THE
BLACK
FLAME
STANLEY G. WEINBAUM
Avon Books
AVON BOOKS
A division of
The Hearst Corporation
959 Eighth Avenue
New York, New York 10019
Copyright 1948 by Fantasy Press.
"Dawn of Flame" copyright 1936 by margaret Weinbaum copyright 1939 by Better Publications, Inc,.Wonder Stories, June, 1939.
"The Black Flame" copyright 1938 by Better Publications for Startling Stories, January, 1939.
Published by arrangement with the author's estate.
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Ackerman Agency, 915 South Sherbourne Drive, Los Angeles, California 90035.
First Avon Printing, April, 1969
Cover illustration by Ronald Walotsky
avon trademark ref. u.s. pat. off. and foreign countries, registered trademark - marca registrada, hecho in cicago. usa
Printed in the U.S.A.
Contents
BOOK ONE - DAWN OF FLAME
CHAPTER ONE THE WORLD
CHAPTER TWO OLD EINAR
CHAPTER THREE THE MASTER MARCHES
CHAPTER FOUR THE BATTLE OF EAGLEFOOT FLOW
CHAPTER FIVE BLACK MARGOT
CHAPTER SIX THE HARRIERS
CHAPTER SEVEN BETRAYAL
CHAPTER EIGHT TORMENT
CHAPTER NINE THE TRAP
CHAPTER TEN OLD EINAR AGAIN
BOOK TWO - THE BLACK FLAME
CHAPTER ONE PENALTY AND AFTERMATH
CHAPTER TWO EVANIE THE SORCERESS
CHAPTER THREE FOREST MEETING
CHAPTER FOUR A BIT OF ANCIENT HISTORY
CHAPTER FIVE THE VILLAGE
CHAPTER SIX THE METAMORPHS
CHAPTER SEVEN PANATE BLOOD
CHAPTER EIGHT IN TIME OF PEACE
CHAPTER NINE THE WAY TO URBS
CHAPTER TEN REVOLUTION
CHAPTER ELEVEN FLIGHT
CHAPTER TWELVE THE MESSENGER
CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE TRAIL BACK
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE MASTER
CHAPTER FIFTEEN TWO WOMEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN IMMORTALITY
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE DESTINY OF MAN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE SKYRAT
CHAPTER NINETEEN DEATH FLIGHT?
CHAPTER TWENTY THE CONSPIRATORS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE THE DINNER AT THE SLEEPER'S
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO DECLARATION
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE THE AMPHIMORPHS IN THE POOL
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE ATOMIC BOMB
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE INFERNO
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX THE MASTER SITS IN JUDGMENT
BOOK ONE
DAWN OF FLAME
CHAPTER ONE
THE WORLD
HULL TARVISH LOOKED backward but once, and that only as he reached the elbow of the road. The sprawling little stone cottage that had been home was visible as he had seen it a thousand times, framed under the cedars. His mother still watched him, and two of his younger brothers stood staring down the Mountainside at him. He raised his hand in farewell, then dropped it as he realized that none of them saw him now; his mother had turned indifferently to the door, and the two youngsters had spied a rabbit. He faced about and strode away, down the slope out of Ozarky.
He passed the place where the great steel road of the Ancients had been, now only two rusty streaks and a row of decayed logs. Beside it was the mossy heap of stones that had been an ancient structure in the days before the Dark Centuries, when Ozarky had been a part of the old state of M'souri. The mountain people still sought out the place for squared stones to use in building, but the tough metal of the steel road itself was too stubborn for their use, and the rails had rusted quietly these three hundred years.
That much Hull Tarvish knew, for they were things still spoken of at night around the fireplace. They had been mighty sorcerers, those Ancients; their steel roads went everywhere, and everywhere were the ruins of their towns, built, it was said, by a magic that lifted weights. Down in the valley, he knew, men were still seeking that magic; once a rider had stayed by night at the Tarvish home, a little man who said that in the far south the secret had been found, but nobody ever heard any more of it.
So Hull whistled to himself, shifted the rag bag on his shoulder, set his bow more comfortably on his mighty back, and trudged on. That was why he himself was seeking the valley; he wanted to see what the world was like. He had been always a restless sort, not at all like the other six Tarvish sons, nor like the three Tarvish daughters. They were true mountainies, the sons great hunters, and the daughters stolid and industrious. Not Hull, however; he was neither lazy like his brothers nor stolid like his sisters, but restless, curious, dreamy. So he whistled his way into the world, and was happy.
At evening he stopped at the Hobel cottage on the edge of the mountains. Away before him stretched the plain, and in the darkening distance was visible the church spire of Norse. That was a village; Hull had never seen a village, or no more of it than this same distant steeple, shaped like a straight white pine. But he had heard all about Norse, because the mountainies occasionally went down there to buy powder and ball for their rifles, those of them who had rifles.
Hull had only a bow. He didn't see the use of guns; powder and ball cost money, but an arrow did the same work for nothing, and that without scaring all the game a mile away.
Morning he bade goodbye to the Hobels, who thought him, as they always had, a little crazy, and set off. His powerful, brown bare legs flashed under his ragged trousers, his bare feet made a pleasant soosh in the dust of the road, the June sun beat warm on his right cheek. He was happy; there never was a pleasanter world than this, so he grinned and whistled, and spat carefully into the dust, remembering that it was bad luck to spit toward the sun. He was bound for adventure.
Adventure came. Hull had come down to the plain now, where the trees were taller than the scrub of the hill country, and where the occasional farms were broader, well tilled, more prosperous. The trail had become a wagon road, and here it cut and angled between two lines of forest. And unexpectedly a man – no, two men – rose from a log at the roadside and approached Hull. He watched them; one was tall and light-haired as himself, but without his mighty frame, and the other was a head shorter, and dark. Valley people, surely, for the dark one had a stubby pistol at his belt, wooden-stocked like those of the Ancients, and the tall man's bow was of glittering spring steel.
"Ho, mountainy!" said the dark one. "Where going?"
"Norse," answered Hull shortly,
"What's in the bag?"
"My tongue," snapped the youth. (1)
"Easy, there," grunted the light man. "No offense, mountainy. We're just curious. That's a good knife you got. I'll trade it."
"For what?"
"For lead in your craw," growled the dark one. Suddenly the blunt pistol was in his hand. "Pass it over, and the bag too."
Hull scowled from one to the other. At last he shrugged, and moved as if to lift his bag from his shoulders. And then, swift as the thrust of a striking diamondback, his left foot shot forward, catching the dark one squarely in the pit of his stomach, with the might of Hull's muscles and weight behind it.
The man had breath for a low grunt; he doubled and fell, while his weapon spun a dozen feet away into the dust. The light one sprang for it, but Hull caught him with a great arm about his throat, wrenched twice, and the brief fight was over. He swung placidly on toward Norse with a blunt revolver primed and capped at his hip, a glistening spring-steel bow on his shoulder, and twenty-two bright tubular steel arrows in his quiver.
He himself attracted little attention. Norse was used to the mountainies, and only a girl or two turned appraising eyes toward his mighty figure. That made him uncomfortable, however; the girls of the mountains giggled and blushed, but never at that age did they stare at a man. So he gazed defiantly back, letting his eyes wander from their bonnets to the billowing skirts above their leather strap-sandals, and they laughed and passed on.
Hull didn't care for Norse, he decided. As the sun set, the houses loomed too close, as if they'd stifle him, so he set out into the countryside to sleep. The remains of an ancient town bordered the village, with its spectral walls crumbling against the west. There were ghosts there, of course, so he walked farther, found a wooded spot, and lay down, putting his bow and the steel arrows into his bag against the rusting effect of night-dew. Then he tied the bag about his bare feet and legs, sprawled comfortably, and slept with his hand on the pistol grip. Of course there were no animals to fear in these woods save wolves, and they never attacked humans during the warm parts of the year, but there were men, and they bound themselves by no such seasonal laws.
He awoke dewy wet. The sun shot golden lances through the trees, and he was ravenously hungry. He ate the last of his mother's brown bread from his bag, now crumbled by his feet, and then strode out to the road. There was a wagon creaking there, plodding northward; the bearded, kindly man in it was glad enough to have him ride for company.
"Mountainy?" he asked.
"Yes.
"Bound where?"
"The world," said Bull.
"Well," observed the other, "it's a big place, and all I've seen of it much like this. All except Selui. That's a city. Yes, that's a city. Been there?"
"No."
"It's got," said the farmer impressively, "twenty thousand people in it. Maybe more. And they got ruins there the biggest you ever saw. Bridges. Buildings. Four – five times as high as the Norse church, and at that they're fallen down. The Devil knows how high they used to be in the old days."
"Who lived in 'em?" asked Hull.
"Don't know. Who'd want to live so high up it'd take a full morning to climb there? Unless it was magic. I don't hold much with magic, but they do say the Old People knew how to fly."
Hull tried to imagine this. For a while there was silence save for the slow clump of the horses' hooves. "I don't believe it," he said at last.
"Nor I. But did you hear what they're saying in Norse?"
"I didn't hear anything."
"They say," said the farmer, "that Joaquin Smith is going to march again."
"Joaquin Smith!"
"Yeah. Even the mountainies know about him, eh?"
"Who doesn't?" returned Hull. "Then there'll be fighting in the south, I guess. I have a notion to go south."
"Why?"
"I like fighting," said Hull simply.
"Fair answer," said the farmer, "but from what folks say, there's not much fighting when the Master marches. He has a spell; there's great sorcery in N'Orleans, from the merest warlock up to Martin Sair, who's blood-son of the Devil himself, or so they say."
"I'd like to see his sorcery against the mountainy's arrow and ball," said Hull grimly. "There's none of us can't spot either eye at a thousand paces, using rifle. Or two hundred with arrow."
"No doubt; but what if powder flames, and guns fire themselves before he's even across the horizon? They say he has a spell for that, he or Black Margot."
"Black Margot?"
“The Princess, his half-sister. The dark witch who rides beside him, the Princess Margaret."
"Oh – but why Black Margot?"
The farmer shrugged. "Who knows? It's what her enemies call her."
"Then so I call her," said Hull.
"Well, I don't know," said the other. "It makes small difference to me whether I pay taxes to N'Orleans or to gruff old Marcus Ormiston, who's eldarch of Ormiston village there." He flicked his whip toward the distance ahead, where Hull now descried houses and the flash of a little river. "I've sold produce in towns within the Empire, and the people of them seemed as happy as ourselves, no more, no less."
"There is a difference, though. It's freedom."
"Merely a word, my friend. They plow, they sow, they reap, just as we do. They hunt, they fish, they fight. And as for freedom, are they less free with a warlock to rule them than I with a wizened fool?"
"The mountainies pay taxes to no one."
"And no one builds them roads, nor digs them public wells. Where you pay little you get less, and I will say that the roads within the Empire are better than ours."
"Better than this?" asked Hull, staring at the dusty width of the highway.
"Far better. Near Memphis town is a road of solid rock, which they spread soft through some magic, and let harden, so there is neither mud nor dust."
Hull mused over this. "The Master," he burst out suddenly, "is he really immortal?"
The other shrugged. "How can I say? There are great sorcerers in the southlands, and the greatest of them is Martin Sair. But I do know this, that I have seen sixty-two years, and as far back as memory goes here was always Joaquin Smith in the south, and always an Empire gobbling cities as a hare gobbles carrots. When I was young it was far away, now it reaches close at hand; that is all the difference. Men talked of the beauty of Black Margot then as they do now, and of the wizardry of Martin Sair.
Hull made no answer, for Ormiston was at hand. The village was much like Norse save that it huddled among low hills, on the crest of some of which loomed ancient ruins. At the near side his companion halted, and Hull thanked him as he leaped to the ground.
"Where to?" asked the farmer.
Hull thought a moment. "Selui," he said.
"Well, it's a hundred miles, but there'll be many to ride you."
"I have my own feet," said the youth. He spun suddenly about at a voice across the road: "Hi! Mountainy!"
It was a girl. A very pretty girl, slim waisted, copper haired, blue eyed, standing at the gate before a large stone house. "Hi!" she called. "Will you work for your dinner?"
Hull was ravenous again. "Gladly!" he cried.
The voice of the farmer sounded behind him. "It's Vail Ormiston, the dotard eldarch's daughter. Hold her for a full meal, mountainy. My taxes are paying for it."
But Vail Ormiston was above much converse with a wandering mountain-man. She surveyed his mighty form approvingly, showed him the logs he was to quarter, and then disappeared into the house. If, perchance, she peeped out through the clearest of the ancient glass fragments that formed the window, and if she watched the flexing muscles of his great bare arms as he swung the axe – well, he was unaware of it.
So it happened that afternoon found him trudging toward Selui with a hearty meal inside him and three silver dimes in his pocket, ancient money, with the striding figure of the woman all but worn away. He was richer than when he had set out by those coins, by the blunt pistol at his hip, by the shiny steel bow and arrows, and by the memory of the copper hair and blue eyes of Vail Ormiston.
(1. Idiom of the second century of the Enlightenment. To have "one's tongue in the bag" was to refuse to answer questions.)
CHAPTER TWO
OLD EINAR
THREE WEEKS IN SELUI HAD served to give Hull Tarvish a sort of speaking acquaintancy with the place. He no longer gaped at the sky-piercing ruins of the ancient city, or the vast fallen bridges, and he was quite at home in the town that lay beside it. He had found work easil
y enough in a baker's establishment, where his great muscles served well; the hours were long, but his pay was munificent – five silver quarters a week. He paid two for lodging, and food – what he needed beyond the burnt loaves at hand from his employment cost him another quarter, but that left two to put by. He never gambled other than a wager now and then on his own marksmanship, and that was more profitable than otherwise.
Ordinarily Hull was quick to make friends, but his long hours hindered him. He had but one, an incredibly old man who sat at evening on the step beyond his lodging, Old Einar. So this evening Hull wandered out as usual to join him, staring at the crumbling towers of the Ancients glowing in the sunset. Trees sprung on many, and all were green with vine and tussock and the growth of wind-carried seeds. No one dared build among the ruins, for none could guess when a great tower might come crashing down.
"I wonder," he said to Old Einar, "what the Ancients were like. Were they men like us? Then how could they fly?"
"They were men like us, Hull. As for flying – well, it's my belief that flying is a legend. See here; there was a man supposed to have flown over the cold lands to the north and those to the south, and also across the great sea. But this flying man is called in some accounts Lindbird and in others Bird and surely one can see the origin of such a legend. The migrations of birds, who cross land and seas each year, that is all."
"Or perhaps magic," suggested Hull.
"There is no magic. The Ancients themselves denied it and I have struggled through many a moldy book in a curious, archaic tongue."
Old Einar was the first scholar Hull had ever encountered. Though there were many during the dawn of that brilliant age called the Second Enlightenment, most of them were still within the Empire. John Holland was dead, but Olin was yet alive in the world, and Kohlmar, and Jorgensen, and Teran, and Martin Sair, and Joaquin Smith the Master. Great names – the names of demigods.
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