“Alatur!” she sobbed, holding out one hand.
“Your lover?”
She nodded mutely. Clenched in her fingers a bronze talisman flecked with dried blood could be seen. She wept, and he let her weep, knowing it the best remedy for woman’s sorrow. He raised his head and peered about alertly.
“A voice that calls one, as in a dream, to the hidden place of death,” he mused. “There must be more to these crypts than this—come, lass. Let us explore further.”
Fear leapt suddenly into her great dark eyes. “Should we not be gone from this place before…before…it…comes?”
He revealed white teeth in a swift, wolfish grin. “Probably you are right,” he growled. “But it goes against my ways to retreat from danger—and never yet have I faced a foe that cold steel could not kill!”
He helped her to her feet and they went forward through the green-lit gloom. As his eyes roamed about restlessly, ears straining to catch the slightest sound, he felt the pressure of unseen eyes, but could see nothing but bare, worn stone about him. The walls of these crypts radiated an almost tangible aura of cold menace, but still he went forward, searching for something to kill.
Why had not the unknown, murderous thing torn apart Zoroma? Was it perhaps because it sensed his own presence, and the swiftness of his approach? Perhaps…he would find the answer to that mystery soon enough, he somehow guessed. He would find the answer to many mysteries here, he knew.
* * * *
They came at length into anther chamber, larger than all the others. And on the threshold, Thongor halted abruptly, amazement written upon his features, and an oath of astonishment on his lips.
The floor was heaped and littered with treasure!
The far walls bore chests and shelves of ancient wood, whereon moldering objects lay scattered. Huge old books of thick-leafed parchment, bound between boards of carved wood, or plates of ivory, or bound in the scaly hides of dragons.
A long bench of black marble bore instruments of the sorcerous arts—a brazen astrolabe, a huge hourglass filled with dark crimson powder, mortar and pestle, and a great deal of broken crockery—the remnants, he doubted not, of crucibles and vats and cucurbits and other devices of the alchemist’s art. There was even a gigantic instrument of verdigris-eaten bronze, a weird conglomeration of rings and hoops, with an engraved bronze spear at the center. Thongor dimly recognized it as an armillary sphere, whereby a necromancer may follow the movements of the stars and planets through the celestial circle of the zodiac.
Over everything lay a thick, gray blanket of dust, and the heavy webs of dead spiders festooned the walls. The floor was heaped with a splendor of treasure and trash. Bits of old, worm-eaten wood, dried bones, the withered remnants of ancient mummies, globes of dusty glass, the wink and flash of gems, thick gold coins, bright goblets of precious metals, crumpled scrolls and scraps of antique parchment, rust-gnawed blades of dagger, axe, sword and spear, dented helms, casks of gems, all manner of bottles and vases and phials, filled with colored powders or nameless oils—all lay jumbled together in a trash heap of decay and neglect.
With a muttered oath, Thongor strode over to examine the drifts of wreckage that bestrewed the floor. Gems crunched under his boots and ancient coins spilled, clattering, down the sides of the heap as he disturbed their ancient rest.
It was from this moldering pile that the lambent green light shone.
He dislodged a clattering avalanche of broken bottles and spilled jewelry as he dug down through the heap. Suddenly green flame bathed his bronze torso in flickering light. A muffled exclamation burst from his lips as he gazed down at the incredible thing his searching fingers had discovered.
“Thongor! What is it?” Zoroma cried.
He turned, grinning exultantly in her direction, holding up the flashing object he had found. “The Emerald Flame—by all the gods!”
9
Secret of the Emerald Flame
It was an incredible thing—and its value must have been fabulous. It was like a great collar and heavy pectoral, but it was fashioned entirely from strange gems whose like the barbarian youth had never before encountered. The gems varied in size from that of a kernel of corn to great lumps as large as hawks’ eggs. They were uncut but polished smooth, and they were the pale, lucent green of clear water or the fresh bright jade of young leaves.
In the heart of the jewels an elusive wisp of flame danced and flickered. This wavering flake of fire was the fierce yellow-green we call chartreuse. Not all of the gems contained this wisp of flame at their hearts—there must have been a couple of hundred gems in the heavy collar, which, when worn about a man’s throat would lap over his shoulders, chest and back, covering them with a mantle of flickering jade fire. Some of the jewels were dead and dull and lusterless, but most were alive with inner flames that danced with an ever-moving semblance of life.
Thongor stared at the treasure in his hands, for incredible it was in very truth. There was the ransom of a hundred captive kings in his heavy handful of living green fire. With the wealth this collar represented a man could purchase an empire—nay, a dozen!
He laughed delightedly, drunk with the exultation of his discovery, and lifted the collar to set it about his throat—
And then a bony, claw-like hand clutched his ankle in a vise-like grip of steel.
He stared down, his face contorted with astonishment.
The hand was as scrawny as an eagle’s talons: scarce more than bare bone sheathed in scaly, desiccated, parchment-like skin, woven together with dry sinews like cords of cat gut. It was the hand of a thing long dead and withered…but it clung to his ankle with incredible living strength and tenacity.
He stepped back, dragging his captured foot. A thin, gaunt arm appeared, coins and parchment tatters spilling away. Dried flesh hung in ropes and tatters to the brown old bone. But the thing, somehow, lived.
Now the rest of the mummy came into view, a hideous thing with a bony mahogany face that was as fleshless as a skull and to whose bald brow a few shreds of desiccated skin yet clung. The eye sockets were deep and hollow, mere black pits of shadow, but within them eyes blazed with cold, awful fires of malignant hatred. The eyeballs themselves, Thongor could see, had dried to beads of yellowing gum, but still they burned with cold, inhuman vigor and intelligence.
His skin crawled with a thrill of horror as he saw that the dust of centuries filmed those naked, burning eyes!
Behind him somewhere the girl screamed with sheer terror as the living dead thing arose into view, clutching his leg in an unbreakable grip. And Thongor somehow knew that even after centuries of death, Shan Chan Thuu was still the Keeper of the Emerald Flame, and by whatever nameless sorcery animation lurked yet within its withered flesh, the mummy of the old Omnian magician still guarded its ancient trust.
Thongor swept his sword up and chopped an awkward blow at the scrawny arm. But it was tough as sun-dried leather and although the keen edge of Sarkozan cut through a shred of dried flesh and snapped a thread of gristle, naught else was accomplished. The vise-like grip on his boot tightened inexorably. Already his ankle was numb from the paralyzing pressure of those withered talons.
On sudden inspiration, he recalled that in his haste in dressing he had not bothered to buckle the boots securely. Thus, with a twist of his leg, he tore his foot out of the boot, leaving it in the grip of the mummy’s hand, together with a few square inches of his hide. He sprang backward, clumsily, thrusting the collar of glittering green flame into his girdle so as to free his hands.
The grinning jaws of the long-dead sorcerer gaped in a soundless howl of rage. Convulsively, the bony claws closed on the empty boot like a steel trap. And then Thongor saw the ferocity and demoniac strength that had torn his men asunder into bloody gobbets—for in a mindless fury the claws of the mummy ripped and tore the tough leather of his boot into rags.
His jaw tightened grimly. If once those bony claws closed on his flesh, he would be maimed for life. Whatever
the nature of the force that animated the wizard’s mummy, it lent unbelievable strength to the withered lich of Shan Chan Thuu. Now the thing came lurching down the mounded treasure toward him, bony arms reaching for him, eyes aflame with a reptilian ferocity.
Behind him the girl watched, her face milk-white, hands to her cold cheeks, eyes wide and filled with horror.
10
When Dead Men Walk
Thongor circled the stone chamber slowly, fending off the mummy of the ancient wizard with the gleaming steel of the broadsword. With jerky, ungainly strides, the thin brown thing stalked after him, its burning gaze fixed on the mass of gem-fuelled flame that flashed and scintillated at his girdle. It closed with him suddenly, and the youth took his stand and swung the mighty broadsword in a whistling blow that caught the mummy full in the side.
The impact of that slashing steel would have slain a living man. Gaunt ribs, over which leathery hide was stretched drum-taut, crunched and splintered. The mummy staggered, but did not seem to feel the blow in the slightest. Another stroke caught the mummy’s forearm, splintering the bone and shattering the wrist joint. The blow, which would have put any mortal warrior out of action, did not in the slightest impede the skeletal lich. The young barbarian felt his skin crawl with horror.
How do you kill a thing that is already dead? he wondered.
Again he circled the chamber, followed by the staggering mummy that stalked tirelessly after him, bony arms outstretched to rend and tear his flesh.
Fumio and Orovar had, doubtless, stood still, mesmerized by the uncanny powers of the dead sorcerer—helpless to move as the grasping claws ripped their bodies asunder. But Thongor was free of the spell—which indicated that a man who was awake was immune to the magic of Shan Chan Thuu, who gained his powers over the minds of sleeping men by whispering to them in their dreams his eerie, siren song.
It occurred to Thongor to wonder for what reason the mummy had lured the two men and the girl, Zoroma, into his grasp. Merely to protect his treasure of ensorcelled gems? He frowned thoughtfully: it was not likely, for until he had penetrated to the secret crypt, they had not known of it, and thus posed no threat to the mummy’s treasures.
Why, then, this bestial fury—this necromantic urge to kill?
Suddenly, it came to Thongor, as if by sheer intuition. That collar of green gems, some of which were inwardly lit by eerie, writhing emerald flames, and some of which were dead and dark, unlit and lusterless.
Something the boy knew of the dark, perverted cult of chaos, for his adventures had brought him into proximity with their grisly worship and unholy rites ere now. He knew that the gifts of chaos were never bestowed freely…that always the seeker after wisdom and power had a grim and terrible price to pay.
What price had Shan Chan Thuu paid for his magisterium?
Thongor had a horrible suspicion that he already knew. For each weird gem in that mighty collar, the old Omnian wizard had taken a human life…and the flickering, restless flames that beat within those green crystals, as prisoners might beat against the bars of their cells…each flame was a captive soul.
And there were still a score or more of dark, lusterless gems at whose cold heart no captive flame danced.
“Great Gorm!” he breathed hoarsely…and the curse was more than half a prayer. No reason, now, to wonder that life clung with unnatural tenacity to the dried, dead mummy of Shan Chan Thuu. For his spirit would not be free of its ancient curse until every crystal which composed the Emerald Flame was horribly in-lit!
* * * *
Zoroma watched as the young warrior circled the stone-walled chamber again and again, followed by the shuffling steps of the untiring mummy. The horror of their predicament gradually dawned upon her frozen mind, which was gripped in the icy clutch of supernatural terrors. Why had she violated the precepts of the tribal elders and sought out this haunted castle? She had known that her lover, Alatur, was lost…for no man who entered the realm of Shan Chan Thuu ever left it alive.
Her vain and foolish quest had accomplished utterly nothing. And it would soon bring a ghastly doom down on herself and on the stalwart barbarian boy who now battled on heroically—but so hopelessly—against the animated mummy of the ancient wizard.
Thongor, too, knew that it was only a matter of time before he would fail to elude the grasping claws of the mummy. And once that bony grip closed on his arm, he would be helpless to oppose its unnatural strength. His strength was failing even now. Days of toil and tension, sleepless horror-haunted nights and the lack of food and water—all these had taken their toll even of his magnificent young physique. In a moment—or an hour—his weary legs would falter or stumble, and the claws of the mummy would seize him in their unbreakable grip…and those mad eyes burning from black pits sunken in that gaunt, grinning skull would be the last sight he would see in this life.
Fiercely, he redoubled the fury of his attacks against the stalking dead man. Sarkozan whistled through the fetid dead air, smashing a thigh bone here, slicing through a taut ligament there—terrible crippling blows that seemed to cause the walking dead thing no discomfort.
One shattering blow stove in the side of the bald, bony brow, extinguishing the mad glitter of one scummy, dusty eye in a shower of splintering bone. Yet on it came, grinning with a rigor of hellish mirth!
Another terrific blow cracked the bony pelvis. A web of black lines ran jaggedly through the dry brown bone, but did not slow its tireless advance. The weary boy was panting with effort now, his face black and congested, his naked breast rising and falling. The broadsword in his hands seemed to weigh like a ton of lead and the taut sinews of his arms trembled with the effort of wielding it. It was only a matter of time before—
Zoroma screamed!
His booted leg stumbled against the ruin of a broken chair and suddenly he felt himself falling. The broadsword spun away from him and rang like a struck gong against the stone flags of the paving. Then he lay sprawled, his feet entangled in the broken rungs of the chair, the air knocked out of him by the impact of his fall—and before he could clamber to his feet again, the mummy lunged like a striking serpent and he felt the dry, bony claws clutching at his throat and stared up through rising red mists into the single glaring eye of Shan Chan Thuu.
11
Flaming Death
The clutch of the bony claws was crushing his throat. A numbness went tingling through his body and his skin crawled with loathing at the touch of the dead sorcerer. Dimly, through the rising haze that obscured his vision, the young barbarian stared up into the ghastly, grinning visage of the mummy as it loomed above him. Its bony jaws worked soundlessly, and he could smell the dust-dry odor of the breath that blew from between the brown fangs, sour as sweat.
He fumbled desperately, seizing the gaunt wrists in his numb and suddenly powerless hands, and strove to tear the vise-like grip loose. But all his young strength was helpless to dislodge the clutch of the mummy. The muffled thunder of his pulse was loud in his ears. Faintly, as if from a vast distance, he could hear Zoroma screaming his name.
Then blackness rose about him and it seemed to Thongor that he fell with weird slowness through veils of dim vapor, ever darkening around him…and he knew that soon his mighty spirit would be but one more captive flame flickering within an eternal prison of cold crystal.
* * * *
Terror broke the cold paralysis that had seized the girl. She sprang forward, crying Thongor’s name, casting about her frantically for some weapon to use against the murderous mummy. On a long, low table of acid-stained black wood she spied a heavy carboy of clouded glass, and snatched it up.
Sustaining its massive weight with numb, trembling hands, she staggered to the struggling pair—raised the heavy container above her head—and brought it down with a shattering blow upon the naked skull of Shan Chan Thuu. Bone crunched, glass cracked, and a noisome chemical stench permeated the air suddenly. The whole back of the mummy’s skull was crushed inward by the force of her
blow, and from the broken carboy rivulets of a heavy fluid seeped, crawling over the bony back and shoulders of the sorcerer.
Suddenly it staggered erect, releasing the half-conscious barbarian youth. It peered about at her with one mad, blazing eye. She stood frozen, watching a strange and miraculous transformation take place. The heavy fluid, which had soaked into the desiccated flesh of the mummy—smoked.
Burst into flame!
An oily, metallic vapor went whirling up from the mummy’s wriggling, jerking torso. Now its entire upper thorax was one seething mass of crackling flames. Whatever virulent fluid the carboy had held—some powerful acid, no doubt—the centuries had not lessened its fierce potency.
As the mummy, wrapped in crackling flame, went staggering away, Zoroma dropped to her knees beside the half-conscious youth and cradled his head on her bare thighs. Was he dead? Had the crushing claws quenched his young vigor? No—he lived—for now his perspiration-smeared chest rose and fell, drinking the fetid air deep into his oxygen-starved lungs. Even as she watched, the blackness drained from his congested features and his eyelids flickered. The youth voiced a hoarse, inarticulate growl and forced himself up on one elbow, staring with amazement at the wizard’s mad contortions.
As if it was capable of feeling pain, the burning mummy staggered and cavorted about the stone-walled chamber, writhing and flapping its flaming arms, in a macabre dance of death. The ghastly scene was made all the more gruesome by the utter silence of its struggles. For although the bare fanged jaws moved and mouthed horribly, as in mute agony, no sound escaped it.
Frozen with horror, they watched the dance of the flaming death. The leathery flesh and dried bones of the mummy had absorbed all of the acid the heavy carboy had contained. Now it seethed scarlet flame from head to foot. Even as they watched it blackened—shriveled—dwindling like a moth caught in a flame. Immune to pain, to crippling blows, the supernatural vitality that animated the mummy’s form was helpless against the one enemy to which it was vulnerable—the healing purification of naked flame.
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