Hastily Raft adjusted the rheostat. But he was smiling. He knew, without the need for further experiment, that the machine was a success. Remained now only to discover whether its power could control the Flame itself. Raft thought it could, since it would, via induction, have all the Flame’s power.
But the danger struck too soon.
CHAPTER XIII
Flying Demons
BRIAN RAFT wakened to see Janissa’s face above him. The light she carried glowed through the darkened room.
“Brian!”
He blinked at her.
“Janissa—w hats wrong?”
“It’s Parror,” she said. “I’ve touched his mind. He’s on his way to the Flame.”
That brought Raft bolt upright. “Good grief! You’re sure?”
She nodded, her eyes shadowed with fear. “His barrier slipped for an instant. I had been watching my mirror and, suddenly, I felt his thought. He goes by a secret way to waken the Flame.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the forest somewhere. I could not tell. I could see only what he intended, and the secret way he will take. Brian, we must stop him somehow.”
“We will,” Raft said. “Wake up Craddock, Then we’ll rouse the king.”
Janissa slipped away, and Raft hastily donned his garments. His mind was working at top speed. He could not have guarded against this contingency, yet he felt at fault. Parror must have a duplicate machine, but it could not possibly be successful, without the special alloys that did not exist in Paititi. If Parror aroused the Flame, disaster would result.
The three of them went to Darum’s suite. Vann was guarding the entrance, since it was the hour for sleep. He stared at them curiously, his scarred soldier’s face hard. But when he heard the nature of their errand, he let them pass.
“Nevertheless, I’d better go with you,” he said, falling in at their heels. “Assassinations have been cleverly managed before this.” Lights softly illuminated Darum’s chamber. The king himself was there, relaxed on the cushions of his dais. He sprang awake instantly as they approached. His hand dropped toward the silks and came up with a long-bladed dagger. But he said nothing.
“There’s no need for weapons,” Raft growled. “Parror’s got his own and he’s ready to use it.”
“Parror?” Darum let the knife fall. “You mean—the Flame?”
“Tell him, Janissa.”
She explained swiftly. The king frowned in indecision.
“You say his machine will not work?”
“Oh, it’ll work all right, but it will wreck things without the safety device,” Raft pointed out. “Our only chance now is to get there before him, if we can. And if we can’t, we’ll take our own instrument. We may be able to check the Flame before it’s too late.”
“I was dreaming a strange dream,” Darum said slowly. “I lay dead, I thought, here in my own chamber, and a shadow hung over Paititi. A shadow of light. Of life. But it could not bring life back to me, and it had power only to destroy. I wonder, now, if the vision will come true.”
His voice was remote and strange, as if the memory of the dream had carried him back into the dream itself.
‘It was a true dream, so far as the shadow goes,” Janissa said. “There will be death for all of us, unless Parror is stopped.”
“Death!” the king murmured as if he had heard only that one word out of all she said.
“Death.”
Raft thought he recognized something in the timber of the soft, deep voice. He had heard Darum speak that way before. If the madness was coming back upon the king, at this moment of all moments when action and clear thinking was needed, ghastly things might happen.
“Parror will reach the Flame before you,” Darum said in a soft monotone. “That much I—see.” He dropped his head suddenly and hid his face in his hands. “I see no further yet.” His voice came muffled. “Death—death in my dream. This room is full of death!”
The voice was wild now, but his face was still hidden. Madness wailed in the deep resonance of Darum’s words, and yet there was conviction too, as if even in his madness he knew he spoke the truth.
“There is death here,” he shrieked. “Too much death for one man. I shall not die alone. I think you must fail with the Flame, Janissa, Craddock, Raft! I think you must fail and doom us all, for this room reeks with death.”
RAFT felt a thrill of horror. Utter conviction rang true in the king’s voice. Conviction and madness.
“Death over all Paititi!” said Darum, lifting his face suddenly and showing them a wild and shining glare that saw nothing before it.
And suddenly “Death!” wailed a shiver of resounding strings from the curtains behind him. If ever music spoke a word, that music spoke and threatened. The promise was as clear as the sudden flash of a bared blade. It needed no articulation to speak its single syllable of prophecy.
The curtain swept aside, and Yrann’s veiled figure stood there, fingers poised above the still-quivering strings. Faceless and veiled, like the Norn Atropos, ready to cut the thread that held Darum’s life.
For a moment nobody moved. The room was too full of that certainty of doom which Darum’s mad voice had made them all believe whether they would or no. For that instant, against all hope and reason, even Craddock, even Raft, knew certainly that there was no chance for life. In the single moment, they were all as mad as the king.
But only Raft understood what happened next. Only he knew what must have passed through Yrann’s clouded mind. Death hung over Doirada Castle and the whole world she knew. The king had spoken, and in this moment there was no doubting the king. And she had waited so long for vengeance. The Flame would rob her of it now, unless—unless—she acted.
One last wild shrilling cry came shivering from the harp-strings. With the same motion that swept music across the instrument she flung the harp aside, letting it crash to the floor with a last jangling discord of its own.
She moved forward with a swift, stooping rush toward the couch. Her white hand, darting from the veils, was like a flung weapon in itself as she snatched up the long dagger he had dropped. Headlong, she hurled herself against him, swinging the blade like a scythe.
He was off guard. He tried to rise, to leap away from the blade’s glittering descent, but the tangling silks caught and betrayed him. He managed only to writhe aside, so that the first blow only raked his ribs in a glancing wound. Yrann, still silent, brought up the knife again with deadly singleness of purpose.
Then Raft had her.
He felt her arch against his restraining arm with the desperate strength he remembered from their other struggle in this room, and a shock of unreasonable horror went through him as that veiled face turned to his.
She flung herself against his grip with a cat’s sudden, explosive fury, and with one last frantic surge broke free. Springing back, still gripping the dagger, she turned her faceless gaze toward the king.
He was on his feet now, facing her, ready. Her chance was gone. She knew it. They could see the knowledge slacken the tautness of the lovely body beneath her veils. They heard her sigh once, deeply, in the tense silence of the room.
Then she moved suddenly, her draperies swirling like slow smoke, and sank the knife hilt-deep in her own heart!
Motionless, speechless, they watched her sink to the floor. Red came slowly out through the gray veils pinned by the knife against her.
Darum brushed past Raft. He knelt beside Yrann. His hand went out, poising over the veiled face. But he did not touch the gauzy webs that hid her.
“Yrann?” he said. “Yrann?”
But she did not stir. The red stain widened upon the gray.
Darum’s fingers closed upon the hilt that stood up from her chest. He knelt there for a heartbeat, his hand caressing the weapon as if it were Yrann herself. Then his grip tightened.
He tore the knife free, dripping scarlet drops, and rose in a lithe, inhuman motion, facing Raft. His lips had flattened back, and the light in his eyes
was the dark blaze of pure madness. He lifted the blade, and the red drops spattered in an arc across the carpet.
Raft stood motionless, his mind racing. He was too close to the king, and he was unarmed. There was no way of escaping that blow, unless he came to grips with the man, and he had no illusions about which of the two was stronger. Power flowed tremendously through the feline’s rippling body, and madness lent it double strength.
“You saved my life,” he said in a hissing snarl. “You came between us! You turned the knife against her as surely as if you held the blade. What use do you think life is to me now?” His features convulsed in the mad inhumanity of feline rage. “You—ape!”
Darum sprang.
FROM behind Raft a thin, shining flash of light darted, to quench itself in the king’s throat. Darum’s body arched. He strained to take one step more forward—to keep the dagger raised for its blow—
Then with shocking suddenness, all the strength went out of him and he dropped the silks with the lithe, silken limpness of the silks themselves. His fingers released the dagger, and he pulled the rapier from his throat, blood gushing from wound and mouth as it came free.
“Vann.” he said, and coughed. “Vann. We hare dueled before—but never thus!”
Vann’s deep voice answered heavily.
“I served you. Darum, but I serve Paititi first. Yrann was not worth any man’s love.”
“She was so beautiful,” the king whispered. “She could not bear to die—with Paititi—without slaying me. She hated me always. And—and—” He tried to choke back blood.
He lifted himself on suddenly strong arms and dragged himself forward a few feet. He ran gentle fingers down the dead woman’s arm. Her harp lay where it had fallen, almost beneath her fingers. He touched the strings, and their sad music hung forlornly in the quiet air.
“I would have crushed Paititi,” Darum said. “I would have—crushed the world—for her. Rather than have her harmed. She was so beautiful.”
The king’s head fell upon the soft body of Yrann. The tiger eyes closed. One hand sought for and found Yrann’s.
His blood mingled with hers.
The red stream flowed slower and slower—
And flowed no more.
Vann stood motionless, his heavy shoulders sagging.
“Go now, while there’s time,” he said. “I did this to save Paititi, and now I find myself wondering whether I have struck steel into the wrong throat.”
“Vann,” Janissa said.
“Take them away, Janissa. Take these men from another world out of the king’s presence. Let them stop Parror if they can.”
“Parror?” Craddock whispered. He touched Raft’s arm. “We’ll have to move fast.”
“Yes,” Raft said tonelessly.
He turned and led the way out of the chamber. His face was gray, and sweat stood out in fine droplets on his cheeks.
Once outside, he did not mention the king.
“Well need the machine,” he said. “It’s a portable, so we can manage the weight. But I’ll want some straps.”
They found silken scarves that would do as well, and the machine was adjusted on Raffs back. The light alloys made its weight less than its bulk would have indicated. That would help, since fast travel would be necessary if they hoped to forestall Parror.
Silently they left the castle, darkened now for the sleep-period. Outside the cool, clear daylight of Paititi was dazzling.
“We should have remembered weapons,” Craddock said.
“It’s too late now,” Raft told him. “Janissa, you’ll guide. Do you know the secret way to the Flame?”
“I think I can find it, yes. The thought in Parror’s mind was clear enough. But it is a long way.”
Yet it was shorter than they expected. They did not head for Parror’s castle. They angled off toward the base of the rock barrier that guarded Paititi. Four hours of fast travel brought them to it. There, however, time was lost as Janissa searched for the secret entrance.
“There are ruins here,” she said. “Ruins of the Old Race. There should be a double column. Parror was thinking of it when I read his mind.”
Silently Raft pointed. With a little cry Janissa ran to the spot he indicated. She felt the smooth surface of the rock-face, searching for a key.
Silently, smoothly, an oval opened in the bare stone.
Raft turned to stare back the way they had come.
“No sign of Parror,” he said. “He may be ahead of us. Or he may not. We’ll soon know.” He followed Janissa and Craddock into the opening. Behind him the hidden door closed.
BUT they were not in darkness. A pale, cool glow came from the walls and roof and the smooth floor on which they stood. The tunnel wound upward at a steep slant, and the silence made Raft feel the blood beating in his ears.
“Come on,” he said, shouldering the machine.
It was not long, that passage in the cliff. It made a short-cut through the rock to the cavern of the Flame. But, before then, there was another cavern.
An oval door barred their path. Janissa opened it easily, but she did not pass through the portal. Raft saw her slender figure poise, hesitate, and shrink back. He brushed past Craddock.
“What is it?” he asked.
Janissa did not answer.
“The First Race,” Craddock said, in a breathless voice. “The First Race!”
It was the cavern Raft had seen when he had first entered Paititi. Leprous violet light bathed the dripping stalactites and crept over the thrusting stalagmites that made an upthrust forest. High overhead, slanting down at a dizzy angle, was the gravity-defying, nearly transparent tube of the unseen road, made visible now only because of the hordes of creatures that crawled upon it, as though striving to break through the glassy barrier.
The monsters!
Raft had seen them before, but only dimly. Now he felt his throat go dry and close with loathing.
Bat-winged and beast-snouted, degenerate and horrible, the things swarmed in the violet light there in the great cave. They were the descendants of what had once been the First Race, the mighty civilization that had reared the proud castles of Paititi.
And fallen now—fallen into the primal pit of horror.
The baleful radiations that had once raged through Paititi when the Flame waned long ago had changed them to demons. Few were alike. Some had immense bat-wings, while others flopped and dragged their fat, shining bulks among the stalagmites. And some were dwarfed. Some were giants. Some had the clawed feet of giant birds.
Straight as a lance across that arena of terror ran the path they had been following, a faint white glow that ended at the farther wall, before an oval panel that was obviously a door.
“Through—there?” Craddock said.
Raft looked at Janissa. She was whitefaced, but she caught her breath and stepped out of the tunnel’s protection, into the violet light of the cavern.
“We’ll run for it,” Raft said. “If we can reach that other door, we’ll be all right.”
They ran, panic spurring their heels. The sight of the nightmare horde flapping and crawling and leaping all about them was horrible. And the thought of those black talons actually touching them—it was not a good thought.
A stir went through the monsters, a ripple of interest. As Raft ran, he saw from the corners of his eyes, that shapes were converging upon them. But the three were more than halfway across the cavern now, and there was more than an even chance that they could reach their goal before the monsters rallied to investigate.
Raft reckoned without the winged beings. Something struck him heavily from behind, sending him to his knees. He struggled to regain his feet. Janissa. glancing back, saw what had happened, and with a little cry, ran back to help him.
A nightmare shape, scaled and horned like a medieval demon, sprang at her—caught her in its grip.
Cursing, Raft plunged forward, heedless of the creature on his back. His fist smashed out into the face of the mons
ter. It was driven back, screaming in a thin, high-pitched wail of agony.
That was the signal. From all around the devils of Paititi swooped and lumbered and dragged themselves toward the intruders. Raft went down under the weight of foulsmelling bodies. He was blind with nausea and hatred and revulsion. His fists hammered at pulpy flesh, and the shrieking grew to a shrill crescendo.
That sickening odor almost choked him. The touch of the monsters against his skin was loathsome. They felt like fungoid things, like dead creatures raised to a ghastly similitude of life. And the faces were ghoulish demons.
CRADDOCK came back to use as a spear a fallen stalactite he had picked up. Raft was relieved of his burden for a moment. He staggered up, looking for Janissa.
He saw her, in the midst of a group of monsters.
He had enough reasoning power left to find another fallen spike of stone before going to her rescue. The creatures, interbred and degenerate, were physically weak, but they had the advantage of numbers, and Raft realized that the sheer weight of those deformed bodies could press him down and smother him. His lips lifted in a snarl, he charged forward, stabbing with his improvised spear.
He felt flesh tear. He heard the squealing redouble in volume. The monsters came at him like a wave. They had the feeble malevolence of rats. As he went down on his back he tried desperately to turn, to shield the precious burden he carried—and failed.
He heard the machine’s crash as it was crushed against the rock beneath him.
There was only hopelessness then, and blind hatred, and a feeling that he was drowning in floods of evil, living flesh. But he fought on. The remnants of the machine were ripped from his back. He lashed about him savagely with the sharp stalactite, till at last he had cleared a little space free of the monsters.
As he stood there, panting and half-naked, he saw that they had fought their way almost to the door. But at his feet coils and broken crystal and twisted metal told of the wreck of the machine that could save Paititi.
One thing remained whole—a foot-long cylinder of burnished alloy. It was the safety fuse that controlled the device’s stimulating power. Raft snatched it up and thrust the tube into his belt.
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