Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett
SALADIN’S THRONE-RUG
THE GIRL FROM SAMARCAND
THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW
THE LORD OF ILLUSION
PALE HANDS
TARBIS OF THE LAKE
THE GARDEN OF EVIL
THE WALKING DEAD
TOMB DWELLER
KEEPER OF THE GATEWAY
PIT OF MADNESS
SATAN’S DAUGHTER
THE DESTROYING DEMON
SPANISH VAMPIRE
SELENE WALKS BY NIGHT
THE OLD GODS EAT
PRAYER TO SATAN
WEB OF WIZARDRY
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFO
The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: E. Hoffmann Price is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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“Introduction,” by Shawn Garrett, is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press.
“Saladin’s Throne-Rug” was originally published in Weird Tales, October 1927.
“The Girl from Samarcand” was originally published in Weird Tales, March 1938.
“The Peacock’s Shadow” was originally published in Weird Tales, November 1926. Copyright © 1926, renewed 1954.
“The Lord of Illusion” was originally published in Crypt of Cthulhu #10, 1982. Copyright © 1982 by E. Hoffmann Price.
“Pale Hands” was originally published in The Magic Carpet Magazine, October 1933.
“Tarbis of the Lake” was originally published in Weird Tales, February 1934.
“The Garden of Evil” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, July 1935.
“The Walking Dead” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, November 1935.
“Tomb Dweller” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, December 1935.
“Keeper of the Gateway” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, September 1936.
“Pit Of Madness” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, April 1936.
“Satan’s Daughter” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, January 1936.
“The Destroying Demon” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, August 1936.
“Spanish Vampire” was originally published in in Weird Tales, September 1939.
“Selene Walks by Night” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, August 1940.
“The Old Gods Eat” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, February 1941.
“Prayer to Satan” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Tales, May 1942.
“Web of Wizardry” was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, December 1942.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Welcome to the eleventh volume of our Weird Fiction MEGAPACK® series, focusing on the weird works of E. Hoffmann Price. There is a longer introduction by editor Shawn Garrett a few pages later, so Please skip ahead to that piece for more info on Price and his works.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.
INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett
Welcome to The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®, which features the weird fiction of E. Hoffmann Price. Wildside Press, in association with Mr. Price’s heirs, are dedicated to making the extensive body of work of this pulpsmith extraordinaire accessible once again to the public through our line of MEGAPACK® collections.
Edgar Hoffmann Price (July 3, 1898 – June 18, 1988) was born in Fowler, California. A graduate of West Point, he served in World War (followed by military duty in Mexico and the Philippines) and was a champion fencer and boxer—fellow pulp author Jack Williamson referred to him as “a real-life soldier of fortune.” Hoffmann was also something of a polymath—a Republican and a Buddhist, he was also an amateur Orientalist, and a student of the Arabic language.
Price’s first fiction sale was in 1924 to Droll Stories magazine and over the years he befriended, corresponded with, and personally met many authors of the pulp era including Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith and H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote hundreds of stories for many pulp magazines (including Weird Tales) in varied genres like horror, detective, adventure, fantasy and science fiction. Wildside Press is proud to make his work available to readers again. Due to the inaccessibility of much of Price’s work (he kept no manuscript archive and so we must resort to those original publication copies we can track down) we have decided to package the material into themed MEGAPACK®s, highlighting specific genres he worked in. Later volumes will be released as we gather further material (any collectors interested in aiding our endeavors by supplying photocopies from their collections are strongly urged to contact Wildside’s publisher, John Betancourt, at [email protected]).
This volume contains 20 stories of monsters, ghosts, occult powers and were-tigers, published between the years 1927 to 1942. Of particular interest are two stories presented here: “The Lord of Illusion” is Price’s draft from 1932 of the piece he co-wrote with H.P. Lovecraft, later published (after heavy revision by HPL) as “Through the Gates of the Silver Key.” Also, “The Peacock’s Shadow” is included here as a taste of Price’s occult detective series character, whose further exploits can be found in E. Hoffmann Price’s Pierre d’Artois: Occult Detective & Associates MEGAPACK®.
We hope you enjoy these weird tales of the strange and supernatural and urge you to consider purchasing additional collections of Price’s work to be released in the near future. These include:
•E. Hoffmann Price’s Exotic Adventures MEGAPACK®
•E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detective MEGAPACK®
•E. Hoffmann Price’s War and Western Action MEGAPACK®
•E. Hoffmann Price’s Fantasy & Science Fiction MEGAPACK®
•E. Hoffmann Price’s Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®
•E. Hoffmann Price’s Pierre d’Artois: Occult Detective & Associates MEGAPACK®
•
SALADIN’S THRONE-RUG
Originally published in Weird Tales, October 1927.
“I would cheerfully have committed murder for that rug; but as it is…”
Morgan Revell smiled at the memory of his exceeding cleverness, and regarded the throne-rug of Saladin with that fanatic affection comprehensible only to a collector…
The savage jest of it is that he did commit murder. Only he doesn’t know it. Nor, for that matter, do I absolutely know. But, piecing it all together, and taking into account the emotions that take possession of a rug collector, I can draw but one inevitable conclusion. And that is—
But to approach the matter at all, some explaining is necessary. First of all, you who regard a rug as something to hide the nakedness of a floor must revise your conception of things. It is all very true that the machine-made atrocities of this country, as well as the precious weaves of the Orient, are indeed used as floor coverings; something on which to walk, something to give the vacuum cleaner its excuse for existing.
But that is only a part of it: Oriental rugs are works of art, the peer of any of the numerous products of man’s instinct to create unbelievable and imperishable beauty. And just as there are those who collect the works of ancient silversmiths, armorers, cabinetmakers, and bookbinders, so likewise are there those whose consuming passion and sole aim in life is the accumulating of antique specimens of Oriental weaving: rugs from Boukhara and silken Samarcand from Shiraz, and Herat of the Hundred Gardens; prayer rugs, palace carpets, or the priceless fabric that graced the floor of a nomad’s tent in Turkestan. Rugs are many, and their enumeration lengthy; and the study of their personality and traits is the pursuit of a lifetime. Some are prized for their beauty and matchless craftsmanship; others for their exceeding rarity; and some for the sake of all those qualities.
Once one has succumbed to the sorcery of a Bijar that covered the dirt floor of a Kurdish hovel, or a silken Kashan that hung suspended by silver rings on the walls of a king’s palace, one is beyond redemption, or the desire of redemption. It is even as though one had become addicted to the smoke of the poppy, or to the grain of hasheesh dissolved in wine. One’s house becomes a place designed for the sheltering and storing of rare rugs; though, of course, the collector himself has no moral scruples about utilizing a bit of that same shelter for himself.
One may wear last year’s overcoat, and have last year’s shoes half-soled; but one can always raise the price, however exorbitant, of a threadbare Ladik, a battle-scarred Ghiordes, or a moth-eaten Feraghan.
Thus, though Morgan Revell was exaggerating when he smiled in a way reminiscent of a cat who has just had a pleasant tête-à-tête with a canary, and remarked, “I’d cheerfully have committed murder for that rug,” he was well within the limits of poetic license. Not that he would actually consider going as far as rope, pistol, or poison; in fact, I think he would stop short of breaking and entering. But the fact remains that trifles can not stand in one’s way when a really rare rug is in sight. And very often a jest is the essence of truth.
Well, and that is that: either you still maintain that a rug is but something to put on the floor, or else you have grasped some conception of the fanaticism that consumes the confirmed collector of antique rugs. If the former, well and good: de gustibus non disputandum est. But if the latter, if you have grasped the idea, then perhaps you will understand why I crave a bit of fresh air and a change of scene whenever I catch a whiff of attar of roses, or a glimpse of a fine, hard-spun silken cord.
I was making one of my customary reconnaissances, prowling tours in search of the perfect rug, the wondrous prize; though what I’d have done with it is a bit beyond me, unless I’d have tacked it to the ceiling. All other space is occupied. Furthermore, I am at times heretical enough to fancy that it is better to know that the rent, due on the morrow, will be in cash available for payment to the landlord instead of being draped over a lounge, or parked on the last bit of vacant wall or floor space.
A chubby, oily little fellow from somewhere in Asia Minor, with features that combined Mephisto with Kewpie, approached and offered his services, assuring me that some rare bargains would be auctioned off that afternoon. I assured him that I was merely prowling about.
“A fine Kirman. Worth seven hundred dollars,” he began, just from force of habit. “Perhaps you will bid on it? Get it for two-three hundred.”
I didn’t bother to tell him that I’d not use it for a bath mat; that it was a sickly-looking mess, with its flabby texture, its aniline dyes, bleached to unnatural softness, and its fearful, glassy luster gained from glycerin and hot rollers, and that it would hardly be a fit companion for a Kirman rose-rug of the old school. So he left me to my own devices, to tear down several piles, shoulder-high, of rugs of varying quality; mainly atrocities recently woven to satisfy the ever-increasing demand for Oriental rugs: wretched rags which the auctioneer would later exhibit, glassily agleam under a powerful floodlight, and describe as “Royal” Bijar, “Royal” Sarouk, or “Royal” Kashan, or “Royal” whatever travesty it was on some ancient, honorable weave.
Weariness and more weariness. I worked my way through the second pile, and with like result. An old Feraghan tempted me, but I decided that though honest and ancient, it would cost too much to have the worn spots rewoven. Nor did the third pile bring forth anything of interest. Then, poking about in a dark corner, I found behind a baled, room-sized carpet, a scrap of something which even in that dim light had the look of antiquity, the stamp of personality possessed only by one of the old guard. And it had the feel of ancient weaving.
I dragged it out. Through all its coating of dust and dirt, the unbelievable richness of the dyes, the “bald-headedness” of the back and subdued luster of the face were apparent. Then—horrible sight!—I saw that I had but a portion of a rug, between half and two-thirds of one, the remnant of something which if complete would be priceless. Judging from the fragment, the complete piece would be about five feet wide and twelve feet long, or thereabout. Some barbarian had sliced it in two, crosswise, with a clean, sweeping cut that left in this fragment about half of the medallion which had been the central design of the complete piece.
What fool would commit such a wanton infamy, such an uncalled-for blasphemy? And then I recalled that classic incident of early Moslem history, wherein one of the Prophet’s fanatic generals, in apportioning the loot of a Persian palace, had dismembered a gold-threaded carpet, giving each of his captains a portion, saying that it would have been unfair to let any one individual retain the entire rug; and offering the equally good reason that such a pagan vanity deserved mutilation!
Under stronger light, I saw that my instinct for a rarity had indeed been true. The weave was incredibly fine, at least six or seven hundred knots to the square inch; the pile, worn to the warp, was of silk; and the ground inside the main border, and surrounding the central medallion, was of silver bullion thread, woven tapestry-wise about the warp threads instead of being tied and clipped so as to make a nap, as is the practice when weaving with silk or wool. Here, certes, was the adornment of a palace, the gift of one prince to another!
Fortunately for my chances of buying the fragment, the silver bullion ground was so tarnished and caked with dirt that its true nature would scarcely be noticed: for if some collector with a bottomless wallet would see, recognize, and bid against my poverty, I’d surely lose out. But the chances were that even a keen observer, unless he had examined the relic closely, would pass it up as a mere scrap unworthy of consideration.
But then I had to take the auctioneer into account. If in handling that fragment, displaying it to the assembled bidders, he ever noticed that its grou
nd was of silver thread, I’d be strictly out of luck. However, there was little chance he’d notice the pile was of silk; for it was worn to the warp; and since all ancient rugs, either of silk or wool, have a greasy, slick surface, his sense of touch might not enlighten him.
I had to buy that ancient fragment; and I had to get it without the auctioneer’s realizing what was going on.
Just what device would minimize his chances of noticing the true nature of what was passing through his hands? And then came the solution.
“Boy, come here a minute!”
One of the uniformed porters approached, I gave him his instructions, also a couple of dollar bills, and the promise of as much more if the ruse worked; also the promise that I’d hunt him up and down the earth with a sawed-off shotgun if he failed me.
It was now 1:30, and the auction was to begin at 2. Prospective bidders were already taking seats before the auctioneer’s rostrum. The average bargain hunter has such sublime confidence in his or her ability to pick a rug or other precious article at first glance that few bother to examine the treasures before bidding; and thus no one intruded on my final study of the fragment I had unearthed, I contrived to decipher the inscription in the remaining half of the central medallion I’d stumbled across. And although I’m no scholar, I can in a pinch hammer out a few words of Arabic, and get enough to supply at least the context of an inscription.
at the feet of my Lord I fall;
I have bowed me down seven times with breast and back;
and all that the King said to me,
well, well do I hear!
Abimilki, a servant of the King am I,
and the dust of thy two feet!
This much I could gather; the upper half of the inscription, in the missing upper half of the medallion, doubtless contained the preliminary honorifics, and perhaps even the name of the prince to whom the rug had been presented. Presented where? At Trebizond, Damascus, Isphahan, Baghdad? What king? Shah Abbas? Nadir Shah? Who had received the servile protestations of this princeling, Abimilki?
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