The Black Flame

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  His brain was reeling. "But why– Why–?"

  "Oh," she said indifferently, "it amuses me to see you play the traitor twice, Hull Tarvish."

  (5. The field of the Erden resonator passes readily through structures and walls, but it is blocked by any considerable natural obstructions, hills, and for some reason fog-banks or low clouds.)

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TRAP

  THE PRINCESS STEPPED close to him, her magnificent eyes gentle as an angel's, the sweet curve of her lips in the ghost of a pouting smile. "Poor, strong, weak Hull Tarvish!" she breathed. "Now you shall have a lesson in the cost of weakness. I am not Joaquin, who fights benignly with his men's slides in the third notch. When I go to battle, my beams flash full, and there is burning flesh and bursting heart. Death rides with me."

  He scarcely heard her. His gyrating mind struggled with an idea. The Harriers were creeping singly into the trap, but they could not all be through the tunnel. If he could warn them– His eyes shifted to the bell-pull in the hall beside the guard, the rope that tolled the bronze bell in the belfry to summon public gatherings, or to call aid to fight fires. Death, beyond doubt, if he rang it, but that was only a fair price to pay for expiation.

  His great arm flashed suddenly, sweeping the Princess from her feet and crashing her dainty figure violently against the wall. He heard her faint "O – o – oh" of pain as breath left her and she dropped slowly to her knees, but he was already upon the startled guard, thrusting him up and over the rail of the stair-well to drop with a sullen thumb below. And then he threw his weight on the bellrope, and the great voice of bronze boomed out, again, and again.

  But Black Margot was on her feet, with the green hell-sparks flickering in her eyes and her face a lovely mask of fury. Men came rushing up the stairs with drawn weapons, and Hull gave a last tug on the rope and turned to face death. Half a dozen weapons were on him.

  "No – no!" gasped the Princess, struggling for the breath he had knocked out of her. "Hold him – for me! Take him – to the barn!"

  She darted down the stairway, her graceful legs flashing bare, her bare feet padding softly. After her six grim Empire men thrust Hull past the dazed guard sitting on the lower steps and out into a night where blue beams flashed and shots and yells sounded.

  Behind the barn was comparative quiet, however, by the time Hull's captors had marched him there. A closepacked mass of dark figures huddled near the mouth of the ancient tunnel, where the bushes were trampled away, and a brown-clad file of Empire woods runners surrounded them. A few figures lay sprawled on the turf, and Hull smiled a little as he saw that some were Empire men. Then his eyes strayed to the Princess where she faced a dark-haired officer.

  "How many, Lebeau?"

  "A hundred and forty or fifty, Your Highness."

  "Not half! Why are you not pursuing the rest through the tunnel?"

  "Because, Your Highness, one of them pulled the shoring and the roof down upon himself, and blocked us off. We're digging him out now."

  "By then they'll have left their burrow. Where does this tunnel end?" She strode over to Hull. "Hull, where does this tunnel end?" At his silence, she added. "No matter. They'd be through it before we could reach it." She spun back. "Lebeau! Burn down what we have and the rest we'll stamp out as we can." A murmur ran through the crowd of villagers that was collecting, and her eyes, silvery green in the moonlight, flickered over them. "And any sympathizers," she added coldly. "Except this man, Hull Tarvish."

  File Ornison's great voice rumbled out of the mass of prisoners. "Hull! Hull! Was this trap your doing?"

  Hull made no answer, but Black Margot herself replied. "No," she snapped, "but the warning bell was."

  "Then why do you spare him?"

  Her eyes glittered icy green. "To kill in my own way, Weed," she said in tones so cold that it was as if a winter wind had sent a shivering breath across the spring night. "I have my own account to collect from him."

  Her eyes blazed chill emerald fire into Hull's. He met her glance squarely, and said in a low voice, "Do you grant any favors to a man about to die?"

  "Not by custom," she replied indifferently. "Is it the safety of the eldarch's daughter? I plan no harm to her."

  "It isn't that."

  "Then ask it – though I am not disposed to grant favors to you, Hull Tarvish, who have twice laid hands of violence on me."

  His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "It is the lives of my companions I ask."

  She raised here eyebrows in surprise, then shook her ebony flame of hair. "How can I? I remained here purposely to wipe them out. Shall I release the half I have, only to destroy them with the rest?"

  "I ask their lives," he repeated.

  A curious, whimsical fire danced green in her eves. "I will try," she promised, and turned to the officer, who was ranging his men so that the cross-fire of execution could not mow down his own ranks. "Lebeau!" she snapped. "Hold back a while."

  She strode into the gap between the prisoners and her own men. Hand on hip she surveyed the Harriers, while moonlight lent her beauty an aura that was incredible, unearthly. There in the dusk of night she seemed no demon at all, but a girl, almost a child, and even Hull, who had learned well enough what she was, could not but sweep fascinated eyes from her jet hair to her tiny white feet.

  "Now," she said, passing her glance over the group, on my promise of amnesty, how many of you would join me?"

  A stir ran through the mass. For a moment there was utter immobility, then, very slowly, two figures moved forward, and the stir became an angry murmur. Hull recognized the men; they were stragglers of the Confederation army, Ch'cago men, good fighters but merely mercenaries, changing sides as mood or advantage moved them. The murmur of the Harriers became an angry growl.

  "You two," said the Princess, "are you Ormiston men?"

  "No," said one. "Both of us come from the shores of Mitchin."

  "Very well," she proceeded calmly. With a movement swift as arrow flight she snatched the weapon from her belt, the blue beam spat twice, and the men crumpled, one with face burned carbon-black, and both sending forth an odorous wisp of flesh-seared smoke.

  She faced the aghast group. "Now," she said, "Who is your leader?"

  File Ormson stepped forth, scowling and grim. "What do you want of me?"

  "Will you treat with me? Will your men follow your agreements?"

  File nodded. "They have small choice."

  "Good. Now that I have sifted the traitors from your ranks – for I will not deal with traitors – I shall make my offer." She smiled at the squat ironsmith. "I think I've served both of us by so doing," she said softly, and Hull gasped as he perceived the sweetness of the glance she bent on the scowling File. "Would you, with your great muscles and warrior's heart, follow a woman?"

  The scowl vanished in surprise. "Follow you? You?"

  "Yes." Hull watched her in fascination as she used her voice, her eyes, her unearthly beauty intensified by the moonlight, all on hulking File Ormson, behind whom the Harrier prisoners stood tense and silent. "Yes, I mean to follow me," she repeated softly. "You are brave men, all of you, now that I have weeded out the two cowards." She smiled wistfully, almost tenderly at the squat figure before her. "And you – you are a warrior."

  "But–" File gulped, "our others–"

  "I promise you need not fight against your companions. I will release any of you who will not follow me. And your lands – it is your lands you fight for, is it not? I will not touch, not one acre save the eldarch's." She paused. "Well?"

  Suddenly File's booming laugh roared out. "By God!" he swore. "If you mean what you say, there's nothing to fight about! For my part, I'm with you!" He turned on his men. "Who follows me?"

  The group stirred. A few stepped forward, then a few more, and then, with a shout, the whole mass. "Good!" roared File. He raised his great hard hand to his heart in the Empire salute. "To Black – to the Princess Margaret!" he bellowed. "To a warrior!"


  She smiled and dropped her eyes as if in modesty. When the cheer had passed, she addressed File Ormson again. "You will send men to your others?" she asked. "Let them come in on the same terms."

  "They'll come!" growled File.

  The Princess nodded. "Lebeau," she called, "order off your men. These are our allies."

  The Harriers began to separate, drifting away with the crowd of villagers. The Princess stepped close to Hull, smiling maliciously up into his perplexed face. He scarcely knew whether to be glad or bitter, for indeed, though she had granted his request to spare his companions, she had granted it only at the cost of the destruction of the cause for which he had sacrificed everything. There were no Harriers any more, but he was still to die for them.

  "Will you die happy now?" she cooed softly.

  "No man dies happy," he growled.

  "I granted your wish, Hull."

  "If your promises can be trusted," he retorted bitterly. "You lied coolly enough to the Ch'cago men, and you made certain they were not loved by the Harriers before you killed them."

  She shrugged. "I lie, I cheat, I swindle by whatever means comes to hand," she said indifferently, "but I do not break my given word. The Harriers are safe."

  Beyond her, men came suddenly from the tunnel mouth, dragging something dark behind them.

  "The Weed who pulled down the roof, Your Highness," said Lebeau.

  She glanced behind her, and pursed her dainty lips in surprise. "The eldarch! The dotard died bravely enough." Then she shrugged. "He had but a few more years anyway."

  But Vail slipped by with a low moan of anguish, and Hull watched her kneel desolately by her father's body. A spasm of pity shook him as he realized that now she was utterly, completely alone. Enoch had died in the ambush of the previous night, old Marcus lay dead here before her, and he was condemned to death. The three who loved her and the man she loved – all slain in two nights passing. He bent a slow, helpless, pitying smile on her, but there was nothing he could do or say.

  And Black Margot, after the merest glance, turned back to Hull, "Now," she said, the ice in her voice again, "I deal with you!"

  He faced her dumbly. "Will you have the mercy to deal quickly, then?" he muttered at last.

  "Mercy? I do not know the word where you're concerned, Hull. Or rather I have been already too merciful. I spared your life three times – once at Joaquin's request at Eaglefoot Flow, once before the guardhouse, and once up there in the hallway." She moved closer. "I cannot bear the touch of violence, Hull, and you have laid violent hands on me twice. Twice!"

  "Once was to save your life," he said, "and the other to rectify my own unwitting treason. And I spared your life three times too, Black Margot – once when I aimed from the church roof, once from the ambush in the west chamber, and once but a half hour ago, for I could have killed you with this fist of mine, had I wished to strike hard enough. I owe you nothing."

  She smiled coldly. "Well argued, Hull, but you die none the less in the way I wish." She turned. "Back to the house!" she commanded, and he strode away between the six guards who still flanked him.

  She led them into the lower room that had been the Master's. There she sat idly in a deep chair of ancient craftsmanship, lit a black cigarette at the lamp, and thrust her slim legs carelessly before her, gazing at Hull. But he, staring through the window behind her, could see the dark blot that was Vail Ormiston weeping beside the body of her father.

  "Now," said the Princess, "how would you like to die, Hull.

  Of old age!" he snapped. "And if you will not permit that, then as quickly as possible."

  "I might grant the second," she observed. "I might."

  The thought of Vail was still torturing him. At last he said, "Your Highness, is your courage equal to the ordeal of facing me alone? I want to ask something that I will not ask in others' ears."

  She laughed contemptuously. "Get out," she snapped at the silent guards. "Hull, do you think I fear you? I tell you your great muscles and stubborn heart are no more than those of Eblis, the black stallion. Must I prove it again to you?"

  "No," he muttered. "God help me, but I know it's true. I'm not the match for Black Margot."

  "Nor is any other man," she countered. Then, more softly, "But if ever I do meet the man who can conquer me, if ever he exists, he will have something of you in him, Hull. Your great, slow strength, and your stubborn honesty, and your courage. I promise that." She paused, her face now pure as a marble saint's. "So say what you have to say, Hull. What do you ask?"

  "My life," he said bluntly.

  Her green eyes widened in surprise. "You, Hull? You beg your life? You?"

  "Not for myself," he muttered. "There's Vail Ormiston weeping over her father. Enoch, who would have married her and loved her, is dead in last night's ambush, and if I die, she's left alone. I ask my life for her."

  "Her troubles mean nothing to me," said Margaret of N'Orleans coldly.

  "She'll die without someone – someone to help her through this time of torment."

  "Let her die, then. Why do you death-bound cling so desperately to life, only to age and die anyway? Sometimes I myself would welcome death, and I have infinitely more to live for than you. Let her die, Hull, as I think you'll die in the next moment or so!"

  Her hand rested on the stock of the weapon at her belt. "I grant your second choice," she said coolly. "The quick death."

  CHAPTER TEN

  OLD EINAR AGAIN

  BLACK MARGOT GROUND out her cigarette with her left hand against the polished wood of the table top, but her right rested inexorably on her weapon. Hull knew beyond doubt or question that he was about to die, and for a moment he considered the thought of dying fighting, of being blasted by the beam as he flung himself at her. Then he shook his head; he revolted at the idea of again trying violence on the exquisite figure he faced, who, though witch or demon, had the passionless purity and loveliness of divinity. It was easier to die passively, simply losing his thoughts in the glare of her unearthly beauty.

  She spoke. "So die, Hull Tarvish," she said gently, and drew the blunt weapon.

  A voice spoke behind him, a familiar, pleasant voice. "Do I intrude, Margaret?"

  He whirled. It was Old Einar, thrusting his goodhumored, wrinkled visage through the opening he had made in the doorway. He grinned at Hull, flung the door wider, and slipped into the room.

  "Einar!" cried the Princess, springing from her chair. "Einar Olin! Are you still in the world?" Her tones took on suddenly the note of deep pity. "But so old – so old!"

  The old man took her free hand. "it is forty years since last I saw you, Margaret – and I was fifty then,"

  "But so old!" she repeated. "Einar, have I changed?"

  He peered at her. "Not physically, my dear. But from the stories that go up and down the continent, you are hardly the gay madcap that N'Orleans worshipped as the Princess Peggy, nor even the valiant little warrior they used to call the Maid Of Orleans."

  She had forgotten Hull, but the guards visible through the half open door still blocked escape. He listened fascinated, for it was almost as if he saw a new Black Margot.

  "Was I ever the Princess Peggy?" she murmured. "I had forgotten – Well, Martin Sair can stave off age but he cannot halt the flow of time. But Einar – Einar, you were wrong to refuse him!"

  "Seeing you, Margaret, I wonder instead if I were not very wise. Youth is too great a restlessness to bear for so long a time, and you have borne it less than a century. What will you be in another fifty years? In another hundred, if Martin Sair's art keeps its power? What will you be?"

  She shook her head; her green eyes grew deep and sorrowful. "I don't know, Einar. I don't know."

  "Well," he said placidly, "I am old, but I am contented. I wonder if you can say as much."

  "I might have been different, Einar, had you joined us. I could have loved you, Einar."

  "Yes," he agreed wryly. "I was afraid of that, and it was one of the reasons for my re
fusal. You see, I did love you, Margaret, and I chose to outgrow the torture rather than perpetuate it. That was a painful malady, loving you, and it took all of us at one time or another. 'Flame-struck', we used to call it." He smiled reflectively. "Are any left save me of all those who loved you?"

  "Just Jorgensen," she answered sadly. "That is if he has not yet killed himself in his quest for the secret of the Ancient's wings. But he will."

  "Well," said Olin dryly, "my years will yet make a mock of their immortality." He pointed a gnarled finger at Hull. "What do you want of my young friend here?"

  Her eyes flashed emerald, and she drew her hand from that of Old Einar. "I plan to kill him."

  "Indeed? And why?"

  "Why?" Her voice chilled. "Because he struck me with his hands. Twice."

  The old man smiled. "I shouldn't wonder if he had cause enough, Margaret. Memory tells me that I myself have had the same impulse."

  "Then it's well you never yielded, Einar. Even you."

  "Doubtless. But I think I shall ask you to forgive young Hull Tarvish."

  "You know his name! Is he really your friend?"

  Old Einar nodded. "I ask you to forgive him."

  "Why should I?" asked the Princess. "Why do you think a word from you can save him?"

  "I am still Olin," said the aged one, meeting her green eyes steadily with his watery blue ones. "I still carry Joaquin's seal."

  "As if that could stop me!" But the cold fire died slowly in her gaze, and again her eyes were sad. "But you are still Olin, the Father of Power," she murmured. With a sudden gesture she thrust her weapon back into her belt. "I spare him again," she said, and then, in tones gone strangely dull, "I suppose I wouldn't have killed him anyway. It is a weakness of mine that I cannot kill those who love me in a certain way – a weakness that will cost me dear some day."

  Olin twisted his lips in that skull-like smile, turning to the silent youth. "Hull," he said kindly, "you must have been born under fortunate stars. But if you're curious enough to tempt your luck further, listen to this old man's advice." His smile became a grin. "Beyond the western mountains there are some very powerful, very rare hunting cats called lions, which Martin Sair says are not native to this continent, but were brought here by the Ancients to be caged and gazed at, and occasionally trained. As to that I know nothing, but I do say this, Hull – go twist the tail of a lion before you again try the wrath of Black Margot. And now get out of here."