Then one of the dogs lying in a doorway sprang suddenly and omitted a sharp bark. At the same moment a dark cloud apparently obscured the sun. In a short time it had passed unnoticed save for the dog. But his owner—an old crone in a voluminous black hood—peered intently at the clear and vacant sky, and started chattering in an excited tone. Soon the whole population was out of doors looking upwards at that which could not be seen yet which cast a deep shadow. Nothing was to be perceived in the expanse of blue, yet upon the square cobblestones of the quaint little village an irregular black form wavered back and forth. Then it grew larger. Whatever it may have been, it was settling. The people drew back afrightened. Slowly the swinging motion ceased, and the thing drew near. A deep, heavy panting was distinctly audible, much like that of a great beast, and with a dull impact as though it was of great weight, it alighted upon a grassy plot before the Chancellor’s house. For a long time it lay there, resting. And still nothing could be seen save the indentation of the grass nor aught heard but the heavy breathing.
Then, to the terror of the white-faced and nervous citizens, it rose on giant feet and tramped down a lane. Thud…. Thud…. Thud…. Thud…. The sound grew monotonous in its deliberation. Before its path lay a sleeping hound. It was lifted as if in a vast claw, and vanished among horrid rending sounds. A single drop of blood flecked the earth…. Its taste momentarily sated, the thing paused and turned.
It took some moments for reason to replace the stark terror of the townsfolk. Then there was a mad and frantic rush for the nearest houses. Those to first gain entrance barred the doors upon their comrades. In a moment the street was apparently bare—save for the unseen monster.
All that afternoon and night it pried at doors, scratched at roofs, muzzled windows and upset fruits-carts inquiringly. But the people of Droom had built well. It did not gain entrance during the night, although few slept, when they heard the constant breathing before their homes, and the dull thumping sounds as it wreaked its malice upon the shops of the marketplace.
It was high noon before any dared unbar their doors and venture forth. Nothing unusual greeted their blanched faces, and silently, apprehensively they stole to their tasks. Soon all activity again commenced.
The horror had gone.
THE FLAGON OF BEAUTY, by R.H. Barlow
(Annals of the Jinns 3)
The Princess drooped her long eyelashes. She was really quite pretty when she did this.
“And you have brought it?” she asked softly, her hand stealing into his. He coughed. This being spokesman was a delicate task.
“Yes, your Highness,” said the man. “It is here.” He touched a small parcel beside him on the divan.
“And you will give it to me?” she breathed.
Steeling himself, he replied, “Their terms are the freedom of the people.”
She sprang to her feet. “Never!”
“Not for the Flagon?” he queried harshly.
“Not even for that.” Reconsidering, she spoke slowly. “Five years ago I sent a band in search of this fabulous drug, into the low-lying jungle that cloaks the Ancient Cities, the Cities that no man knows who built, there in the steaming swamps. Men have said that I was beautiful, yet, ironically, he for whom I have wrecked my empire scorned me. It was then I bethought me of this flask made in the immemorial years agone, which figured in legend as containing the essence of Beauty. Perhaps, I thought, with this I might win him from my rival. Today you have returned; successfully, I grant you; and demand yield of my power for that which I desire. I have been told bitter things—that I have ruled mercilessly and tyrannically. That I have, but I cared little for affairs of state since I became enamoured of my prince. He has neglected no indignity to impose upon me, but I cannot forget him. On the night of my Feast of Peacocks he sneered at the priceless dishes and fed his monkey from the place. The gutter-rat he has an infatuation for entertains him most skillfully, but he shares her with the soldiers. He prefers her florid charms to me. This I do not understand, but I command you, give me that flagon.”
He slowly shook his head. “No, Majesty, I cannot betray their faith. Fever took many lives in those crumbling ruins.”
“I warn you, I am desperate,” she said imperiously, “give, or I shall take.”
He lowered his gaze and remained silent. Seeing he was adamant, she made a gesture with her head, and a slave stepped from the curtained alcove. “Take this man to the Room of Pain,” she ordered. In consternation, he sought to dash the frail vessel to the tiles, but it was dexterously twisted from his grasp by the blackamoor.
The princess laughed insanely.
* * * *
“My men did well to steal you from under his nose, my wench,” she sneered to the helpless woman at her feet. “Let me see those carmine lips smile at this!” she added contemptuously, breaking the ancient seal covered with writing none could interpret. “You are startled? Yes, it is the Flagon! Watch, if you wish, for you may not see when I am finished with you.” She drained the very dregs, and flung the stopper in her captive’s face. For a long moment there was no change apparent in her flushed countenance. Then she noticeably paled. Her hair swiftly grew leaded and grey, her lips assumed a ghastly pallor, and a score of tiny wrinkles appeared on her smooth skin.
She became an old hag, quite out of place in the splendour of the throne-room.
THE SACRED BIRD, by R.H. Barlow
(Annals of the Jinns 4)
There appeared one day in the market-place of Ulathia a most peculiar fowl which fell exhausted from the skies. Its plumage was of brilliant hue, and despite its confusion, a wise and knowing look was seen within the orange eyes. After resting a moment, it fluttered about the square, entering the various shops in a proprietary manner and finally settled in that of a sweetmeat dealer. Soon all the tradesfolk hurried across the cobble-stones to see this gaudy visitor and to feed it many tid-bits. Not in the least bothered by its admiring audience, it permitted its head to be scratched and petted as it ate.
In time, the news spread through the thatched houses to the ears of the Imperial Council, all of which laid down their pens and came in a body to view it. It was discovered by them greedily eating a preserved orange-rind, a meal varied by occasional pecks at a nut. Having already devoured odds and ends of all sorts, it was no longer hungry, and even as they panted in, it fell asleep. When the crowd drew aside to admit the rotund Council, it complained loudly.
“Gwarn arf ‘n chase y’self!” commanded the half-awake bird. “Gwarn arf,” it repeated, fluttering its wings and adjusting for a nice nap. It then uttered a rasping incoherency and dozed off placidly. The people drew back whispering excitedly. “A demon!” averred one. This brought a chorus of dissention among the others. “An angel…. Just a trick…. Who ever heard of a bird talking?… A magician in disguise…. What has happened?… Still thy tongue, neighbor….”
… The head of the Council, a gray-beard notoriously superstitious, cleared his threat and a silence fell over all present. “My friends,” he gurgled happily, “My dear friends and fellow citizens! This is an occasion of undoubted significance in the annals of our fair city, equalled only by that of, as you doubtless will realize, early in the reign of—rather; to continue; In other words, my dear friends,” he began over, unable to sustain the sentence any longer, “To make it clear to all concerned, this is, I believe, and no one, I hope, would contradict me, I have occasion to think—” Here his voice lowered to a whisper and ended in a triumphant shout, “A Messenger sent to guide us!” He leered cheerfully at the mob. “Therefore, let us convey it in state to the City Hall to rule us as it sees fit!”
Which was forthwith done amid much celebration, and the chattering of the escaped parrot from that day guided the fortunes of the city of Ulathia, interpreted by the Ruler and his Council as they desired.
THE TOMB OF THE GOD, by R.H. Barlow<
br />
(Annals of the Jinns 5)
For four days, the band of explorers from Phoor had been excavating the ancient and immemorial tomb of Krang on the edge of the desert. The sands had been blowing ceaselessly, even as they had done since before the coming of man to that far land. The tomb was built long before any human walked the face of the world, built by evil powers that had reigned unchecked in that unthinkably ancient day, when all the desert had been a verdant garden through which stalked great yellow giants of small intelligence, but of prodigious strength, that had built the tower and the city of the ancient and most powerful Lord Krang. And even before that Krang had been; he had been for aeons, and in turn had come from a strange planet, it was told in tradition and runes inscribed in a dead language, the language of Old Gods, and in the time when dark magical powers had battled for possession of the universe. And Krang had won, Krang the old one, the monstrous brown leathern thing that planned and ruled and malefically twisted the futures of worlds. But the time came that none had foreseen and Krang the ancient fell into a semblance of death, though his flesh rotted not, nor did his aspect change. So the people of the earth gathered together and conveyed him in a giant funeral procession to the enormous tomb carven from living blue stone in the side of the mountain, and they sealed him in and forever departed from his company. And the years and the decades and the centuries and the aeons unthinkable came and went, and the sands swirled over the mouth of the tomb, and the door was obliterated, and none knew where Krang the Elder God lay in stupendous slumber.
Then audacious mortals had unwittingly found traces of this mausoleum that even legend had discredited, and they had resolved to open it and seek the great body of the old thing that had laid unmoving since the world was young and green, lain while the prolific vegetation died and the sand crept upon the land and laid it into barrenness.
It was said that there had been sealed up in Krang’s tomb treasures that made avarice pale and gems the like of which no longer existed, jewels from far worlds of the dawn of time, worlds that had died and returned again—and the strange manuscripts with the Hsothian chants upon them, and other equally desirable objects. Therefore, many had set out to reach the far site of the old tomb, but few had reached it. Some had perished, slain by the hateful green devil things that lay beneath the surface of the sand in wait for unwary persons, and that sprang up to drag their victims to a horrible death. Some reached their goal and scratched and chipped the tight sealed entrance, but it was as the gnawing of rats, and before they could do more, they had mysteriously vanished from human ken, nor had they ever been heard of afterwards. Yet this did not discourage others from emulating for the desire for power will lead men far, and power there was in the tomb.
So again men were engaged in laboriously chipping away the obstruction and making slight headway, when one of their members chanced upon an orifice in the rock into which he thrust his arm curiously. Beyond he touched something, and lo! The great door grated outwards, inexorably, ruthlessly, and ground him horribly into the stone sill, leaving naught save an unpleasant smear of brown and a dank smell came forth, and the door was opened. Paralyzed, the survivors did not act until it had swung firmly back into place and was immovable save by a repetition of the catastrophe. So, though they could spare him ill, the others forced one of their brown slave-men from distant Leek to do this suicidal act; and he whimpered, and would have not, but they discouraged this by subtle and hastily improvised tortures, and he eventually complied.
They stepped delicately over the smear and caught the door; placing an obstruction in the way, so that it might stay open. And then they entered, the first living things in that place since their race had appeared.
The air was foul with the odor of a newly dried sea bed, and the stench was unlike that of anything within their ken. All about the giant vault were great chunks of richly coloured gems cut in curious facets, with cryptic inscriptions upon each. But the central object was the tomb of Lord Krang, where his great body reposed upon a slab of figured chalcedony. He was terrible to gaze upon, for even after the immense period, he still held semblance of the horrifying aspect that was traditionally assigned unto him.
And the explorers that had entered gathered around him for a moment in awe, but they were distracted by the infinite wealth that lay carelessly about. They became slightly affected by it, into a type of madness, and with repulsive amour and fetishism, they stroked the jewels and clung unto them.
But what happened then none can tell, for their two fellows standing guard beyond the entrance heard a peculiar sound that seemed as a slither then a scream, then the door shut again, and although the obstructing block was not touched by them, it had moved.
GIVE THE DEVIL HIS DUE, by Mack Reynolds
“Why, you look exactly as I imagined you would,” exclaimed Nostradamus Perkins, student of the occult.
“You’ve got a vivid imagination, is all I can say,” the demon told him bitterly, looking down at his cloven hoof, back at his barbed tail, and gingerly feeling the horns on his head. “What in hell did you think I’d look like if not the way you imagined me?”
“Why, I…I don’t believe I get your point,” Nostradamus Perkins said.
“Skip it, then,” the demon told him, still fingering the horns as though fascinated with them.
“Not at all,” the student of forbidden mysteries snapped, careful not to step out of the pentacle he’d drawn with colored chalk on his living room rug. “I have you in my power and expect to extract from you whatever knowledge I desire.”
The demon looked at him questioningly. “You’ve got me where? Say, what space-time continuum is this, anyway? I’ve had some strange specimens call me up in my day, but this really tears it!”
Nostradamus Perkins said hesitatingly, “You mean you don’t know where you are?”
The demon was trying out the tail, wagging it sharply from left to right, back again. “Of course not,” he said reasonably. “Why should I know where I am? You’re the one who did the materializing.”
“Well,” the student snapped, “you’re the devil; at least I suppose you know where you came from.”
The other eyed him in puzzlement. ‘“You’re quite devilish yourself,” he said. “Now what’s all this about, anyway, and what was the purpose in going to all the rigmarole involved in dragging me up here? Not that I don’t appreciate the business, of course.”
Nostradamus shook his head firmly. “That won’t do. I know better, Satan.”
“The name is Ozidaminos,” the other said mildly.
“As I said,” Perkins insisted, in what he hoped was a commanding voice—actually this whole matter wasn’t going the way he’d planned at all; for one thing, the demon was so damnably amiable— “as I said, you are now in my power and must do as I command.”
The demon stopped playing with his tail and scratched the end of his nose with a claw-tipped finger. “I continually get the impression that I came into this conversation late,” he murmured. “Now, let’s start at the beginning. Just what have you got in mind that I can’t refuse doing?”
“I want to sell my soul,” Perkins told him.
“Your what?”
“My soul,” the other repeated, his voice was beginning to reflect some of the puzzlement that had been in the demon’s for the past five minutes.
Ozidaminos, for the first time, took in his surroundings. He noted the pentacle in which the other was standing; the bizarre looking brazier smoking to his right; the skull sitting on the table beside the old and tattered manuscripts; the charts of the Zodiac on the walls; he sniffed the incense.
“I’m beginning to recall this set-up,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time, but it seems to me that the last one to give me this song and dance was wearing a funny looking cloak embroidered with stars and moons.” He paused a moment in thought. “As I re
member, he wanted to sell me his soul too, in exchange for the knowledge of how to change lead to gold.”
“Did you tell him?” Perkins asked, breathlessly.
“Sure,” the demon said, “but I doubt if it did him any good; he didn’t have either the equipment, the materials, nor the manpower to build the plant. I gave him the specifications; for all I know, he’s poring over them still. Frankly, I’ve often thought since that he was a bit around the corner. What would be accomplished by changing lead to gold? The amount of work involved is considerably more than if you dug the gold in the first place.”
Nostradamus Perkins was impatient of the trend of the conversation. “I don’t believe you,” he said, “and, besides, we’re getting away from the point. The point is that I have you in my power and have a contract I wish to make with you.”
The demon complained, “You keep bringing up this I have you in my power stuff. Would you mind explaining?”
Nostradamus glared at him. “Do not think to throw me off, vile demon,” he said sonorously, “I knowest full well thou must needs…”
“Listen,” Ozidaminos protested, “stick to one dialect, will you? Do you think it’s fun having to pick a mind for a whole language and then have the guy switch on you? What’s this knowest and thou stuff?”
“Don’t interrupt,” Nostradamus Perkins barked. “I have summoned you and have certain powers…”
The Fantasy MEGAPACK ® Page 9
