The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  Three deaths reach out of the void, and the sentinels of the orange zone lie dead behind the hurrying feet of the three.

  They sense a deeper darkness at their left—the black walls of the zone of Nergal, God of the Dead—

  “Swift! Swift!”

  The Priest of Bel slid from Kenton’s opening arms; he dropped to his knees; he fell backward, dying eyes staring into those of the dancer.

  “Narada!” he gasped, through bloody froth, “Narada—you—” The froth turned to a red stream.

  The Priest of Bel was dead.

  One look the dancer gave him, gave Kenton, and knew—

  “Shalamu!” she wailed—and wailing flew at Kenton, dagger poised to strike. Before he could draw sword, before he could raise hands to beat her off, even before he could fall back, she was upon him. Down swept the blade, straight for his heart. He felt the bite of its point—

  The point swerved, ripped down through the skin over his ribs. In that same instant Sharane had sprung, had caught the dancer’s hand, had wrested the dagger from it and driven it deep into Narada’s breast.

  Like a young tree at the ax’s last blow the dancer stood for a heartbeat, shuddering, then down she dropped, prone upon the priest. She moaned and with the last flare of life flung arms around his head and laid lips to his.

  Dead lips now on lips of the dead!

  They stared at each other—Sharane with red blade in hand, Kenton with red rune on chest written by that blade—they stared down at the Priest of Bel and at Bel’s dancer; there was pity in Kenton’s eyes; there was no pity in Sharane’s.

  “She would have killed you!” she whispered, and again;

  “She would have killed you!”

  A blinding flash filled the chamber: fast on its heels chaotic shatterings. The lightnings had begun afresh. Kenton ran to the doorway; parted, the curtains: listened. Below him the House of Bel lay tranquil in its misty aureate glow. He heard nothing—and yet; had there been sound could he have heard it in the tumult of the thunderings He saw nothing, heard nothing—and yet—

  He sensed that danger was close; stealing up to them: perhaps even now creeping up the zigzags of those steps whose base was hidden. Torment and death for Sharane and for him—creeping, stealing, ever closer.

  He ran back to the window. Gigi—Sigurd—Zubran! Where were they? Had they failed to make the outer stairway? Or were they marching up to him, cutting their way through the sentries? Were close?

  Could they not meet them—Sharane and he?

  The window was deep. Three feet of masonry stretched between the inner sill and the yard-wide, single pane that closed it. He drew himself in; saw that the pane was thick, transparent crystal held by a circle of metal, kept shut by levers thrust into niches within the casement of stone. One by one he lifted the levers. The window flew open; he was half pushed, half washed back into the chamber by the wind and rain volleying through. He battled forward against them; looked down over the outer sill—

  The steps of the great stairway were full forty feet below him!

  Between window and steps fell an almost perpendicular wall, streaming with storm, impossible to descend, equally as impossible to be scaled.

  He peered on each side and above him.

  The Bower of Bel was a huge cube set on the top of the conical temple. The window through which he peered was close to the edge of a side of this cube. Not more than a yard from his right hand was a corner of that cube; for twenty feet to his left its black wall stretched; its top was twenty feet above him.

  He felt Sharane beside him; knew that she was trying to tell him something. Could not hear her in the shrieking of the tempest.

  Set within the breast of a lightning flare the sentinels of Nergal see three silhouettes of doom spring out of the blackness. Swords bite among them. One shrieks and tries to flee. His cry is torn to tatters by the roaring gale; he is caught by long arms, long talons snap his neck; he goes whirling with the wind over the stairway’s wall.

  And now the red zone’s sentries are dead within their niche.

  And now the three pass by the blue zone of Nabu, the God of Wisdom and find no guards to challenge them; nor are there sentries before Ishtar’s white house, and none outside the golden zone of Bel. And here the curving stairway abruptly ends! Now they take counsel there, the three, scanning the smooth masonry rising above them without break. A wail that not even the tempest can still shudders past them—the heartbroken wailing of Bel’s dancer as she hurls herself on Kenton.

  “That cry came from there!” Thus Sigurd, pointing outward where the window of Bel’s bower, hidden to them, faces the lightnings. And now they see that the wall of the great stairway merges into the side of the topping structure close to its corner. But the wall’s slope is such that none may stand upon it to peer round that comer; nor can one standing on the highest step see round that corner’s edge. “Use for your long arms, Gigi,” grunts the Viking:

  “Stand close as you can to stair wall end. Here! Grip me by knees and thrust me outward. My back is strong and I can twist round that corner.”

  Gigi takes him by the knees, lifts him; throws one muscle-gnarled dwarf leg over the wall for balance; thrusts Sigurd out with mighty arms.

  And Sigurd, held against the side by the wind like a leaf, looks straight into the face of Kenton little more than a foot from him!

  “Wait there!” howls the Viking, and signals Gigi with kick of foot to draw him back.

  “The Wolf!” he tells them. “There—in a window so close he can draw me through to him! Lift me again, Gigi. When I kick—let me go! Then let Zubran follow by the same road. Stay you here, Gigi—for without you to draw us back there will be no return. Stay where you are with arms outstretched, ready to bear in to you whatever you touch. Quick now!”

  Again he is swung outward; his wrists are caught in Kenton’s grip. Gigi loosens him. For an instant he swings in space and then is drawn up to the sill and over.

  “Zubran comes!” he shouts to Kenton and runs to the doorway where Sharane stands, sword in hand.

  And now the Persian, held by Gigi’s long arms, swings round the bower’s edge, is caught by Kenton; stands beside him.

  Fanned by the gale rushing through the open window the brazier flamed like a torch: the heavy golden curtains were bellying; the little lights along the wall all blown out. The Persian leaned back, found the levers and snapped enough of them to hold the window shut. He gave Kenton’s hand one swift clasp; looked curiously at the bodies of priest and dancer.

  “Gigi!” cried Kenton. “Is he safe there? Did none follow you?”

  “None,” answered the Persian, grimly. “Or if they did—their hands are too shadowy to hold swords, Wolf. Gigi is safe enough. He waits to swing us to him as we crawl from the window—all except one of us,” he added, under his breath.

  Kenton, thoughts on Gigi, the way to freedom, did nor hear that last odd phrase. He leaped to the door on one side of which stood watchful Sharane, on the other tense Sigurd. He drew her to him in fierce caress; loosed her and peered through the curtains. Far below him were dull gleamings, reflection from armored caps and coats of mail, glints of swords. A quarter of the way up the angled stair that led from Bel’s House to his Bower they were—soldiers, moving slowly, cautiously, silently; creeping to surprise, as they thought, Bel’s priest in dreaming Sharane’s arms!

  There was time, minutes still, for him to put in action the thought swift-born within his brain. He set the golden helm of Bel on his head, fastened buckler, threw the scarlet threaded mantle, over his shoulders.

  “Sigurd!” he whispered—“Zubran! Those who come must believe that here are only Sharane and—that man who lies there. Else before we could pass the middle terrace they will have given the alarm, soldiers will be pouring up the outer stairway and—we are done! Therefore when those below are close upon the door Sharane and I will leap out on them with swords. They will not try to slay us—only capture us. They will be confused
—fall back. Then take Sharane swiftly and pass her out to Gigi. We will follow—”

  “The first part of the plan is good, Wolf,” interrupted the Persian, smoothly. “But not the last. Nay—one must remain here until the others are safely away from the temple. Else when they had entered here, quickly will the black priest’s wit tell him what has happened. And there will be a ring around the place through which a regiment could not break. Nay—one must remain; stay behind for—a time.”

  “I will stay,” said Kenton.

  “Beloved!” whispered Sharane. “You go with me—or I go not at all!”

  “Sharane—” began Kenton.

  “Dear lord of mine—” she stayed him, serenely. “Do you think that ever again I will let you go from me—be parted from you? Never! In life or death—never!”

  “Nay, Wolf—I stay,” said the Persian. “Sharane will not go without you. So that bars you—since go she must. Gigi cannot well remain—since he cannot get here to remain. That you will admit? Good! And Sigurd must go to show us the road back, since none but him knows it. Who is left? Zubran! The gods have spoken. Their argument is unanswerable.”

  “But how will you get away? How find us?” groaned Kenton. “You say yourself that without Gigi’s help you cannot swing from the window!”

  “No,” answered Zubran. “But I can make me a rope out of these bed coverings and the hangings. I can slip down that rope to the steps I glimpsed beneath me. And one may escape where five could not. I remember the road through the city and that road we took when we came out of the trees. Wait you there for me.”

  “They are very close, Kenton!” called Sharane softly. Kenton ran to the doorway. A dozen steps below crept the soldiers, a score of them, treading noiselessly two by two, small shields ready, swords in hands; behind them a little knot of priests, yellow-robed and black-robed and among the black robes—Klaneth.

  Crouched against the wall at Sharane’s right was Sigurd, hidden but set for swift guarding of her. The Persian dropped at Kenton’s left, pressed close to the wall where those who came forward might not see him.

  “Cover the brazier,” whispered Kenton. “Put it out. Best have no light behind us.”

  The Persian took it, but he did not touch the cover that would have killed the fires within. Instead, he shook it, covered the flame with embers, set it in a corner where the faint glow of the coals could not be seen.

  The feet of the first pair of soldiers were almost on the top step, their hands reached out to draw aside the coverings of the narrow door.

  “Now!” breathed Kenton to Sharane. He tore the curtains down. They stood, she in her white robes of priestess, he in the golden panoply of the god, confronting the soldiers. And they, paralyzed by that unexpected apparition, gaped at the twain.

  Before they could recover from surprise Sharane’s blade flashed, Kenton’s sword struck like bolt of thin blue lightning. Down went the two leaders. Ere the man he had slain could fall, Kenton had snatched the shield from his arm, passed it to Sharane; slashed down again at the warriors behind.

  “For Ishtar!” he heard Sharane cry—and saw her sword bite deep.

  “The woman! The priest! Take them!” came the roar of Klaneth.

  Down bent Kenton, raised a fallen soldier in his arms and hurled him straight into the pack. The body flailed them—as though alive! Down they went before it—rolling, cursing; down the flight they fell, soldiers and priests, Some there were who crashed into the slender railing, tore gaps in it, dropped and plunged like plummets through the mists to be broken on the floor of Bel’s House so far below.

  Back Kenton leaped; caught Sharane in his arms, tossed her to Sigurd.

  “To the window!” he bade. “Give her to Gigi!”

  He darted before them; opened the pane. Far away now the lightnings glimmered; blackness had given way to darkest twilight; the rain still hissed in sheets driven by the howling wind. In that dark twilight he saw the dripping arms of Gigi stretched out round the Bower’s corner. He dropped back. The Viking slid past him, Sharane in his grip. For an instant she hung in air; she was caught by Gigi. She was drawn from sight.

  There was a shouting from the inner stairway. The soldiers had rallied; were rushing up. Kenton saw Sigurd and the Persian lifting the heavy couch, throwing off its coverings, tilting it. They rocked it to the doorway, shoved it through, sent it crashing down the steps. There was another shouting, cries of agony, groanings. The bed had swept the men before it as a well hurled ball does the wooden pins. It had swept and crushed them—had swung across the stairway at turn of the highest lesser-angled ledge and had jammed there against the golden-roped rail —a barricade.

  “Go Sigurd,” cried Kenton. “Wait for us by the woods. I fight here with Zubran.”

  The Persian looked at him, a light of affection such as Kenton had never before seen there softening the agate eyes. He nodded to Sigurd.

  As though it had been a signal prearranged, the Viking’s arms were instantly around Kenton. Strong as he had grown, Kenton could not break their grip. And Zubran whisked the golden helm of Bel from his head and set it on his own; tore loose the golden buckler, dropped his own coat of mail and fastened it in its place; took the scarlet-threaded mantle of the god and wrapped it half around his mouth, hiding his beard.

  Then Kenton was carried like a struggling child to the window; was thrust out of it; was caught by Gigi and dropped beside the weeping Sharane.

  The Viking turned and folded the Persian in his arms.

  “No waiting, Northman! No sentiment now!” Zubran snapped, breaking away. “There can be no escape for me—you know that, Sigurd. The rope? Words—to satisfy the Wolf! I love him. The rope? Why, they would slide down it behind me like snakes. Am I a trembling hare to lead the hounds to the hiding places of my kind? Not I! Now go, Sigurd—and when you have gotten clear of the city tell them. And make for the ship as quickly as you can.”

  Said the Viking, solemn: “Shield maidens are close! Odin takes the hero, no matter what his race! You sup with Odin All-Father in Valhalla soon, Persian!”

  “May he have dishes that I have never tasted,” jested the Persian. “Out of the window, Norseman!”

  And Zubran holding his knees, the Viking crawled out, and was caught by Gigi.

  Then down the terraces, Sigurd leading, Sharane covered by Gigi’s great cloak, Kenton cursing still, flew the four of them.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Passing of Zubran

  The Persian did not close the window after them. He let the wind stream through. He swaggered back through Bel’s Bower.

  “By all the Daevas!” swore Zubran, “never have I known such feeling of freedom as now! Lo—I am all alone-the last man in the world! None can help me, none can counsel me, none can weary me! Life is simple at last—all there is to it is for me to slay until I am slain. By Ormuzd —how my spirit stands on tiptoe—”

  He peered around the doorway.

  “Never has that couch given man such trouble to mount!” he chuckled as he watched the soldiers below working to clear away the barrier.

  Turning, he piled in the middle of Bel’s Bower the silken coverings of the bed. He ripped down the wall hangings and threw them on the heap. One by one he took the lamps and emptied them on the pyre; the oil in the ewers beneath them he poured upon it.

  “That old world of mine,” mused the Persian as he worked, “how it wearied me! And this world has wearied me—by the Flame of Sacrifice, but it has! And I am sure that new world of the Wolf’s would weary me most of all. I am done with the three of them.”

  He picked up the body of the Priest of Bel, carried it to the window.

  “It will puzzle Klaneth more to find you outside than within,” he laughed, and slid the body over the sill.

  He stood over the dancer.

  “So beautiful!” whispered Zubran, and touched her lips, her breasts. “I wonder how you died—and why. It must have been amusing—that! I had no time to ask the Wolf. Well�
�you shall sleep with me, dancer. And perhaps when we awaken—if we do—you shall tell me.”

  He stretched Narada out upon the oil-soaked pile. He took the smoking brazier and placed it close beside her…

  There was a roaring from below; a trampling of feet on the stairway. Up streamed the soldiers, stronger now by scores. An instant Zubran showed himself at the doorway, Bel’s golden mantle twisted round his neck, half hiding his face.

  “The priest! The priest!” they cried—and Klaneth’s voice bellowed over all—

  “The priest! Slay him!”

  The Persian stepped back to the cover of the wall, smiling. He picked up the shield Sharane had dropped.

  Through the narrow doorway a soldier leaped, a second on his heels.

  The scimitar hissed twice, swift as swiftest snake. The two fell under the feet of those pressing from behind, tripping them, confusing them.

  And now up and down, thrusting, ripping, slashing, danced Zubran’s blade until its red sweat dyed his arm from hand to shoulder. In front of him grew a barricade of the dead.

  Two by two only could they set foot upon the Bower’s threshold—and two by two steadily they fell, blocking that threshold from side to side with a steadily rising wall of bodies. At last their swords glinted toward him no more; he heard the forward ranks cry out behind the barrier; leaping upon the slain he saw them turn and press back those who, marching upward, tried to sweep them on.

  The Persian flexed the weary muscles of his arm; laughed as he heard the voice of Klaneth:

  “There is but one man there! Kill him—and bring me the woman. Ten times her weight in gold for him who takes her!”

  They mustered; they rushed up the stairway like a racing snake; they clambered over the wall of the dead. The red drip of Zubran’s scimitar became a running rivulet—

  An agony bit deep into his side, above the groin. A fallen swordsman had raised himself, thrust up his blade.