El Borak: The Complete Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  He was still sitting there when the dawn reddened the eastern sky.

  Hawkston rose, stretched and yawned.

  “Why didn’t you wake me to watch my turn?” he asked.

  “You know damned well why I didn’t,” grated Gordon. “I don’t care to run the risk of being murdered in my sleep.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, Gordon?” laughed Hawkston. But only his lips smiled, and a red flame smoldered in his eyes. “Well, that makes the feeling mutual, don’t you know. After we’ve gotten Al Wazir back to el-Azem, I’m looking forward to a gentlemanly settling of our differences--just you and I--and a pair of swords.”

  “Why wait until then?” Gordon was on his feet, his nostrils quivering with the eagerness of hard-leashed hate.

  Hawkston shook his head, smiling fiercely.

  “Oh no, El Borak. No fighting until we get out of the desert.”

  “All right,” snarled the American disgruntedly. “Let’s eat, and then start combing the caves for Ivan.”

  A slight sound brought them both wheeling toward the door of the Nest. Al Wazir stood there, plucking at his beard with his long black nails. His eyes lacked their former wild beast glare; they were clouded, plaintive. His attitude was one of bewilderment rather than menace.

  “Ivan!” muttered Gordon, setting down his rifle and moving toward the wild man. Al Wazir did not retreat, nor did he make any hostile demonstration. He stood stolidly, uneasily tugging at his tangled beard.

  “He’s in a milder mood,” murmured Gordon. “Easy, Hawkston. Let me handle this. I don’t believe he’ll have to be overpowered this time.”

  “In that case,” said Hawkston, “I don’t need you any longer.”

  Gordon whipped around; the Englishman’s eyes were red with the killing lust, his hand rested on the butt of his pistol. For an instant the two men stood tensely facing one another. Hawkston spoke, almost in a whisper: “You fool, did you think I’d give you an even break? I don’t need you to help me get Al Wazir back to el-Azem. I know a German doctor who can restore his mind if anybody can--and then I’ll see that he tells me where to find the Blood of the Gods--”

  Their right hands moved in a simultaneous blur of speed. Hawkston’s gun cleared its holster as Gordon’s scimitar flashed free. And the gun spoke just as the blade struck it, knocking it from the Englishman’s hand. Gordon felt the wind of the slug and behind him the madman in the door grunted and fell heavily. The pistol rang on the stone and bounced from the ledge, and Gordon cut murderously at Hawkston’s head, his eyes red with fury. A swift backward leap carried the Englishman out of range, and Hawkston tore out his scimitar as Gordon came at him in savage silence. The American had seen Al Wazir lying limp in the doorway, blood oozing from his head.

  Gordon and Hawkston came together with a dazzling flame and crack of steel, in an unleashing of hard-pent passions, two wild natures a thirst for each others’ lives. Here was the urge to kill, loosed at last, and backing every blow.

  For a few minutes stroke followed stroke too fast for the eye to distinguish, had any eye witnessed that onslaught. They fought with a chilled-steel fury, a reckless abandon that was yet neither wild or careless. The clang of steel was deafening; miraculously, it seemed, the shimmer of steel played about their heads, yet neither edge cut home. The skill of the two fighters was too well matched.

  After the first hurricane of attack, the play changed subtly; it grew, not less savage but more crafty. The desert sun, that had lighted the blades of a thousand generations of swordsmen, in a land sworn to the sword, had never shone on a more scintillating display of swordsmanship than this, where two aliens carved out the destinies of their tangled careers on a high-flung ledge between sun and desert.

  Up and down the ledge--scruff and shift of quick-moving feet--gliding, not stamping--ring and clash of steel meeting steel--flame-lighted black eyes glaring into flinty grey eyes; flying blades turned crimson by the rising sun.

  Hawkston had cut his teeth on the straight blade of his native land, and he was partial to the point and used it with devilish skill. Gordon had learned sword fighting in the hard school of the Afghan mountain wars, with the curved tulwar, and he fought with no set or orthodox style. His blade was a lethal, living thing that darted like a serpent’s tongue or lashed with devastating power.

  Here was no ceremonious dueling with elegant rules and formalities. It was a fight for life, naked and desperate, and within the space of half a dozen minutes both men had attempted or foiled tricks that would have made a medieval Italian fencing master blink. There was no pause or breathing spell; only the constant slither and rasp of blade on blade--Hawkston failing in his attempt to maneuver Gordon about so the sun would dazzle his eyes; Gordon almost rushing Hawkston over the rim of the ledge, the Englishman saving himself by a sidewise leap.

  The end came suddenly. Hawkston, with sweat pouring down his face, realized that the sheer strength in Gordon’s arm was beginning to tell. Even his iron wrist was growing numb under the terrific blows the American rained on his guard. Believing himself to be superior to Gordon in pure fencing skill, he began the preliminaries of an intricate maneuver, and meeting with apparent success, feinted a cut at Gordon’s head. El Borak knew it was a feint, but, pretending to be deceived by it, he lifted his sword as though to parry the cut. Instantly Hawkston’s point licked at his throat. Even as the Englishman thrust he knew he had been tricked, but he could not check the motion. The blade passed over Gordon’s shoulder as the American evaded the thrust with a swaying twist of his torso, and his scimitar flashed like white steel lightning in the sun. Hawkston’s dark features were blotted out by a gush of blood and brains; his scimitar rang loud on the rocky ledge; he swayed, tottered, and fell suddenly, his crown split to the hinges of the jawbone.

  Gordon shook the sweat from his eyes and glared down at the prostrate figure, too drunken with hate and battle to fully realize that his foe was dead. He started and whirled as a voice spoke weakly behind him: “The same swift blade as ever, El Borak!”

  Al Wazir was sitting with his back against the wall. His eyes, no longer murky nor bloodshot, met Gordon’s levelly. In spite of his tangled hair and beard there was something ineffably tranquil and seer-like about him. Here, indeed, was the man Gordon had known of old.

  “Ivan! Alive! But Hawkston’s bullet--”

  “Was that what it was?” Al Wazir lifted a hand to his head; it came away smeared with blood. “Anyway, I’m very much alive, and my mind’s clear--for the first time in God knows how long. What happened?”

  “You stopped a slug meant for me,” grunted Gordon. “Let me see that wound.” After a brief investigation he announced: “Just a graze; ploughed through the scalp and knocked you out. I’ll wash it and bandage it.” While he worked he said tersely: “Hawkston was on your trail; after your rubies. I tried to beat him here, and Shalan ibn Mansour trapped us both. You were a bit out of your head and I had to tie you up. We had a tussle with the Arabs and finally beat them off.”

  “What day is it?” asked Al Wazir. At Gordon’s reply he ejaculated: “Great heavens! It’s more than a month since I got knocked on the head!”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Gordon. “I thought the loneliness--”

  Al Wazir laughed. “Not that, El Borak. I was doing some excavation work--I discovered a shaft in one of the lower caves, leading down to the tunnel. The mouths of both were sealed with slabs of rock. I opened them up, just out of curiosity. Then I found another shaft leading from an upper cave to the summit of the cliff, like a chimney. It was while I was working out the slab that sealed it, that I dislodged a shower of rocks. One of them gave me an awful rap on the head. My mind’s been a blank ever since, except for brief intervals--and they weren’t very clear. I remember them like bits of dreams, now. I remember squatting in the Nest, tearing tins open and gobbling food, trying to remember who I was and why I was here. Then everything would fade out again.

  “I have another vague reco
llection of being tied to a rock in the cave, and seeing you and Hawkston lying on the ledge, and firing. Of course I didn’t know either of you. I remember hearing you saying that if somebody was killed the others would go away. There was a lot of shooting and shouting and that frightened me and hurt my ears. I wanted you all to go away and leave me in peace.

  “I don’t know how I got loose, but my next disjointed bit of memory is that of creeping up the shaft that leads to the top of the cliff, and then climbing, climbing, with the stars over me and the wind blowing in my face--heavens! I must have climbed over the summit of the hill and down the crags on the other side!

  “Then I have a muddled remembrance of running and crawling through the dark--a confused impression of shooting and noise, and a man standing alone on a knoll and shouting--” he shuddered and shook his head. “When I try to remember what happened then, it’s all a blind whirl of fire and blood, like a nightmare. Somehow I seemed to feel that the man on the knoll was to blame for all the noise that was maddening me, and that if he quit shouting, they’d all go away and let me alone. But from that point it’s all a blind red mist.”

  Gordon held his peace. He realized that it was his remark, overheard by Al Wazir, that if Shalan ibn Mansour were slain, the Arabs would flee, which had taken root in the madman’s clouded brain and provided the impulse--probably subconsciously--which finally translated itself into action. Al Wazir did not remember having killed the shaykh, and there was no use distressing him with the truth.

  “I remember running, then,” murmured Al Wazir, rubbing his head. “I was in a terrible fright, and trying to get back to the caves. I remember climbing again--up this time. I must have climbed back over the crags and down the chimney again--I’ll wager I couldn’t make that climb clothed in my right mind. The next thing I remember is hearing voices, and they sounded somehow familiar. I started toward them--then something cracked and flashed in my head, and I knew nothing more until I came to myself a few moments ago, in possession of all my faculties, and saw you and Hawkston fighting with your swords.”

  “You were evidently regaining your senses,” said Gordon. “It took the extra jolt of that slug to set your numb machinery going again. Such things have happened before.

  “Ivan, I’ve got a camel hidden nearby, and the Arabs left some ropes of hay in their camp when they pulled out. I’m going to feed and water it, and then--well, I intended taking you back to the Coast with me, but since you’ve regained your wits, I suppose you’ll--”

  “I’m going back with you,” said Al Wazir. “My meditations didn’t give me the gift of prophecy, but they convinced me--even before I got that rap on the head--that the best life a man can live is one of service to his fellow man. Just as you do, in your own way! I can’t help mankind by dreaming out here in the desert.” He glanced down at the prostrate figure on the ledge. “We’ll have to build a cairn, first. Poor devil, it was his destiny to be the last sacrifice to the Blood of the Gods.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were stained with men’s blood,” answered Al Wazir. “They have caused nothing but suffering and crime since they first appeared in history. Before I left el-Azem I threw them into the sea.”

  The Country of the Knife

  Robert E. Howard

  * * *

  Copyright © 2013 by Pulptastic Books.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express permission in writing from the publisher.

  CHAPTER 1

  A cry from beyond the bolted door--a thick, desperate croaking that gaspingly repeated a name. Stuart Brent paused in the act of filling a whisky glass, and shot a startled glance toward the door from beyond which that cry had come. It was his name that had been gasped out--and why should anyone call on him with such frantic urgency at midnight in the hall outside his apartment?

  He stepped to the door, without stopping to set down the square amber bottle. Even as he turned the knob, he was electrified by the unmistakable sounds of a struggle outside--the quick fierce scuff of feet, the thud of blows, then the desperate voice lifted again. He threw the door open.

  The richly appointed hallway outside was dimly lighted by bulbs concealed in the jaws of gilt dragons writhing across the ceiling. The costly red rugs and velvet tapestries seemed to drink in this soft light, heightening an effect of unreality. But the struggle going on before his eyes was as real as life and death.

  There were splashes of a brighter crimson on the dark-red rug. A man was down on his back before the door, a slender man whose white face shone like a wax mask in the dim light. Another man crouched upon him, one knee grinding brutally into his breast, one hand twisting at the victim’s throat. The other hand lifted a red-smeared blade.

  Brent acted entirely through impulse. Everything happened simultaneously. The knife was swinging up for the downward drive even as he opened the door. At the height of its arc it hovered briefly as the wielder shot a venomous, slit-eyed glance at the man in the doorway. In that instant Brent saw murder about to be done, saw that the victim was a white man, the killer a swarthy alien of some kind. Age-old implanted instincts acted through him, without his conscious volition. He dashed the heavy whisky bottle full into the dark face with all his power. The hard, stocky body toppled backward in a crash of broken glass and a shower of splattering liquor, and the knife rang on the floor several feet away. With a feline snarl the fellow bounced to his feet, red-eyed, blood and whisky streaming from his face and over his collar.

  For an instant he crouched as if to leap at Brent barehanded. Then the glare in his eyes wavered, turned to something like fear, and he wheeled and was gone, lunging down the stair with reckless haste. Brent stared after him in amazement. The whole affair was fantastic, and Brent was irritated. He had broken a self-imposed rule of long standing--which was never to butt into anything which was not his business.

  “Brent!” It was the wounded man, calling him weakly.

  Brent bent down to him.

  “What is it, old fellow--Thunderation! Stockton!”

  “Get me in, quick!” panted the other, staring fearfully at the stair. “He may come back--with others.”

  Brent stooped and lifted him bodily. Stockton was not a bulky man, and Brent’s trim frame concealed the muscles of an athlete. There was no sound throughout the building. Evidently no one had been aroused by the muffled sounds of the brief fight. Brent carried the wounded man into the room and laid him carefully on a divan. There was blood on Brent’s hands when he straightened.

  “Lock the door!” gasped Stockton.

  Brent obeyed, and then turned back, frowning concernedly down at the man. They offered a striking contrast--Stockton, light-haired, of medium height, frail, with plain, commonplace features now twisted in a grimace of pain, his sober garments disheveled and smeared with blood; Brent, tall, dark, immaculately tailored, handsome in a virile masculine way, and self-assured. But in Stockton’s pale eyes there blazed a fire that burned away the difference between them, and gave the wounded man something that Brent did not possess--something that dominated the scene.

  “You’re hurt, Dick!” Brent caught up a fresh whisky bottle. “Why, man, you’re stabbed to pieces! I’ll call a doctor, and--”

  “No!” A lean hand brushed aside the whisky glass and seized Brent’s wrist. “It’s no use. I’m bleeding inside. I’d be dead now, but I can’t leave my job unfinished. Don’t interrupt just listen!”

  Brent knew Stockton spoke the truth. Blood was oozing thinly from the wounds in his breast, where a thin-bladed knife must have struck home at least half a dozen times. Brent looked on, awed and appalled, as the small, bright-eyed man fought death to a standstill, gripping the last fading fringes of life and keeping himself conscious and lucid to the end by the sheer effort of an iron will.

  “I stumbled on something big tonight, down in
a water-front dive. I was looking for something else uncovered this by accident. Then they got suspicious. I got away--came here because you were the only man I knew in San Francisco. But that devil was after me--caught me on the stair.”

  Blood oozed from the livid lips, and Stockton spat dryly. Brent looked on helplessly. He knew the man was a secret agent of the British government, who had made a business of tracing sinister secrets to their source. He was dying as he had lived, in the harness.

  “Something big!” whispered the Englishman. “Something that balances the fate of India! I can’t tell you all now--I’m going fast. But there’s one man in the world who must know. You must find him, Brent! His name is Gordon--Francis Xavier Gordon. He’s an American; the Afghans call him El Borak. I’d have gone to him--but you must go. Promise me!”

  Brent did not hesitate. His soothing hand on the dying man’s shoulder was even more convincing and reassuring than his quiet, level voice.

  “I promise, old man. But where am I to find him?”