The voice in my head grew fainter. I scarcely heard it. Far away it whispered urgently, “You’ve forgotten! You’ve forgotten!”
My hand went out; I pulled the control lever toward me. I felt a grinding shock, and my head jerked forward. A white-hot pain burned along my forehead. I touched it with my hand, and my fingers came away smeared with blood.
I couldn’t believe the machine had worked, but I turned to look at the clock. The hands pointed to seven-thirty. I had been hurled a half-hour backward in time.
Triumph intoxicated me. Yet somehow, far in the back of my mind, was a queer, small foreboding, knowledge of the fact that I had forgotten something—something that had happened just before I had entered the laboratory-something vitally important . . .
I opened the door.
A man was sitting at the table reading. When I coughed he looked up. Feature for feature, the face was my own.
“Well,” I said. “So it worked. I’ve conquered time!”
The dog barked.
CURSED BE THE CITY
Pan Plays His Pipes and A Rushing Wind Roars Through the Cradle of Mankind!
This is the tale they tell, O King: that ere the royal banners were lifted upon the tall towers of Chaldean Ur, before the Winged Pharaohs reigned in secret Aegyptus, there were mighty empires far to the east. There in that vast desert known as the Cradle of Mankind—aye, even in the heart of the measureless Gobi—great wars were fought and high palaces thrust their minarets up to the purple Asian sky. But this, O King, was long ago, beyond the memory of the oldest sage; the splendor of Imperial Gobi lives now only in the dreams of minstrels and poets . . .
The Tale of Sakhmet the Damned.
CHAPTER I
The Gates of War
IN THE gray light of the false dawn the prophet had climbed to the outer wall of Sardopolis, his beard streaming in the chill wind. Before him, stretching across the broad plain, were the gay tents and pavilions of the besieging army, emblazoned with the scarlet symbol of the wyvern, the winged dragon beneath which King Cyaxares of the north waged his wars.
Already soldiers were grouped about the catapults and scaling-towers, and a knot of them gathered beneath the wall where the prophet stood. Mocking, rough taunts were voices, but for a time the white-bearded oldster paid no heed to the gibes. His sunken eyes, beneath their snowy penthouse brows, dwelt on the far distance, where a forest swept up into the mountain slopes and faded into blue haze.
His voice came, thin piercing. “Wo, wo unto Sardopolis! Fallen is Jewel of Gobi, fallen and lost forever, and all its glory gone! Desecration shall come to the altars, and the streets shall run red with blood. I see death for the king and shame for his people . . .
For a time the soldiers beneath the wall had been silent, but now, spears lifted, they interrupted with a torrent of half-amused mockery. A bearded giant roared:
“Come down to us, old goat! We’ll welcome you indeed!”
THE prophet’s eyes dropped, and the shouting of the soldiers faded into stillness. Very softly the ancient spoke, yet each word was clear and distinct as a sword-blade.
“Ye shall ride through the streets of the city in triumph. And your king shall mount the silver throne. Yet from the forest shall come your doom; an old doom shall come down upon you, and none shall escape. He shall return—He—the mighty one who dwelt here once . . .”
The prophet lifted his arms, staring straight into the red eye of the rising sun. “Evohé! Evohé!”
Then he stepped forward. Two steps and plunged. Straight down, his beard and robe streaming up, till the upthrust spears caught him, and he died.
And that day the gates of Sardopolis were burst in by giant battering-rams, and like an unleashed flood the men of Cyaxares poured into the city, wolves who slew and plundered and tortured mercilessly. Terror walked that day, and a haze of battle hung upon the roofs. The defenders were hunted down and slaughtered in the streets without mercy. Women were outraged, their children impaled, and the glory of Sardopolis faded in a smoke of shame and horror. The last glow of the setting sun touched the scarlet wyvern of Cyaxares floating from the tallest tower of the king’s palace.
Flambeaux were lighted in their sockets, till the great hall blazed with a red fire, reflected from the silver throne where the invader sat. His black beard was all bespattered with blood and grime, and slaves groomed him as he sat among his men, gnawing on a mutton-bone. Yet, despite the man’s gashed and broken armor and the filth that besmeared him, there was something unmistakably regal about his bearing. A king’s son was Cyaxares, the last of a line that had sprung from the dawn ages of Gobi when the feudal barons had reigned.
But his face was a tragic ruin.
Strength and power and nobility had once dwelt there, and traces of them still could be seen, as though in muddy water, through the mask of cruelty and vice that lay heavy upon Cyaxares. His gray eyes held a cold and passionless stare that vanished only in the crimson blaze of battle, and now those deadly eyes dwelt on the bound form of the conquered king of Sardopolis, Chalem.
In contrast with the huge figure of Cyaxares Chalem seemed slight; yet, despite his wounds, he stood stiffly upright, no trace of expression on his pale face.
A strange contrast! The marbled, tapestried throne-room of the palace was more suitable to gay pageantry than this grim scene. The only man who did not seem incongruously out of place stood beside the throne, a slim, dark youth, clad in silks and velvets that had apparently not been marred by the battle. This was Necho, the king’s confidant, and, some said, his familiar demon. Whence he had come no one knew but of his evil power over Cyaxares there was no doubt.
A little smile grew on the youth’s handsome face. Smoothing his curled dark hair, he leaned close and whispered to the king. The latter nodded, waved away a maiden who was oiling his beard, and said shortly:
“Your power is broken, Chalem.
Yet are we merciful. Render homage, and you may have your life.”
For answer Chalem spat upon the marble flags at his feet.
A curious gleam came into Cyaxares’ eyes. Half inaudibly he murmured, “A brave man. Too brave to die . . .”
Some impulse seemed to pull his head around until he met Necho’s gaze. A message passed in that silent staring. For Cyaxares took from his side a long, bloodstained sword; he rose, stepped down from his dais—and swung the brand.
CHALEM made no move to evade the blow. The steel cut through bone and brain. As the dead man fell, Cyaxares stood looking down without a trace of expression. He wrenched his sword free.
“Fling this carrion to the vultures,” he commanded.
From the group of prisoners near by came an angry oath. The king turned to face the man who had dared to speak. He gestured.
A pair of guards pushed forward a tall, well-muscled figure, yellowhaired, with a face strong despite its youth, now darkened with rage. The man wore no armor, and his torso was criss-crossed with wounds.
“Who are you?” Cyaxares asked with ominous restraint, the sword bare in his hand.
“King Chalem’s son—Prince Raynor.”
“You seek death?”
Raynor shrugged. “Death has come close to me today. Slay me if you will. I’ve butchered about a dozen of your wolves, anyway, and that’s some satisfaction.”
Behind Cyaxares came a rustle of silks as Necho moved slightly. The king’s lips twitched beneath the shaggy beard. His face was suddenly hard and cruel again.
“So! Well, you will crawl to my feet before the next sun sets.” He gestured. “No doubt there are torture vaults beneath the palace, Sudrach!”
A brawny, leather-clad man stepped forward and saluted. “You have heard my will. See to it.”
“If I crawl to your feet,” Raynor said quietly, “it’ll be to hamstring you, bloated toad.”
The king drew in his breath with an angry sound. Without another word he nodded to Sudrach, and the torturer followed Raynor as he was conducted out. Then Cyaxares went back to h
is throne and mused for a time, till a slave brought him wine in a gilded chalice.
But the liquor had no power to break his dark mood. At last he rose and went to the dead king’s apartments, which the invaders had not dared to plunder for fear of Cyaxares’ wrath. Above the silken couch a gleaming image hung from its standard—the scarlet wyvern, wings spread, barbed tail stiffly upright. Cyaxares stood silently staring at it for a space.
He did not turn when he heard Necho’s soft voice. The youth said, “The wyvern has conquered once again.”
“Aye,” Cyaxares said dully. “Once again, through vileness and black shame. It was an evil day when we met, Necho.”
Low laughter came. “Yet you summoned me, as I remember. I was content enough in my own place, till you sent your summons.”
Involuntarily the king shuddered. “I would Ishtar had sent down her lightnings upon me that night.”
“Ishtar? You worship another god now.”
Cyaxares swung about, snarling. “Necho, do not push me too far! I have still some power—”
“You have all power,” the low voice said. “As you wished.”
For a dozen heart-beats the king made no answer. Then he whispered, “I am the first to bring shame upon our royal blood. When I was crowned I swore many a vow on the tombs of my fathers—and for a time I kept those vows. I ruled with truth and chivalry—”
“And you sought wisdom.”
“Aye. I was not content. I sought to make my name great, and to that end I talked with sorcerers—with Bleys of the Dark Pool.”
“Bleys,” Necho murmured. “He was learned, in his way. Yet—he died.”
The king’s breathing was unsteady. “I know. I slew him—at your command. And you showed me what happened thereafter.”
“Bleys is not happy now,” Necho said softly. “He served the same master as you. Wherefore—” The quiet voice grew imperious. “Wherefore live! For by our bargain I shall give you all power on earth, fair women and treasure beyond imagination. But when you die—you shall serve me!”
The other stood silent, while veins swelled on his swarthy forehead. Suddenly, with a bellowing, inarticulate oath, he snatched up his sword. Bright steel flamed through the air—and rebounded, clashing. Up the king’s arm and through all his body raced a tingling shock, and simultaneously the regal apartment seemed to darken around him. The fires of the flambeaux darkened. The air was chill—and it whispered.
Steadily the room grew blacker. Now all was midnight black, save for a shining figure that stood immobile, blazing with weird and unearthly radiance. Little murmurs rustled through the deadly stillness. The body of Necho shone brighter, blindingly. And he stood without moving or speaking, till the king shrank with a shuddering cry, his blade clattering on the marble.
“No!” he half sobbed. “For His mercy—no!”
“He has no mercy,” the low voice came, bleak and chill. “Therefore worship me, dog whom men call king. Worship me!”
And Cyaxares worshiped . . .
CHAPTER II
Blood in the City
PRINCE RAYNOR was acutely uncomfortable. He was stretched upon a rack, staring up at the dripping stones of the vault’s roof, and Sudrach, the torturer, was heating iron bars on the hearth. A great cup of wine stood nearby, and occasionally Sudrach, humming under his breath, would reach for it and gulp noisily. “A thousand pieces of gold if you help me escape,” Raynor repeated without much hope.
“What good is gold to a flayed man?” Sudrach asked. “That would be my fate if you escaped. Also, where would you get a thousand golden pieces?”
“In my apartment,” Raynor said. “Safely hidden.”
“You may be lying. At any rate, you’ll tell me where this hiding place is when I burn out your eyes. Thus I’ll have the gold—if it exists—without danger to myself.”
Raynor made no answer, but instead tugged at the cords that bound him. They did not give. Yet Raynor strained until blood throbbed in his temples, and was no closer to freedom when he relaxed at last.
“You’ll but wear yourself out,” Sudrach said over his shoulder. “Best save your strength. You’ll need it for screaming.” He took an iron bar from the fire. Its end glowed redly, and Raynor watched the implement with fascinated horror. An unpleasant way to die . . .
But as the glowing bar approached Raynor’s chest there came an interruption. The iron door was flung open, and a tall, huge-muscled black entered. Sudrach turned, involuntarily lifting the bar as a weapon. Then he relaxed, his eyes questioning.
“Who the devil are you?” he grunted.
“Eblik, the Nubian,” said the black, bowing. “I bear a message from the king. I lost my way in this damned palace, and just now blundered to my goal. The king has two more prisoners for your hands.”
“Good!” Sudrach rubbed his hands. “Where are they?”
“In the—” The other stepped closer. He fumbled in his belt.
Then, abruptly, a blood-reddened dagger flashed up and sheathed itself in flesh. Sudrach bellowed, thrust out clawing hands. He doubled up slowly, while his attacker leaped free, and then he collapsed upon the dank stones and lay silent, twitching a little.
“The gods be praised!” Raynor grunted. “Eblik, faithful servant, you come in time!”
Eblik’s dark, gargoylish face was worried. “Let me—” He slashed the cords that bound the prisoner. “It wasn’t easy. When we were separated in the battle, master, I knew Sardopolis would fall. I changed clothes with one of Cyaxares’ men—whom I slew—and waited my chance to escape. It was by the merest luck that I heard you had offended the king and were to be tortured. So—” He shrugged.
Raynor, free at last, sprang up from the rack, stretching his stiffened muscles. “Will it be easy to escape?”
“Perhaps. Many are drunk or asleep. At any rate, we can’t stay here.”
The two slipped cautiously out into the corridor. A guard lay dead, weltering in his blood, not far away. They hurried past him, and silently threaded their way through the palace, more than once dodging into passages to evade detection.
“If I knew where Cyaxares slept, I’d take my chances on slitting his throat,” Raynor said. “Wait! This way!”
At the end of a narrow hall was a door which, pushed open, showed a moonlit expanse of garden. Eblik said, “I remember—I entered this way. Here—” He dived into a bush and presently emerged with a sword and a heavy battle-ax; the latter he thrust in his girdle. “What now?”
“Over the wall,” Raynor said, and led the way. The high rampart was not easy to scale, but a spreading tree grew close to it, and eventually the two had surmounted the barrier. As Raynor dropped lightly to the ground he heard a sudden cry, and, glancing around, saw a group of men, armor gleaming in the moonlight, racing toward him. He cursed softly.
Eblik was already fleeing, his long legs covering the yards with amazing speed. Raynor followed, though his first impulse was to wait and give battle. But in the stronghold of Cyaxares such an action would have been suicidal.
Behind the pair the pursuers bayed menace. Swords came out flashing. Raynor clutched his comrade’s arm, dragged him into a side alley, and the two sped on, frantically searching for a hiding-place. It was Eblik who found sanctuary five minutes later. Passing the blood-smeared, corpse-littered courtyard of a temple, he gasped a hasty word, and in a moment both Raynor and Eblik were across the moonlit stretch and fleeing into the interior of the temple.
From a high roof hung a golden ball, dim in the gloom. This was the sacred house of the Sun, the dwelling place of the primal god Ahmon. Eblik had been here before, and knew the way. He guided Raynor past torn tapestries and overthrown censers, and then, halting before a golden curtain, he listened. There was no sound of pursuit.
“Good!” the Nubian warrior said. “I’ve heard of a secret way out of here, though where it is I don’t know. Maybe we can find it.”
HE drew the curtain aside, and the two entered the sanctuary of the
god. Involuntarily Raynor whispered a curse, and his brown fingers tightened on his rapier hilt.
A small chamber faced them, with walls and floor and ceiling blue as the summer sky. It was empty, save for a single huge sphere of gold in the center.
Broken upon the gleaming ball was a man.
From the wall a single flambeau cast a flickering radiance on the twisted, bloodstained body, on the white beard that was dappled with blood. The man lay stretched across the globe, his hands and feet impaled with iron spikes that had been driven deeply into the gold.
Froth bubbled on his lips. His hoary head rolled; eyes stared unseeingly. He gasped, “Water! For the love of Ahmon, a drop of water!” Raynor’s lips were a hard white line as he sprang forward. Eblik helped him as he pried the spikes free. The tortured priest moaned and bit at his mangled lips, but made no outcry. Presently he lay prostrate on the blue floor. With a muttered word, Eblik disappeared, and cams back bearing a cup which he held to the dying man’s mouth.
The priest drank deeply. He whispered, “Prince Raynor! Is the King safe?”
Swiftly Raynor answered. The other’s white head rolled.
“Lift me up—swiftly!”
Raynor obeyed. The priest ran his hands over the golden sphere, and suddenly, beneath his probing fingers, it split in half like a cloven fruit, and in its center a gap widened. A steep staircase led down into hidden depths.
“The altar is open? I cannot see well. Take me down there. They cannot find us in the hidden chamber.”
Raynor swung the priest to his shoulders and without hesitation started down the steps, Eblik behind him. There was a low grating as the altar swung back, a gleaming sphere that would halt and baffle pursuit. They were in utter darkness. The prince moved cautiously, testing each step before he shifted his weight. At last he felt the floor level beneath his feet.
SLOWLY, a dim light began to grow, like the first glow of dawn. It revealed a bare stone vault, roughly constructed of mortised stones, strangely at variance with the palatial city above. In one wall a dark hole showed. On the floor was a circular disk of metal, its center hollowed out into a cup. Within this cup lay a broken shard of some rock that resembled gold-shot marble, half as large as Raynor’s hand. On the shard were carved certain symbols the prince did not recognize, and one that he did—the ancient looped cross, sacred to the sun-god.
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