Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  There, for Don and Peter, the communication ended, though they knew that further knowledge was being given to Gorg Merlo. Finally, the mist lifted, and the little man’s face was wreathed with smiles.

  “What weapons do you desire, Don Steele?” he asked. “And you, Peter Northam?”

  Don hesitated. “I suppose an automatic pistol would be best. But where—”

  “Picture it!” came the curt command. Immediately he centered his thoughts on an automatic and a belt of cartridges—and as quick as thought the weapon hung in a holster fastened to a belt about his waist—created by the King of Thought! “Can you beat that!” he exclaimed. “Mind over matter—and how!”

  The Englishman shook his head. “I want nothing but the ‘The Smiter’, brother Gorg,” he said slowly.

  “Very well, then; and now a weapon for me.” With the thought there appeared hanging from the little man’s wrist, at the end of a slender chain, a short black tube with a crystal ball at its free end. Another creation of the Great Brain!

  “I think a slight change of costume will aid us when we reach the Black Pit.” Suddenly each of their skull caps was transformed. A short black rod ran through it, like a supporting ridge of metal, with a crystal ball at its front end. It was an exact replica of the little man’s weapon.

  “Finally, food and drink.” Don felt a sudden weight pressing on his back; knew it to be a knapsack; and he saw one appear simultaneously on the backs of Gorg and Peter. At their sides dangled a canteen, each fashioned according to the mode of their respective ages.

  “We are equipped for a great venture, brothers,” Gorg Merlo concluded. “We are guarded against—some things; but in others lies peril. Upon us may rest the fate of this civilization! We have been honored by the White Brains—yet in a sense are but pawns of the Black Ones—and we have a difficult task to perform! Let us go.”

  Wordlessly they passed through the circular opening that appeared before them as suddenly as it had vanished; then stopped short, eyes wide with wonder. For the pale blue, polished streets were completely deserted.

  “I’ God’s name, this is a queer place!” Peter cried. “Wither have the men gone?”

  Dan laughed shortly. “Vanished, of course. Phantoms!”

  And Gorg Merlo’s piping voice concluded: “Th’ Keep’r w’s done with ’em, ’n they van’sh’d. He want’d freed’m ’f mind t’ read our tho’ts—b’t he can’t do ’t, ev’n now!”

  Silence fell over them then, and they made their way through the brilliant, colorfully lighted streets, almost without sound. Reaching the pale blue wall at last, Gorg Merlo again communicated with them: “This wall could not be penetrated without the permission of every White Brain. If but one objected, it would remain impassable.” Apparently there was no objection, for an instant later they passed through the barrier, and as Don and Gorg had entered the city, so the three left it. Together, they set foot on the sheet of broken ice, tinted red by the rays of the setting, dying sun.

  CHAPTER IV

  A Night of Madness

  THE darkness of night had fallen over the frozen world. Overhead, in the blue-black canopy of sky, twinkled countless stars—but there were no familiar constellations. Don noted this in wonder; it indicated an age so remote that even the socalled “fixed” stars had changed position!

  In the east the moon was slowly rising—but a moon slightly smaller, more distant, than Don was accustomed to seeing; and the hidden sun tinted it, as it had the daylight sky, with its crimson rays. As it appeared, the wild grandeur of the ice field leaped into ragged relief. Long black shadows were cast by the fantastic ice hummocks that reared their heads toward the sky, like the towering ruins of Karnak, or the immense statues on Easter Island. Shorter masses of crystal stood all about—a frozen army clad in armor of ice.

  For more than an hour Don Steele, Peter Northam, and Gorg Merlo had been threading their slow way across the frozen plain. The wind howled past them incessantly, but thanks to their apparel, they did not feel the cold.

  “Think you not, brothers,” Peter Northam spoke after a long silence, “that it would be better to await the day? In this mad place there can be naught to guide us. And what matter a few short hours?”

  “We are guided by the King of Thought, Peter,” Gorg Merlo replied. “Our path is clear. If there were no need of haste I would gladly rest, for my body is Weakest of the three—but speed is necessary. Besides, I fear that the Keeper of the Time Sphere will not permit us to go on unmolested; it will require endless vigilance on our part to thwart his plans. I think, since the Great Brain has commanded that we all go to the Black City, the Keeper does not want us to reach it. In fact, I know that such is the case.”

  “Right, as usual,” Don agreed. “I don’t trust that gray bird one little bit.” Silent then, they moved on across the shadowed wilderness, Peter Northam plodding stolidly, tirelessly; Gorg Merlo moving ahead with evident discomfort; and Don Steele swinging along with strong, athletic strides.

  After a time their way led through a deep, wide gully in the ice. Rough, white walls loomed up on either side of them; only random rays of moonlight filtered down to dispel the shadows. They moved warily, feeling their way, Peter Northam still in the lead.

  “Flash your light, Peter!” Gorg Merlo directed. “Foolish to grope through the darkness. Press the back of the rod in your cap.”

  But the Englishman ignored him; with a sudden hoarse gasp he stopped short. “Brothers,” he said slowly, “me-thinks the devil himself has been loosed from hell, and has come to plague us! I’ God’s name, dost see what lies before us?” He pointed into the darkness.

  Don Steele stared—involuntarily muttered a curse. Instinctively his hand fell to the butt of his automatic. “What—what is it?”

  Out of the shadows had crawled a shape, a monstrous thing like nothing any of them had ever seen. There was no resemblance to a body—only an upright mound of writhing, inch-thick cords like drab, white worms, that wound and twisted in and out incessantly! It moved toward them with an awful, gushing sound. As it approached the motionless three, they saw by a phosphorescent glow that; came from the thing that every inch of its countless, twisting cords was dotted with tiny sucker-discs, opening and closing hungrily!

  With a sharp exclamation Don Steele whipped out his automatic and emptied it into the monstrosity. At the same instant Peter Northam lashed out with his sword, cutting completely through the glowing horror. And it vanished!

  “HAVE you forgotten the men thronging the streets of the White City?” Gorg Merlo inquired with dry humor in his thought. “Do not waste energy on a phantom! That is only the beginning; the Keeper will do all in his power to prevent our reaching the Black Ones, now that he cannot control us, and cannot read our thoughts. Come.” He moved on through the gully.

  “Thunder of God!” Peter muttered disgustedly as he flashed his light through the darkness. “In England worms are worms. And they stay in the earth where they belong! In very sooth, here all is wildest madness.”

  Don was silent, as, mechanically, he put another clip into his pistol. And in silence they continued their journey. The nerves of at least two of the three were tautened, and their minds were filled with tense expectancy. Arriving at the end of the gully, they moved on across the ice field. Since it was no longer needed, the Englishman extinguished his light.

  Don’s mind was in a chaotic state; something was stirring his thoughts into a turmoil. Memories of his life before his journey through the time currents passed before him in orderly rows; after them came disconnected pictures of his present almost incredible adventures. And through it all, like the insidious writhing of a venomous snake, moved a note of dread, an unearthly fear of what the future would hold. Instinctively he shook off the unnatural sensation, but it returned with increasing force. Perhaps he had better turn and flee from the menace before him! Turn . . . run like a madman!

  But before he ran, he’d better kill his two companions! Kill them at
once, the vile traitors! They were conspiring against him—intended destroying him—fool that he had not realized it before! Shoot them in the back, that’s what he’d do—then run, run to safety!

  “Don Steele! Don Steele!” Through the growing veil of unreasoning fear and mad anger he dimly sensed his name. Something—someone was driving the thought into his brain. Why—that was Gorg Merlo! . . . Abruptly a tangible weight seemed to be lifted from his mind. He laughed shortly, bitterness and revulsion in his voice. “Almost had me that time! Murder you, then run—hell!”

  “God’s body!” Peter Northam mumbled. “You too? Almost I drew my sword to slay you, then turned and ran like a cowardly milksop! Pah! I grow as mad as this world; and my blood is turning to water in my veins!”

  The thoughts of Gorg Merlo reached them. “You must be on guard constantly. The Keeper cannot read our thoughts, but unless we strive to prevent it, he can force his thoughts into our minds. Now, thwarted in that, he will try something else.”

  At that instant, almost as though it were a direct answer to the thought, a great gray cloud obscured the face of the moon and much of the sky. It appeared out of nowhere and cast a cloak of thick darkness over the jagged ice sheet.

  “Do not stop!” Gorg Merlo warned. “Lights, then your hand on my shoulder, Don, and yours, Peter, on his! Follow!”

  Before they could obey, all about them countless tongues of scarlet flame flashed into being, springing out of the ice. They leaped and danced like sentient things; they sprang high into the air; they ran along the ice in rivulets of light. And before the three appeared a barrier of flame, its scarlet tongues licking out toward them hungrily!

  With unfaltering stride Gorg Merlo approached it—and it retreated before him!

  From the farthest ends of the frozen wilderness came the flame demons, leaping from ice hummock to towering pinnacle; flowing over the level places like sheets of scarlet water—and all poured into the barrier. Higher and higher it grew, wider and wider it spread, until it towered above the three Time Exiles like a mountain of living fire. All about, the sky and ice were aglow with the scarlet light—but light that radiated no heat.

  Toward this gigantic wall of flame the three continued with their pace unaltered. But now it did not retreat; rather did it advance slowly to meet them. No Sign of perturbation came from Gorg Merlo; Don Steele’s jaws Were clamped together in defiance; and behind him, the Englishman muttered: “By the saints, I like this not at all!” Now they had reached the scarlet terror—were within it—and it was gone! And with it vanished the cloud that obscured the moon.

  “He is trying mightily to stop us,” Gorg Merlo commented with relief, “but he will have to do better than that.”

  “WELL,” Don said slowly, “I’ll have to admit that the old Gray Brain has some tricks in his bag.”

  “Verily, brother Don,” Peter Northam agreed fervently. “I make no doubt, were I alone, I would even now be breaking my neck on this treacherous ice, so rapidly would I be fleeing!” He sighed lugubriously. “I grow cowardly, I fear.”

  “No, Peter—it is not cowardice. The things are so unusual that they destroy your mental stability.” Gorg Merlo paused. “But look; it seems that we will get very little rest.”

  The barrier of flame had reappeared in the distance, its brilliance somewhat dimmed now by the light of the moon. As the three watched, it divided itself into two equal parts; and each part, with the rapidity of thought, assumed the form of a gigantic scarlet pillar. A momentary pause—then from each pillar strode a colossal human figure clad in shimmering armor!

  Across the ice they stalked, two incredible creations, like the Hindu Juggernaut car, grinding the life from its worshippers. Each was more than a hundred feet in height, and covered from head to feet with a scale-like sheathing of polished coppery metal. Even their faces were concealed by conical hoods, only two narrow slits breaking their smoothness, where glittering eyes peered through.

  But the really terrifying features of the armored giants were their feet—if feet they could be called. At the knees the lower limbs began to widen gradually, until, when they reached what should have been the feet, they had become crushing masses of armor-covered flesh and bone, fully eight yards wide at the base! Nor were they elongated; they were rounded, hooflike. And the giants were striding over the ice toward Gorg, Don and Peter, grinding flat the hummocks in their way!

  “Remember,” the little man admonished, “they cannot harm us! Ignore them.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Don Steele exclaimed. “Well, I’d feel safer if they weren’t smashing the ice so thoroughly. I’m afraid my imagination is too active to permit me to convince myself that those babies are harmless! I think I’m going to take a couple of pot shots at their eyes.”

  The Englishman nodded. “Aye, brother; and a staunch bow with a few arrows would stand me in better stead now than ‘The Smiter’ !”

  “FOOLS!” Gorg Merlo cried shrilly. “Wit’ y’r fear y’ve giv’n ’em pow’r t’ harm ’s!”

  The enormous strides of the huge figures had brought them perilously close. Raising his automatic, Don aimed carefully at one of the narrow slits in a hood, and fired. At the same instant Gorg Merlo flung up the black tube with its spherical, crystal tip that dangled at his wrist. There came two incredibly brilliant flashes, a thunderous detonation, and—the giants were gone!

  With amazement and respect in their eyes, Don and Peter stared at the strange weapon. “What happened?”

  “I set up a rapid atomic disintegration in them, and it destroyed them instantly,” Gorg Merlo replied, then continued on another vein. “As you know, these creations of the Keeper have actual physical substance—but since they have no life, they can only act as their creator directs. However, if they are opposed by a fearless mind, they cannot follow his commands; after all, they are but tools. If you will remember that, we will have nothing to fear.”

  Again they resumed their journey. Occasionally one or the other spoke, but for the greater part of the time they were too busy with their thoughts for conversation.

  Mile after mile they plodded across the ice; hour after hour passed, while the red-tinted moon crept across the sky. And nothing occurred. Slowly the minds of Don Steele and Peter Northam were lulled into a sense of security; they decided that the Gray Brain had abandoned his efforts to keep them from the Black City. And when their vigilance had relaxed entirely, when their sense of security was complete, the Keeper launched his most formidable attack!

  One moment—orderly progress across the deserted ice. The next—pandemonium!

  Out of nowhere appeared an endless horde of phantoms, in form like the Time Exiles, but with their numbers multiplied a hundredfold. All were armed with weapons of their day; hairy, primordial brutes bore huge clubs or rough stone axes—armored warriors with sword or javelin or bow, with scimitar or mace—men with rifles—men with strange weapons unlike any Don had ever seen. Like the phantoms in the Kingdom of Thought they were silent; and now their silence seemed a terrifying thing; it but accentuated the ferocity of their bearing. And the three were in the midst of the horde!

  Across the ice to meet the phantom Time Exiles, slithered the monstrous army of the Black Brains. It was as though the spawn of Hell was vomiting out the unsealed pits of foulest night. Indescribable monstrosities of dead blackness—things of writhing tentacles, drooling viscid slime from horrifying, phosphorescent maws. Twisted, black abnormalities, like giant misshapen toads with glowing warts. Formless things—abominations that seemed to be foulness incarnate. Things of pale, naked phosphorescence with great, cold, glassy eyes that leered evilly, reflecting thoughts of infernal, sin-begotten madness. Gangrenous things, blotched with corruption; row upon row of living loathsomeness!

  Shocking in its unearthly horror though the vanguard of the phantom army was, that very unearthly quality helped to destroy the illusion of reality. But the ranks behind them—they were incredibly repulsive because of their very familiarity! Rank
upon rank they marched across the ice—forms that had no right to march! An army of the dead!

  For endless seconds Don and Peter watched the enemy’s approach, sick with horror, their eyes widened in amazement. Gone from their minds was all that Gorg Merlo had ever told them; gone even was the fact of his existence. Then suddenly the hordes of Gray Brain and Black crashed together; and Don and Peter were in the thick of the fray.

  “Back to back, brother!” the Englishman cried; and a joyous shout rang from his lips as he whipped out his sword. “We know not friend from foe!”

  “RIGHT!” Don’s automatic was in his hand as, back against that of Northam, he faced the attacking hordes.

  All was confusion. The ill-assorted forces of the Keeper flung themselves into the battle with utter abandon; and the nightmare army of the Black Brains battled with equal ferocity. The shapeless things of evil slithered back and forth, jitteringly, maddeningly, and engulfing every foe they touched. Their voices were the only ones raised during the struggle.

  In an instant Don and Peter were lost in a mad melee of whirling, thrusting weapons. Blades of the past darted at them; weapons of their future sent torrents of fire cascading on every side, sent balls of singing light hissing toward the enemy, sent stabbing, searing rays through phantom Time Exiles!

  Don’s automatic crashed again and again; and Peter’s great sword hummed about his head in a halo of light, cutting down his attackers like trees in a tornado. There was no time for thought; reason vanished in the utter madness of the combat. A red haze settled over Don’s mind—a fiery screen in which danced a multitude of devils that must be killed, killed, killed!