oppressed with red mists of pain.
Exhaustion was near. The accumulated fatigue of many hours descended upon him. His present exertions were anything but light—lunging forward to draw the bloody mace, darting back to avoid it, swinging the yellow ax when opportunity presented.
PRICE dared not look back to see how much of the bridge remained behind him. But presently he glimpsed beneath his feet the glittering gouts of golden blood Vekyra had shed. Then he knew it was only a few feet to the platform, where he would be at Malikar’s mercy. Desperately he stood his ground, as the mace rose and fell again. It drove the lifted buckler down upon his head with staggering force. The ancient ax went out again, at Malikar’s thick neck, all Price’s strength behind it.
Fatigue and the faintness of concussion slowed his arm. Malikar swayed back. The yellow blade flashed futilely in front of his throat.
Half dazed as he was, Price staggered toward the edge of the bridge, drawn by the weight of his ax. He swayed for a moment over the side of the narrow span, while the green-golden void beneath spun crazily.
Before he could recover his balance, Malikar struck again with the spiked golden club. Though his blow was hasty and relatively weak, its impact was staggering.
It struck Price’s right shoulder. Painful numbness ran along his arm. His fingers, paralyzed, relaxed their grip upon the helve of the outflung ax. The golden weapon spun away from him, whirled silently into yellow-green mist.
Price’s dazed mind reeled under the impact of the disaster as if from a second blow. Once more fate had stepped in, to defeat him.
“Kismet!” shouted Malikar, leering triumphantly.
He lumbered forward, his spiked mace lifted. Helpless, Price tottered uncertainly back, fighting to keep his head clear enough to stand upon the narrow way.
The bright pool of Vekyra’s blood was just before Malikar, gleaming like a gout of molten gold. As he sprang forward, kismet once more entered the battle.
He stepped into the golden woman’s blood. As if Vekyra’s own malicious hand had seized his ankle, his foot slipped. He lurched forward awkwardly, shifting his heavy mace aside to maintain his balance.
Thus was provided the opening Price had been hopelessly fighting for. His whole body numb with fatigue and pain, he braced himself, swung his fist at the golden priest’s head.
Into that blow went the last, convulsive effort of his tortured body. As he felt his fist meet solid flesh and bone, bright, glittering lights flashed up through the green-gold void, and darkness drowned them.
He fell flat upon the narrow bridge, flinging out his hands to clutch the xanthic-frosted rock.
32. The Ancient Aysa
“M’ALMÉ! M’almé!”
The sweet, familiar voice came to Price’s ears upon silver wings, through dull clouds of pain. Delicate hands were plastering a cold wet cloth upon his brow. Memory was gone; his mind, like his body, was bruised, stiff, inert.
“Master! Master!” the urgent voice kept pleading, in Arabic.
With a vague, dim impression that grave emergency, disaster, had been looming over him, Price forced open his eyes.
He lay upon a broad, smooth ledge of stone, frosted queerly with bright yellow crystals. He was propped against a huge slab of basalt. Before him was a bottomless pit of green-golden light, spanned with a bridge fantastically narrow. The world was thickly filled with dancing aureate mist—that mist, he remembered faintly, was somehow threatening.
Kneeling beside him was a girl. He turned his head painfully and looked at her. A lovely girl. Her hair was brown and waving, her skin a smooth, warm olive. Full, delicate, her mouth was pomegranate-red.
Wonderful, her eyes were. Somehow, they made him feel that he knew them. They were violet-blue, deep, mysterious, beneath long lashes. Keen pity was now in their shadowed depths, and distress.
Like the rocks about them, the girl’s clothing glittered with xanthic frost. Smudges of yellow powder sparkled on her face and arms.
And she had been urgently calling to him in Arabic, addressing him as “master.” Surely he could have no claim upon a being so lovely! But if he did, the circumstance was singularly fortunate.
He closed his eyes, racking his memory. This weird place of golden vapors, outrageously fantastic as it might be, was vaguely familiar. And he was certain he had known the girl before, somewhere. Sight of her filled him with a warming glow of pleasure.
He knew her name. It was—he probed dull mists of weary pain—it was Aysa!
Aysa! His lips had muttered it aloud. At the sound, the girl uttered a glad cry. She dropped beside him; her arms went round him. Queer how pleasant her embrace was! A delightful girl. He liked to have her near him; he mustn’t let her leave him, ever again. The nearness of her filled him with quick, tingling joy.
It was good to lie here with her arms around him. But he mustn’t do that. There was some danger. . . . The yellow mist. . . . He struggled with the idea: golden mist . . . that was it; the mist turned people to gold. It would turn him and Aysa into golden things. And he didn’t want that to happen.
He fumbled for the wet cloth the girl had been applying to his forehead, made her tie it over her face. She understood quickly, fixed another for him. His arms ached when he moved . . . he must have been fighting, to feel so bruised and groggy. . . . Yes, he remembered hitting a yellow man.
He inhaled through the damp rag and closed his eyes and pondered the memory of the yellow man . . . a golden giant of a man, in scarlet. . . . He must remember his name . . . Malikar! He would ask the girl about him; she spoke Arabic. “Where is Malikar?” he whispered. She pointed into the shining chasm.
“I woke, M’almé, with a wet cloth upon my face, and saw you fighting. Malikar struck you with his club. Then you hit him with your hand, and he stumbled off into the pit. You fell upon the bridge, and I carried you back here.”
His head was clearing now, since he was breathing through the cloth.
“But how did you come here so soon, M’almé, from Anz? It was just last night that Malikar locked you in the tomb of Iru, and told me you were dead.” Strange wonder was in the violet eyes. Understanding swept through his brain, drove back the dull mists of oblivion. Everything was clear, now. And Aysa was with him, awake and free. Darling Aysa, for whom he had fought so long. It was not last night he had been locked in the catacombs of Anz, but many nights ago. But no need to tell her now.
He slipped one aching arm around her shoulders. She snuggled up contentedly against him, lifted violet eyes, shining with gladness. . . .
They must not stay here. The sleep of the golden vapor might steal upon them, unawares, with its strange transmutation. Aysa was not yet changed. But they must go, while they could. . . .
“YOU are tired, M’almé,” Aysa whispered. “Let us rest here.”
The sun was low, and the black, basaltic mass of Hajar Jehannum was three miles behind them, across smooth lava flows, the gold and alabaster of the palace of Verl glowing luridly in red sunset.
Two hours ago they had come through the explosion-twisted yellow gates, where Jacob Garth had entered, and begun the long trek to the oasis.
“You must not call me master,” Price told her, as they sat munching the hardtack and dried meat and dates old Sam Sorrows had given him.
“Why not? Am I not yours? And did you not once buy me for half my weight in gold?” She laughed. “And do I want anything save to be yours?”
“What do you mean, darling? Buying you?”
“You don’t remember? The story of Aysa and Iru in old Anz? But you never heard it! I must tell you.”
“Then there was a woman named Aysa in Anz, when Iru was king?”
“Of course, M’almé. I am named for her, because my eyes are blue, as hers were. Few, you know, among the Beni Anz, have blue eyes. The ancient Aysa was a slave; Iru bought her from the north country.”
Price felt oddly disturbed. Was Vekyra’s strange tale, after all, true? Was Aysa—his lovely, innocent Aysa—the namesake, if not the avatar, of a murderess?
“Well, don’t worry about it, sweetheart!” Price told her. He put a bruised, stiff arm about her slender shoulders and drew her firmly to him. She laughed, a little, childish, happy laugh, and her violet eyes looked shining up at him.
He wasn’t going to let anything take her away from him, ever. No part of her. He was going to forget that silly story of Vekyra’s. He didn’t believe in this reincarnation business, anyhow . . . not too much. . . .
“I’ll tell you the story, M’almé,” Aysa whispered, in his arms.
“No, let’s forget it. Nothing to it, anyhow. And happy as we are, we can’t let anything——”
“But, M’almé, this story can not ruin our happiness.”
“Then tell me, of course.”
“Since he was a child, Iru the king was betrothed, by the wishes of his mother, to Vekyra, who was the daughter of a powerful prince—and not golden, then.
