Elak of Atlantis

by Henry Kuttner

  Quite suddenly the indomitable will that had kept Phrygior alive failed. He gave a convulsive shudder, arching his back in agony, while froth bubbled on the white beard. Then he fell back and so died, scarcely an instant before Esarra and Lycon crossed the threshold.

  The girl flew to her father’s side, while Elak arose, eyeing Lycon’s reddened sword. The small adventurer nodded briefly.

  “More of Xandar’s dogs. I killed ’em. The girl helped, too—her dagger drew blood as often as my sword. What now?”

  There was little time to explain. A few words told Esarra how matters stood, and she hastened down the stairway, while Elak followed, bearing the corpse of the king. After him Lycon descended warily.

  The tower’s floor seemed deserted, though from not far away came the clash of ringing steel and the shouts of men. The great tapestry stretched across one wall. Elak saw that the eyes of the basilisk and dragon were gems, and he pressed these as Phrygior had commanded. With scarcely a sound one of the stone flags lifted, revealing a staircase leading down to blackness.

  Lycon snatched a flambeau from its socket and led the way, while Elak, after a futile attempt to close the secret trapdoor, followed the girl. He eyed her curiously as her profile was from time to time outlined against the torchlight. A beauty, he thought. The regal cast of her face was softened by its warm humanity, and brown curls clung damply to her pale forehead. The slender, delicate curves of her body were scarcely hidden by the silken night-dress, ripped in more than one place so that ivory flesh shone through.

  Behind him Elak heard the pound of footsteps; he called a warning, and the three hastened their pace. The stairs gave way to a corridor, stone-walled and dank, and this in turn opened into a low-roofed, broad chamber. A narrow ledge ran around its base; below the ledge was water, blackly ominous. A barge floated in the huge pool.

  Elak had but a glimpse of dark silks and velvets, a jewel-studded canopy that was a fitting covering for a king’s corpse. He leaped aboard the barge, put down his burden, and whirled, rapier out. A hasty glance around showed that the cavern had but one other opening—metal gates, corroded and green with verdigris, that descended from the roof to below the water’s surface. Then from the tunnel-mouth burst the pursuers—Xandar’s men, swords red, baying like hounds as they ran.

  “Lycon! To me!” Elak shouted, but the little man did not answer. The tall adventurer bounded back to the ledge, spitting the foremost attacker through the throat, and deftly wrenching the rapier free as the man fell to splash into the water. He caught sight of Lycon and Esarra working desperately at a great bar of metal—a lever—that hung from the roof. Then Elak forgot all else in a red blaze of battle.

  Three men he slew, and was himself wounded in the shoulder, while a flung blade missed his jugular by an inch and sliced his cheek. There was a grinding roar of hidden machinery, and Elak heard a frantic shout from Lycon. He turned to see the barge plunging away on the breast of a descending torrent.

  Ignoring the men who were now pressing in to the kill, Elak leaped. A spear screamed past his head as he jumped, and he saw it thud into the barge’s side. Ironically, that weapon saved him. He fell short, and his clutching fingers found the haft of the spear. For a second it held, and then Lycon’s hands were on his wrists, tugging him to safety.

  Above the barge rose the gaunt gray stones of the castle. Already the swift current had carried the craft beyond the door, and the three were safe from pursuit. It was, however, impossible to land, for there were neither poles nor oars. They drifted into a steadily deepening gorge, with the roar of the Syra rising into a thundering madness in their ears.

  2. THE OPENING OF THE GATES

  No growth of moor or coppice,

  No heather-flower or vine,

  But bloomless buds of poppies,

  Green grapes of Proserpine,

  Pale beds of blowing rushes,

  Where no leaf blooms or blushes

  Save this whereout she crushes

  For dead men deadly wine.

  —Swinburne

  The river raced into the heart of the mountains that surrounded Sarhaddon, till the blue sky was a brilliant narrow path above, jaggedly outlined by the towering scarps. The three on the barge could do nothing; it was impossible to talk below a shout. Nevertheless Elak explained to his companions what had happened.

  “Ishtar!” Lycon screamed above the torrent’s roar. “I never trusted that devil Xandar! Did you kill him, do you think?”

  Elak shook his head. “Got his arm, I think. That’s all.” Reminded of his own arm, he began to dress it, while Esarra went to stand in the barge’s prow, peering ahead into the mists beneath a pale, shading hand. It was her cry that brought the others.

  “The Gates! The Phoenix Gates!”

  Slowly they came into view through the clouds of spray, swimming into half-vividness and then fading again into fog, but growing ever closer—gates that towered up from the torrent, up and up for a hundred feet, constructed of metal that had never been stained or corroded by the unceasing drive of the water. Silvery-white they were, shot with pale bluish gleams. On their center was a phoenix, huge as three men’s height, red as the fiery heart of a ruby, yellow as the golden rivers that wash Cathay. Crest proudly raised, the stupendous effigy seemed to stare down upon Syra River—at the three on the barge. And the current drove the craft relentlessly toward the gates.

  “Gods!” Elak said tonelessly, his voice lost in the thunder of the waters. “The river goes under the gates! We’d be dragged down—”

  Esarra griped his arm. “The bracelet! Let the phoenix see—”

  Uncomprehendingly Elak let the girl lift his bare arm till the phoenix bracelet gleamed distinctly through the mists. Was it merely his fancy that a brief, flashing ray of light seemed to leap out between bracelet and the image on the gates? If so, what followed was certainly not imagination. The gates opened. Silently they parted, disclosing glowing depths beyond them, and the barge raced through unharmed. Briefly it surged and rocked with the current, and then steadied as the gates closed once more. It was oddly silent now. They were in a cavern, glowing with weird brilliance. Violet gleams played over the walls.

  Without warning came the inexplicable. There was a flashing, swift movement, and abruptly the barge was surrounded by a transparent, circular wall that seemed to be rising from the waters all around. Elak looked about warily, ready to drag out his rapier at the first sign of danger.

  The glass wall lifted. It drew together above the barge, forming a dome. What slight trace of sound had drifted through the Phoenix Gates from the bellowing river was lost completely. Deathly silence fell.

  Elak said, “I don’t like this. It’s like a prison. Princess, what—”

  Esarra shrugged slim shoulders. “Assurah knows! But the kings of Sarhaddon have traveled this road longer than men remember.” Her gaze went to where Phrygior’s body lay beneath the great jeweled canopy. There was a little sob in her voice as she went on. “The legends say that the first king of Sarhaddon came from the land of the phoenix, and his offspring must return there after death. So—”

  “’Ware!” Lycon yelped. “’Ware, Elak!”

  Imperceptibly the water beneath the barge had drained away till the craft rested on a shell of crystal. Now Elak saw that they were within a huge transparent sphere—and a shudder of movement shook it as Lycon cried warning. One shudder—and the globe dropped. Instantly deep blackness blanketed them. There was no sense of motion; yet Elak felt strangely certain that the sphere was dropping—dropping—into unknown depths. A giddiness assailed him. He felt Esarra’s soft body flung against him, and his arms tightened about her protectively. Then the weird feeling of movement, almost extra-sensory in its inexplicable certainty, grew stronger; from the phoenix bracelet on his wrist alien magic flowed through him. The darkness lightened. He saw Lycon and Esarra peering around blindly, and knew that they were still blind.

  The crystal sphere was dropping down a metallic
shaft, the sides of which were merely a blurred gleaming as the speed increased. Briefly a flash of violent red burned Elak’s eyeballs, and then came a blaze of pure, deadly white that sent him flat on his face, fists clenched against his agonized eyes. The sickening giddiness grew stronger—stronger yet—

  And gratefully Elak let his mind sink into the black pit of unconsciousness that gaped for him. He slept.…

  Now it seemed to Elak that he dreamed, or so he thought; for, though his eyes were closed, he clearly saw what occurred around him. There was at first only a thick shroud of fog, swirling slowly in drab grayness; and very slowly this mist faded and was gone. In its place was a cold, blue emptiness that seemed to stretch into infinite distances.

  But it was not the sky, despite the gleaming points of light that swam into view like stars. That Elak knew. For the glowing specks grew brighter and larger, and he saw that they resembled flowers, many-petaled—yet no flowers of earth. With a cold and dreadful certainty he knew that they were alive.

  They watched him, hanging motionless in the blue vastness, until the grip of nightmare clutched Elak. Nothing existed but these malefic flowers, it seemed, and they seemed to press toward him with avid hunger; they strained against the blueness that held them back. It was impossible to judge their size. The might have been small as a man’s hand, and very close; or unimaginably huge and far away. They waited.…

  Now the dream changed. A woman came into Elak’s range of vision, slim and dark and vital as a black flame. Red as her lips was the gown she wore, and her eyes and long tresses were midnight black. With slow footsteps she came to stand beside Elak, and in her hand, he saw, she bore a strangely-filigreed chalice. Thin steam ascended from it.

  She bent over Elak. The gray mists swirled back, blinding, confusing. Out of the fog loomed the woman’s face, arrogantly handsome; her pale hand, and the goblet it bore. She lifted it to Elak’s mouth. A cloying fragrance crept into his nostrils, and involuntary repugnance shuddered through him. The liquor’s aroma was subtly sweet. A drop of the fluid touched his lips, and a hot pang raced through every atom of his body.

  “Tyrala!”

  On the word the woman drew back, hell-flames flaring in her eyes. She whirled to face a figure who came slowly through the mists.

  It was a man, small but delicately proportioned, clad in tight-fitting silver garments, and, seeing him, Elak was reminded of the Northmen’s god Baldur. The fineness of his beardless face was at variance with a certain assured strength in the dark, lazily amused eyes.

  He said again, “Tyrala, your haste is ill-advised. I had not known of this man’s arrival.”

  The woman stood rigid, clutching the chalice with white fingers. She hesitated, asked, “Since when have you stooped to interesting yourself in my slaves, Ithron?”

  The man’s smile was malicious. “But is he one of yours? The men of Nyrvana are pale and yellow-haired, even as myself. This one is dark and lean as a wolf. Moreover, he wears a certain sign.…”

  Tyrala glanced at the bracelet on Elak’s wrist. For a moment fear shone in her eyes, but she said nothing.

  The man, Ithron, chuckled. “And I think there were others from above, too. Have you forgotten the pact? We two rule over Nyrvana—we two, not you alone. Shall we not judge these intruders—together?”

  “Aye,” Tyrala said presently, though her face was somber and menacing. “As you will.…”

  Now the fog closed down again, and darkened into blackness. For a space Elak was unconscious, and he awoke slowly, with an unfamiliar, nauseating taste on his tongue. He sat up, spitting and cursing. From nearby came the sound of Lycon’s snores.

  The two were lying on low tapestried couches set side by side in the center of a great windowless room. Hangings of red samite hid the walls. From the ceiling was suspended a silvern lamp that cast a vague yellowish radiance. Otherwise the chamber was empty.

  Elak got heavily to his feet and kicked Lycon off his couch. “Wake up!” He commanded. “We might have had our throats slit as you slept, drunken little dog.”

  “More mead,” murmured the drunken little dog, still apparently engrossed in vinous dreams. “Alas, the cup is empty.…”

  Elak hauled his companion upright by the scruff of the neck. “I said ‘wake up,’” he grunted. “We’re in some wizard’s den or other, and your sword may be needed. I see you’ve still got it.” He glanced down with satisfaction at the slim rapier at his own belt.

  Lycon opened mildly disapproving eyes. “Our throats are safe, for a while anyhow. They had plenty of time to kill you, if they’d wanted to, last night.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “That I woke up to find myself alone in here. I hammered on the door and swore in seven languages, but vainly. So, as there was nothing better to do, I went to sleep again.”

  “Where’s the princess?” Elak asked suddenly. Lycon shrugged.

  “How should I know? Wait till somebody opens the door, Elak. Then we can use our blades. Until then—” he left the sentence unfinished. A low throbbing musical note sounded, and simultaneously a slit widened in the farther wall.

  A man stood in the gap, yellow-haired, slightly built, wearing a loose robe of scarlet. He was unarmed. He lifted his arm in a beckoning gesture.

  Elak’s hand was on his rapier hilt as he moved forward. “Where are we?” he asked shortly. “Where’s—”

  “You will come with me,” the other said. Elak paused at the expression in the man’s blue eyes. They seemed, somehow, withdrawn, as though they looked upon invisible things. No hint of curiosity stirred in their depths. Vaguely, absently, the man looked at Elak, and he said again, “Come.”

  Lycon swaggered to the threshold. “Lead on,” he commanded. “But you’d best play no tricks. My sword’s sharp!”

  The red-robed one turned, led the way along a corridor of white stone, windowless and doorless. Elak and Lycon followed, down the passage, up a winding staircase, lit with the cool pallor of hanging lamps, and down a sloping hall to a door of bronze. A gong clanged, peremptory, harsh. The portals opened.

  Beyond the threshold was a great room, high-ceilinged, paved with strangely figured mosaic. Blue smoke drifted up from censers. At the farther end of the room was a dais, and upon it—two thrones.

  A throne of gleaming metal, red as sunset-clouds, black-cushioned. And one of pale silver. In the silver seat was a man Elak recognized, small and blond, with lazily amused eyes. In the red throne sat a woman.

  Tyrala! Elak did not need to see the goblet on a pedestal at her right hand to recognize her. The black eyes watched enigmatically; slim white fingers and ivory shoulders gleamed against the blaze of crimson that was Tyrala’s robe.

  Above the thrones and between them, high on the wall, was a phoenix, delicately carved. Coils of incense slid past the jutting beak.

  Elak’s guide gestured him on. Slowly the two men walked toward the dais. As they paused before it Elak caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye; he turned to see Esarra hurrying toward them, while another of the slim, yellow-haired men stood watchfully beside an open door.

  “Elak!” The girl’s face was white against the clustering chestnut curls; she clung to Elak, trembling a little. A silver gown had replaced the shredded nightdress, and there were silver slippers on the princess’s small feet.

  “Elak!” she said breathlessly. “I was afraid—”

  Now Esarra saw the two upon the thrones. She swung to face them, shrinking against Elak’s protective arm about her waist.

  The red-clad woman, Tyrala, glanced aside at her companion. She spoke in an undertone. The man nodded. He leaned forward.

  “Have no fear,” he said. “You have suffered no injury as yet—is that not so?”

  Now Elak remembered his vision. He said, “Perhaps we have you to thank for that—Ithron.”

  The woman caught her breath. Ithron’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Perhaps,” was his only comment. “However, strangers co
me to Nyrvana seldom. The Kings of Sarhaddon—yes. They are of the Phoenix blood. But they come only after death, and not for many ages—aye, longer than you think!—have living men come from above.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Elak said. “Where are we? Last I remember was falling down a hole in some damned cavern—are we underground?”

  “Aye,” Ithron nodded. “You are in Nyrvana. Far and far is this land from the world above; Nyrvana is within a cave, but a cave so vast you could not span its breadth or height with your eyes.”

  Esarra whispered, “The land of the gods! Where Assurah dwells—” She looked up at the sculptured phoenix.

  “And we rule under Assurah,” Ithron said, “Tyrala and I. Before the phoenix slept, he gave us this charge: to rule Nyrvana and to guard—guard—” He hesitated, glanced at Tyrala. The woman’s baleful gaze dwelt on Elak.

  “They are here for judgment,” she said. “Well? Let us judge!”

  “Why are you here?” Ithron asked.

  Esarra pulled free from Elak. Standing erect before the dais, regal head raised proudly, she told her story. And as she spoke, Tyrala’s gaze grew darker and more ominous, while startled amazement crept into Ithron’s eyes.

  “So Xandar rules Sarhaddon,” the girl finished. “And he has slain my father. The law of the Phoenix has been broken. Baal-Yagoth has been freed from his chains—”

  “Now by Assurah!” Ithron whispered—and his pale eyes were wide now, and blazing as he glared at the enthroned woman beside him. “By Assurah and Iod! This is your work, Tyrala!”

  Tyrala sprang up, her slim fingers flexing into claws. She spat words at the man.

  “Aye—my work! And what of that? It has been long since Assurah ruled, and he has no power now. Shall I rule over this land of shadows for ever, with these pallid slaves of yours to serve me—to drink my wine—”