The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  He looked down at their bodies. It seemed incredible that those eight lives could have been wiped out in such little time. He heard the wings of the creatures whirring close over his head, and stared up toward the sound. Above him, as though an unseen finger had traced them in the air, were two slender crimson lines. They shook, and a little shower of crimson drops fell from them—

  The winged serpents cleansing their beaks!

  He went on with a ruthless elation in his heart. All sense of aloneness had fled; he felt as though he had an army at his back. He sped on, boldly. The lane entered a dense coppice of flowering trees. He crept softly along through the copse. He halted in the deepest shadow. Not a hundred yards away was the palace of Lantlu. The structure covered, he estimated, a little more than an acre. It seemed to be octagonal, not lofty, the bulk of it composed of two high-vaulted floors. From its center arose a dome, shimmering sapphire and opal; and shaped like that which Tamerlane the Conqueror brought back from ravished Damascus to grace his beloved Samarkand. Up to its swelling base pushed clusters of small jeweled turrets, like little bowers built by gnomes for their women.

  The octagonal walls were sheathed with tiles glimmering as though lacquered with molten pale rubies, sun-yellow topazes, water-green emeralds. They contained windows, both rectangular and oval, casemented and latticed by fretwork of stone and metal delicate as lace. Out from their base extended a tessellated pave, thirty feet wide, of black and white polished stone. Slender pillars of gold were ranged at its edge, bearing silken canopies. Soft light streamed from every window through webbed curtainings. There was no door.

  Graydon crept forward to the edge of the copse. Between him and the pave was a smooth stretch of sward, open, and impossible to cross without being detected by any one on watch. He saw no one, but from the whole palace came a confused murmur. A hundred feet or more to his right the flowering trees pressed closer to the walls. He flitted along the rim of the boskage until he reached this verdant tongue. Working cautious way to its tip, he found he was now within fifty feet of the pillars.

  He faced another side of the palace. On the ground floor were a trio of wide oval windows, almost touching, through which came a brighter glow than from the others. And now voices came to him plainly, voices of the nobles, both men and women. They came from this chamber wherein shone the brighter lights. Here beside the pillars was a guard of a dozen Indians armed with javelins and bows.

  As he stood hesitating, wondering what was best to do, he heard from the room a tumult of shouts and laughter, and the sound of pipes playing a curious jigging tune. Then above all, stilling both clamor and music, the jeering voice of Lantlu:

  “Welcome Suarra! Welcome to the bride! Ho, there—bring forth the bridegroom!”

  And then the beginning of another tumult of applause and laughter.

  Graydon leaped out of the protecting shadow of the trees, and pointed to the Emer guard. He heard the swish of pinions. He ran toward the palace, unslinging his rifle as he went. Before he could take his second step he saw two of the Indians go down, then another pair, while the others stood frozen, paralyzed by this invisible death striking among them. And here was sword-play swifter than he had ever beheld in any salon of French or Italian master of fencing. He had not covered half the fifty-foot strip before all that guard lay stretched at the edge of the pave, hearts pierced, throats torn. Precise, unerring, with the speed of a spray of machine-gun bullets, the rapier beaks had reached their marks. Silently they had struck—and silently those Emers had died.

  He strode over a body, and to the curtained windows. Whether there were other guards close by, he neither knew nor cared, gave indeed no thought to it. The oval windows were grilled like those he had first noted. He tried the first, but it was immovable. The second swung quietly under his hands. He snapped open the safety lock of his rifle, gripped the gun in his left hand, softly parted the curtain webs with his right, and looked into the chamber.

  His gaze flew straight to Suarra—took her in, and for the moment nothing else.

  She stood on a dais in the center of the great room beside a flower-decked couch. She was clad in a robe of green through which her white body gleamed. Around her head was a wreath of crimson flowers. Her feet were bare. Her hands were crossed over her breasts, and around their wrists he saw the glitter of golden manacles.

  Her mouth had been painted, her cheeks rouged, and these spots of color stood out against the waxen pallor of her face like those upon a doll’s. Like a waxen doll she seemed, lifeless, eyes closed, scarcely breathing. And even as he gazed, she shuddered, swayed, and dropped upon the edge of the couch.

  “The bride is becomingly disturbed at the approach of the bridegroom,” spoke Lantlu, suavely, sonorously, like a mocking showman. “It is fitting. It is the traditional attitude. Her virginity is alarmed. Shyness overcomes her. But soon—ah, soon—Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Lantlu. From all the room a chorus of malicious laughter answered him. Suarra’s head drooped lower.

  There were red lights dancing before Graydon’s eyes. Rage so great it half strangled him beat through him. He mastered himself, vision clearing. He saw now that all around the dais was a circle of low couches, and upon these were a score of the Yu-Atlanchans. So far as their beauty went, they might have been angels, but through those masks of perfection peered devils of cruelty and cold lusts. There was no pity in the eyes that sparkled upon Suarra.

  At the far end of the room, half-risen, one knee upon the couch, a hand caressing the hair of a woman lying there, was Lantlu. With a satisfaction that for a moment overrode his red wrath, Graydon noted the flattening of the once perfect nose, the still disfigured mouth, the signatures of his fist. He looked away from him quickly examining the chamber for its entrances and guards.

  There was only one doorway, draped like the windows; and no guards, at least not within the room. Well, that was good…Lantlu was an easy target…the best plan would be to step in, put a bullet through his head, shoot a few more, get Suarra and escape with her before the others could recover from the surprise of the attack. He hated to let that mocking devil off as easily as that…what he would prefer was the use of a fully equipped medieval torture chamber for a day or two…however—one couldn’t have everything. After all, he was playing in luck that the Dark Master was absent. Yes—that was the best way. Hell! He was forgetting his best cards of all! The Mother’s two Messengers! With them and his rifle he could clean up this whole devil’s outfit! Where were they?

  As though in answer to his thought, he felt the pressure of a coil on each side of him; knew that the two creatures were poised, waiting to enter the window with him.

  He gave a swift glance at Suarra before he tensed himself for the leap within. He saw then what he had not noticed before—that between her and the doorway the circle of couches was broken, leaving a wide passage straight from it to the dais.

  And as he looked, the webs were drawn aside, and through the opening walked two Emer women, naked, carrying great baskets filled with flowers from which, as they marched, they drew handfuls of blooms strewing them on the floor.

  Close behind them came four Emers, armed with maces.

  “Behold!” chanted Lantlu. “The bridegroom!”

  Through the portal shambled a lizard-man!

  He was clothed, like Suarra, in a robe of filmy green through which his leathery yellow skin glistened, as though it had been oiled. His red eyes darted right and left, viciously, challenging. Around his scaly head was a wreath of white blossoms out of which his red comb protruded, hideously. From some hidden place the jigging music sounded again, loudly. The crimson eyes of the lizard-man fell upon the crouching figure of the girl upon the dais. His lips drew back along his snout, showing the yellow fangs. He leaped forward.

  “Mother!” groaned Graydon—and shot through the curtains.

  The leap of the lizard-man was checked as though by a sledge blow. He spun in mid-air. He dropped with the top of his head blown off.


  Graydon vaulted over the low sill of the oval window. He fired again, with half-raised rifle, at Lantlu. As the shot rang out, the master of the dinosaurs dropped behind the couch, but Graydon knew that he had missed him. All right, he’d get him later! Now for the Emers. He raised his gun—the Emers were down!

  The winged serpents! Again he had forgotten them. This time they had not waited for his orders. The guards lay slain.

  “Suarra!” he called. “Come to me!”

  She stood, gazing at him incredulously. She took one tottering step.

  Without a twinge of compunction he sent bullets through the heads of two nobles upon couches between them, breaking the circle. That would teach them a lesson…but better not kill any more now…better not turn the Messengers upon them until Suarra was under his arm…keep ’em quiet till then…then send ’em all to hell, where they belonged…

  If he only knew how to talk to the Messengers! He’d send them after Lantlu. But you couldn’t just say, “Go get him, Bowser,” to things like those.

  “Suarra!” he called again. She had slipped over the edge of the dais, was running to him…better watch that doorway… those shots must have been heard…how about that open window at his back…well, you couldn’t look two ways at once…

  Suarra was beside him!

  “Beloved! Oh, my beloved!” he heard her broken whisper, felt her lips press his shoulder.

  “Buck up, darling! We’re going to get out all right!” he said. He kept eyes and rifle ready on the ring of silent nobles and the doorway.

  He wondered whether they were going to get out. He’d better keep to that idea he had a moment ago…launch the winged serpents, get out the window and away with Suarra while the two Messengers were slaughtering, leave them to follow, catch up and cover their retreat…

  Too late.

  In the open doorway, appearing abruptly as though he had stepped out of the air, was Nimir!

  Too late now. No use to loose the winged deaths, or try to flee. Graydon had clear conviction of that. He had walked into Nimir’s trap, and must make his bargain. He lowered his gun, drew Suarra close to him.

  A doubt assailed him. Had it been Nimir’s trap? The Lord of Evil had moved a step into the great room, and was staring at him and Suarra, astonishment in his pale blue eyes. Up from beside him rose Lantlu, laughing—pointing derisively, gloating upon them.

  Graydon threw up the rifle, covered him. Before he could press the trigger, one of Nimir’s long, misshapen arms had circled Lantlu, had thrust him behind the shelter of his own body. The rifle spat. It seemed to Graydon that the bullet went through Nimir’s breast.

  Silent, unheeding, the Lord of Evil’s puzzled gaze traveled from man and girl to the body of the Urd, the wreath of white blooms yellowed with its blood, mockery of green wedding garment torn in its death agony. His eyes passed along the path of flowers, over the dead Emers, to the blossom-strewn couch on the dais, and rested again upon green-robed Suarra.

  Then Graydon saw comprehension come to him.

  The crouching, frog-like body seemed to expand; it drew erect. The beautiful, Luciferean face above it became white and hard as stone, the pale eyes like ice. He wheeled, gripped Lantlu, lifted him and held him high over his head as though he meant to dash him to the floor. The master of the dinosaurs writhed and fought vainly against that grip.

  For an instant the Lord of Evil held him thus, then mastered his passion, lowered him, and thrust him down prone at his feet.

  “You fool!” he said, and there was a dreadful tonelessness in his voice, “to set your lusts and your hatreds against my will! Did I not tell you that this girl was to be held safe, inviolate? And did I not tell you why? How did you dare to do this thing? Answer me, fool!”

  “I promised her I would mate her with the Urd. I keep my promises. What difference would it have made? The outlander would have come at your summons. Nor never have known—until too late. And no harm has been done, since you have him now. And even somewhat sooner than you had planned, Dark Master!”

  There was no fear in Lantlu’s voice, and there was more than a trace of his mocking arrogance in his salutation. The Lord of Evil did not reply, looking down upon him inscrutably. Stubborn lad, Lantlu, thought Graydon. Thoroughly rotten—but hard to break.

  He studied the monstrous body, with its face of a fallen angel, the noble head, the imperial power and beauty of it—he felt a pang of pity for the Lord of Evil! After all, why not have let him have a body which would have gone with that head…damned if he could see what was gained by saddling Nimir with that monstrosity…Nimir had worked long enough for proper clothes…a woman’s trick…it wasn’t decent fighting…

  Suddenly he was aware that Nimir’s eyes were upon him, that he had read his thoughts.

  “You and I are not so far apart after all, Graydon!” said the Lord of Evil, with all that alluring sweetness which he had fought when battling against him as the Shadow on the jet throne.

  It brought Graydon back with a jolt. After all, what business had he pitying Nimir! It was his business to get Suarra out of peril—save himself if he could!

  The cold eyes of the Lord of Evil were bluer, there was friendliness in them—real or assumed.

  “I must talk with you, Graydon.”

  “I know it,” said Graydon, grimly. “And it will be right here, Nimir. And now.”

  The Lord of Evil smiled, and the smile lightened the dark power throned upon his face, gave it something of that dangerous attraction which lived in the sweetness of his voice. Graydon felt the spell, and braced himself against it.

  “Get up, Lantlu. Do not go from here until I permit you. See that you do nothing to interrupt us. I warn you—and for the last time!”

  Lantlu arose leisurely, gave Graydon and Suarra an indifferent glance, sauntered over to his couch, dropped beside the woman there and drew her arm around his neck. It was rather well done, Graydon thought, grudgingly.

  The Lord of Evil shambled toward him. He felt Suarra’s uncontrollable shudder. And when he was within a half-dozen paces, Graydon drew Regor’s poniard, set its point on the girl’s breast, over her heart.

  “Stop there, Nimir,” he said. “That is close enough. And hear me first. I know what you want. I am willing to discuss it. If we cannot agree, and if I am convinced we cannot escape, I will kill Suarra. She would have it so. Is that not true, Suarra?”

  “It is true, beloved,” she answered, tranquilly.

  “I will then,” continued Graydon, “do my best against you with this—” he touched the rifle—“If I find I can’t stop you, I’ll use my last bullet to blow my own head off. And that, I think, you won’t like. But I’ll do it. I mean it, Nimir.”

  The Lord of Evil smiled again.

  “I believe you. And that is, as you surmise, the last thing I would like to see happen. Nor will it be necessary—if you are reasonable.”

  “My mind is wide open,” said Graydon, “but only to your words. You understand me?”

  The Lord of Evil bowed, then looked at him for a time without speaking. A feeling of unreality stole over Graydon. He felt as though he were in some play, a dream play in which he ran no real risks; that he could pick his own lines, mold his situations. He lost entirely the sense of grimmest reality that had held every nerve and muscle taut as drawn bow strings. And, oddly, that feeling of the unreal buoyed him, filled him with a heady recklessness—nor did it occur to him—then—that the Lord of Evil might be responsible for all that.

  “Neither of you can escape—unless I let you,” said Nimir. “You cannot harm me, nor can those servants of Adana whom I see hovering. That is truth, Graydon. This shape of mine, built as it was, is not in any manner like yours. Material, yes—in a way. Send your missiles through it, plunge your poniard into it—they cannot harm me. If you do not believe me—try it, Graydon.”

  He plucked open his cloak, revealing the distorted barrel of his chest, and stood waiting. Graydon raised the rifle, minded for the mome
nt to accept the challenge. He dropped it—useless to waste the cartridge, Nimir spoke truth—

  “But you,” the Lord of Evil covered his monstrous torso, “you and Suarra I can destroy. Oh, very easily. Yet here once more we are at stalemate—since I want you, Graydon—let us say, intact.”

  “You made that quite clear once before,” said Graydon curtly. “Well—then what?”

  “A better bargain for you than if that wilful fool had not spoiled my plan,” answered Nimir. “And not alone because by doing so he has put it in your immediate power to make yourself—uninhabitable. No—quite as much because of a certain thought you had of me and the Snake-woman not so long ago. It has been so long since any one has thought kindly of me,” said Nimir, and laughed—“I find it oddly pleasant.”

  “The bargain?” said Graydon, impatiently.

  “Quite so,” went on the Lord of Evil, gently. “I never intended this shape of mine to be—permanent. Even if it had not been marred, it would still have been but—temporary. No, Graydon, I much prefer good human flesh and blood, which, adequately treated, can be made to last forever. And, as I have told you, as you remind me, rather often, I much prefer yours. Therefore, I will send Suarra and you safely back to the Temple—yes, even with a guard of honor—if—”

  “I was waiting for the—if,” said Graydon.

  “If you will promise me, should I win the coming battle, that you will come to me of your own free will and, after I have cast aside these present coverings, let me enter as permanent tenant of that body of yours—I mean, of course, as co-tenant, I renew, in short, my offer of sharing your habitation with you without crowding or other molestation,” smiled the Lord of Evil.

  “Fair enough,” said Graydon, unhesitatingly. “I agree.”

  “No, beloved, no!” cried Suarra, and clung to him. “Better death for both—”

  “I don’t think he will win, darling,” said Graydon; the heady recklessness was stronger within him…it was a damned sight better dicker than he had expected…rather a sporting proposition…he didn’t believe Nimir could win…even if he did—well, he, Graydon, was strong…he could fight this companion once he was seated in his brain beside him…control him…make him sick of his bargain…and, at the worst, life would be interesting—to put it mildly…hell, where were those ideas coming from?…why was he thinking like that?…weakening…no matter, he had to save Suarra…he had to save Suarra…it was the only way!