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 kafiyehs 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 Anz.
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 sna
ke-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 Ira. 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.
“I’m not going with you,” Price told him.
“What!”
“I’m going to try for the mountain on my own. Going to make that bird in the blue clothes guide me in. We’ll hide around here until he can walk.”
“But, Mr. Durand,” the old man cried, “I—I don’t like to see you try it, sir. I wouldn’t trust that fellow. He’s a—a snake!”
“I don’t trust him. But he’s the only shot.”
Sam Sorrows stared at him, grinned and rose and shook his hand.
“Luck, Mr. Durand. A crazy thing to do, sir. But you might make it. I’ll leave you the water-skin, and the grub. And you might find something more up in the trenches.”
Half an hour later the tank went lumbering back toward the oasis. Fastening a halter-rope about his prisoner’s neck, Price loosed his ankles and conducted him to a hiding-place among the tumbled masses of lava half a mile down the wadi. Kreor limped and grumbled, but he could walk.
Fastening him again, Price returned and searched the abandoned battlefield for food and water, finding all he could carry.
For two days Price kept the Arab bound, nursing his wounds with painful care. On the late afternoon of the second day, when Price was sleeping, the man worked loose his bonds.
Disturbed by some obscure warning of danger, perhaps some faint sound of the snake-man’s footsteps or his breathing, Price looked up to see Kreor standing above him, a jagged mass of lava raised in both hands.
18. FROST OF GOLD
SNATCHING at the ancient battle-ax, which he kept always beside him, Price rolled over, away from the boulder in whose shadow he had been lying. The stone came crashing down where his head had been.
With a single gliding movement, Price was on his feet, swinging up the ax. The Arab made to leap forward, then, realizing his helplessness against the ax, stopped and folded his arms and stood staring at Price with mad hatred in his eyes.
Resolutely, Price met his eyes, motionless.
“Slay me, Iru,” the Arab muttered. “Strike, that I may be gathered into the abyss of the snake.”
“Nothing doing. But tonight you are going to take me to Aysa. If you are able to murder me you are able to walk. We have plenty of moonlight. If you try any tricks it will be time enough to split your head.”
The man assented with an apparent meekness that Price found disturbing.
“Very well, Iru. Since the gods awakened you, I shall not attempt to betray you again.”
Price knotted the halter-rope about the man’s neck, to preclude any attempt at flight. They finished the remaining water and food, and then set off across the lava-fields, toward the basaltic mass of the mountain, looming dark in the moonlight.
It was five miles directly to the mountain; perhaps eight or nine by the route they took around to the north cliffs. Price held the rope, forced his guide to walk in front. The man limped somewhat, and it was past midnight when they reached the precipice.
The moon was low; it was dark in the shadow of the mountain. It would be impossible, Kreor said, to make the climb in darkness. They lay down to rest on bare lava. The Arab breathed loudly, and seemed to sleep, while Price kept his grasp on the ax, and fought slumber.
He held the rope tight. Toward dawn it loosened; he knew Kreor was creeping upon him, and jerked the rope. The Arab sprawled on the rock beside him, protesting that he had risen merely to stretch his muscles.
With the first light of day they started inching a perilous way up a narrow chimney between basalt columns. The snake-man went first, Price following, the rope tied around his waist so that he could use both hands.
Half an hour of difficult climbing found them three hundred feet up the face of an almost vertical cliff. Kreor, above, gained a narrow edge where he could stand with hands free, and began a furious attempt to untie the knot at his throat.
Cunningly, he had chosen a moment when Price required all his fingers and toes to cling to the rock. It was a desperate race, with life for the stake; the rope untied, Kreor could readily push Price to a fall of several hundred feet.
Price drew himself up with reckless haste. The Arab loosened the first knot; but Price, in anticipation of something of the kind, had tied several.
At last, trembling and panting from his effort, Price reached a crevice where he could free a hand. He seized the rope, jerked on it, almost precipitating the snake-man from the ledge.
“Lead on,” Price commanded. “And keep the rope tight.”
Snarling with baffled hate, the Arab wriggled crabwise into a narrow crack above the ledge. Following him, but keeping the rope taut, Price reached the ledge, and slipped through the crevice into a tiny, gloomy cavern.
Kreor led the way from one damp, black chamber into another. Light of day was swiftly lost; the darkness became abysmal. Walls and roof and floor were rugged, uneven stone. Sometimes the passages were difficult to push through. Twice they had to crawl for a distance upon hands and knees.
Again and again Price warned his guide to keep the rope tight. He kept asking the man whispered questions, so t
hat the answers would reveal his whereabouts.
They came at last into a larger cavern. Price could not estimate its size in the utter darkness, but the faint sounds of their movements came whispering back to straining ears as if from the walls of a vast chamber.
Price counted two hundred and sixty paces, as the Arab, at the end of the stretched rope, led him through mystic darkness. He was attempting to remember distances and direction of turns, so that if he indeed found Aysa, he could bring her safely out.
“Here we enter the passage, Iru,” Kreor said.
“Will there be men near?”
“I think not. These passages are remote.”
“Come back this way.”
Price tugged at the rope, led the man back into the cavern. Kreor uttered a howling scream.
“Silence!” Price hissed. “I’m not going to kill you. Lie down!”
He struck a match to see that the man had obeyed. Then he gagged him, with a handkerchief in his mouth and a kafiyeh tied around his head.
“Get up,” he ordered. “And lead on to Aysa. I’ll turn you loose if I get out with her.”
With sullen reluctance, Kreor led the way from the rugged cavern to a smooth-floored, narrow tunnel. Cool damp air flowed outward through it; it was, Price supposed, intended for ventilation.
A hundred and eighty paces, and the snake-man turned to the left. They entered a wider passage, still completely dark. With a sure step the Arab led the way down it.
Green light glowed suddenly on a black wall before them; shadows danced in it, magnified, fantastic.
With a jerk of the rope, Price stopped his guide.
“What’s that?” he demanded. Then, realizing that Kreor could not reply: “Let’s get out of sight. Quick!”
The man stood still. Price was helpless. He had no idea which way to seek safety. And any struggle to make the Arab do his bidding would alarm whoever was approaching.
Three men in hooded robes of blue entered the dark hall, fifty yards ahead, from an intersecting passage. Two carried long, yellow-bladed pikes; the third, a torch flaring with a queer, vivid green flame.
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