Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  His gaze flicked Yarol’s with a lightning message more eloquent than a warning shout. It sent a joyous quiver of tautening along the little Venusian’s body, and both men’s gun hands dropped to their sides with simultaneous casualness.

  Smith said: “Return us to Joiry and I’ll get the stone for you. Here—no.”

  That black glare of murder shifted from Jirel to Smith, bathing him in hatred.

  “Take it from her now—or die!”

  A smothered sound like the snarl of an angry beast halted Smith’s reflexive snatch at his gun. Past him Jirel lunged, her red hair streaming with stars, her fingers flexed into claws as she leaped barehanded at the warlock. Rage had drowned out her momentary terror, and soldier’s curses tumbled blistering from her lips as she sprang.

  Franga stepped back; his hand moved intricately and between him and the charging fury the starlight thickened—solidified into a sheet like heavy glass. Jirel dashed herself against it and was hurled back as if she had plunged into a stone wall. The silvery mist of the barrier dissolved as she reeled back, gasping with rage, and Franga laughed thinly.

  “I am in my own place now, vixen,” he told her. “I do not fear you or any man here. It is death to refuse me—bloody death. Give me the stone.”

  “I’ll tear you to rags with my bare nails!” sobbed Joiry. “I’ll have the eyes out of your head, you devil! Ha—even here you fear me! Come out from behind your rampart and let me slay you!”

  “Give me the stone.” The wizard’s voice was calm.

  “Return us all to Joiry and I think she’ll promise to let you have it.” Smith fixed a meaning stare upon Jirel’s blazing yellow eyes. She shrugged off the implied advice furiously.

  “Never! Yah—wait!” She leaped to Yarol’s side and, as he shied nervously away, his eyes mistrustfully on her pointed nails, snatched from his belt the small knife he carried. She set the blade against the full, high swell of her bosom and laughed in Franga’s face. “Now—kill me if you can!” she taunted, her face a blaze of defiance. “Make one move to slay me—and I slay myself! And the jewel is lost to you for ever!”

  Franga bit his lip and stared at her through the mist of stars, fury glaring in his eyes. There was no hesitancy in her, and he knew it. She would do as she threatened, and——

  “The stone had no virtue if not taken by violence or given freely,” he admitted. “Lifted from a suicide’s corpse, it would lose all value to anyone. I will bargain with you then, Joiry.”

  “You’ll not! You’ll set me free or lose the jewel for ever.”

  Franga turned goaded eyes on Smith. “Either way I lose it, for once in her own land Joiry would die before surrendering it, even as she would here. You! Fulfill your bargain—get me the Starstone!” Smith shrugged. “Your meddling’s spoiled everything now. There’s little I can do.”

  The angry black eyes searched his for a long moment, evil crawling in their deeps. They flicked to Yarol. Both men stood on the spongy ground with feet braced, bodies balanced in the easy tautness which characterizes the gunman, hands light on their weapons, eyes very steady, very deadly. They were too very dangerous men, and Smith realized that even here Franga was taking no chances with their strange weapons. Behind them Jirel snarled like an angry cat, her fingers flexing themselves involuntarily. And suddenly the wizard shrugged.

  “Stay here then, and rot!” he snapped, swinging his cloak so that the stars swirled about him in a blinding shower. “Stay here and starve and thirst until you’ll surrender. I’ll not bargain with you longer.”

  THEY blinked in the sudden eddy of that starry mist, and when their vision cleared the bent black figure had vanished. Blankly they looked at one another through the drifting stars.

  “Now what?” said Yarol. “Shar, but I could drink! Why did he have to mention thirst?”

  Smith blinked about him in the swirling brightness. For once he was utterly at a loss. The wizard had every advantage over them in this dim, blinding out-land where his god reigned supreme.

  “Well, what have we to lose?” he shrugged at last. He’s not through with us, but there’s nothing we can do. I’m for exploring a bit, anyhow.”

  Yarol raked the starry dark with a dubious gaze. “We couldn’t be worse off,” he admitted.

  “Comment?” demanded Jirel, suspicious eyes shifting from one to the other. Smith said briefly,

  “We’re going to explore. Franga’s got some trick in mind, we think. We’d be fools to wait here for him to come back. We—oh, wait!” He snapped his fingers involuntarily and turned a startled face on the surprized two. The Gateway! He knew the spell that opened it—Franga had taught him that. Why not voice the invocation now and see what happened? He drew a quick breath and opened his mouth to speak—and then faltered with the remembered words fading from his very tongue-tip. His fingers rose halfheartedly in the intricate gestures of the spell, groping after the vanished memory as if it could be plucked out of the star-misted air. No use. His mind was as blank of the magical remembrance as if it had never been. Franga’s magic worked well indeed.

  “Are you crazy?” demanded Yarol, regarding his hesitating ally with an amazed gaze. Smith grinned ruefully.

  “I thought I had an idea,” he admitted. “But it’s no good. Come on.”

  The spongy ground was wicked to walk on. They stumbled against one another, swearing in a variety of tongues at the blinding air they groped through, the hard going under foot, the wretched uncertainty that kept their eyes scanning the dazzle as they walked.

  It was Jirel who first caught sight of the shrunken brown thing. Indeed, she almost stumbled over it, a mummified body, curled up on its side so that its bony knees nearly touched the brown fleshless forehead. Smith turned at her little gasp, saw the thing, and paused to bend over it wonderingly.

  It was not pleasant to see. The skin, stretched tightly over the bony frame, was parchment-brown, hideously rough in texture, almost as if the hide of some great lizard had been stretched over the skeleton of a man. The face was hidden, but the hands were slender claws, whitish in places where the granulated skin had been stripped from the bone. Wisps of straw-like hair still clung to the wrinkled scalp.

  “Well, come along,” said Yarol impatiently. “Certainly he can’t help us, or harm us either.”

  Silently assenting, Smith swung on his heel. But some instinct—the little tingling danger-note that whispers in the back of a spaceman’s head—made him turn. The position of the recumbent figure had changed. Its head was lifted, and it was staring at him with swollen, glazed eyes.

  Now the thing should have been dead. Smith knew that, somehow, with a dreadful certainty. The face was a brown skull-mask, with a vaguely canine cast, and the nose, although ragged and eaten away in places, protruded with a shocking resemblance to a beast’s muzzle.

  The limbs of the horror twitched and moved slowly, and the skeletal, tattered body arose. It dragged itself forward among the whirling star-motes, and instinctively Smith recoiled. There was something so unutterably dreary about it, despite the dreadful attitude of hunger that thrust its beast’s head forward, that he sickened a little as he stared. From Jirel came a little cry of repugnance, quickly muffled.

  “We’d better get out of here,” said Smith harshly.

  Yarol did not speak for a moment. Then he murmured,

  “There are more of the things, N. W. See?”

  HIDDEN by the starry mists close to the ground, the ghastly things must have been closing in upon them with that hideous dreary slowness for the past several minutes. They came on, scores of them veiled in stars, moving with a dreadful deliberation, and none of them stood upright. From all sides they were converging, and the dancing motes lent them a curious air of nightmare unreality, like carven gargoyles seen through a fog.

  For the most part they came on hands and knees, withered brown skull-faces and glaring bulbous eyes staring blindly at the three. For it seemed to Smith that the beings were blind; the swollen eyes wer
e quite whitish and pupilless. There was nothing about them that savored of the breathing flesh which they so hideously caricatured save the terrible hunger of their approach, made doubly hideous by the fact that those rotting jaws and parchment-dry bellies could never satisfy it by any normal means.

  The deformed muzzles of some of them were twitching, and Smith realized abruptly what instinct had led them here. They hunted, apparently, by scent. And their circle was closing in, so that the three humans, recoiling before that creeping, dryly rustling approach, stood very close together now, shoulder to shoulder. Smith felt the girl shudder against him, and then give him a swift sidelong glance, hot with anger that she should have betrayed weakness even for a moment.

  A little hesitantly he drew his heat-gun. There was something a bit incongruous about the very thought of shooting at these already dead things. But they were coming closer, and the prospect of contact with those brown, scaling bodies was so repulsive that his finger pressed the trigger almost of its own volition.

  One of the approaching horrors toppled over, the left arm completely burned from its body. Then it regained its balance and crawled onward with a crab-like sidewise motion, the severed arm forgotten behind it, although the skeleton fingers writhed and clawed convulsively. The creature made no outcry, and no blood flowed from the wound.

  “Shar!” breathed Yarol. “Can’t they—die?” His gun jarred and bucked in his hand. The head of the nearest horror became a blackened, cindery stub, but the thing betrayed no pain. It crawled on slowly, the nimbus of swirling stars like a malefic halo about the burned remnant of a head.

  “Yarol!” said Smith sharply. “Double strength—we’ll cut a path through them. Follow us, Jirel.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment he flicked over a lever on his heat-gun’s muzzle, and sent the searing ray flaming through the dark.

  The stars danced more swiftly, troubled. Smith sensed a quick, intangible menace in their aroused motion. It was as though something, drowsy and dreaming, had awakened suddenly from slumber to confront the intruders in this strange land. Yet nothing happened; the stars raced back from the heat-ray’s beam, but the crawling monsters paid it no attention, even though they blackened into cinders as they crept. The dry, rustling hordes of them advanced straight into the heat-gun’s path, and crisped into ruin—and crunched under the feet of their destroyers into fragments that twitched and squirmed with unquenchable animation too hideous to be called life.

  Yarol and Smith and Jirel moved forward over brittle black things that still moved and crunched and crept beneath their feet. The two heat-guns hissed softly, mowing a path. Jirel’s yellow eyes dwelt speculatively on Smith’s brawny back, and once she touched Yarol’s dagger sheathed at her side. But she made no hostile move.

  So they won free at last from the withered brown horrors, although until the thickening star-mist hid them Smith could see the nightmare horde crawling behind them, slowly, inexorably. And ever the stars danced and swung in their oddly patterned orbits, seeming to watch with detached and sardonic amusement as the three moved on.

  The misty brilliance thickened about them sometimes until they could not see each other’s faces; sometimes it thinned so that distances were visible, long corridors of emptiness stretched through the stars. Along one of these aisles at last they caught a glimpse of rising ground, and turned toward it in some hopeless hope of escape.

  The spongy earth became firmer as they advanced, until by the time they reached the upland they were walking on black, splintered rock from which a sort of star-veiled mountain rose into the misty upper air. Here the stars thickened about them again, so that they could see nothing, but they stumbled up the jagged slope blindly, clutching at the rock with slipping fingers as they helped one another from ledge to ledge.

  In Smith, as he mounted the difficult slopes, a fever of exploration had begun to burn so hotly that their danger retired to the back of his mind. What lay ahead, what unimaginable heights rearing among the stars, what lands beyond the mountain? He was not to know, then or ever.

  THE slope had grown steeper and more rugged at every step. There was no progress save by painful climbing. And now, as Smith braced his back against a rocky outcropping, straining upward to his full height as he supported Yard’s scrambling boots which a moment before had left his shoulders, his arms encountered a queer, thick obstruction in the starry mist overhead. Full of the desire to know what lay ahead, his mind intent on helping Yard to a foothold above, he scarcely heeded it until the obstruction had thickened until he could hardly move his hands.

  Then the shock of memory jarred him sickeningly awake as he recalled the wall of mist that had solidified between Franga and Jirel. He moved with whiplash swiftness to jerk his arms down, but not quite swiftly enough. That thickening mist had turned to strong steel about his wrists, and after a moment of surging struggle against it, while the veins stood out on his forehead and the blood thundered in his ears, he relaxed against the stone, stretched painfully to full height so that he almost swung from his prisoned wrists, and blinked about him in the dazzling dim air, searching for Franga.

  He knew now, with a sick regretfulness, that danger had never been farther from them in the mist than they had been from one another. Franga must have moved invisibly at their sides, waiting patiently for the men’s hands to stretch far enough from their guns so that his shackles could prison them before they could reach the weapons. Well, he had them now.

  From above, Yarol’s voice, muffled in the starry mist, spoke passionately of gods and devils. Smith heard boots thrashing upon the rock and realized that, the little Venusian must be struggling with bonds like his own. As for himself, he stood spread-eagled with his back to the mountain and his face to the starry void, boots braced on a long slope of rising stone.

  He saw Jirel’s back as she loitered below them on the slope, waiting for their call that the next highest ledge had been reached. He said quietly, “Joiry!” and met her gaze with a small, rueful grin.

  “Well—what?” She was at his side before the question was out of her mouth, a blaze smoldering in her yellow eyes as she saw what had happened. Then she said viciously, “Good! This comes of trafficking with warlocks! May you hang there till you rot!”

  “Heh!” came a dry chuckle from behind her. “He’ll do just that, Joiry, if he doesn’t obey my commands!” Franga came shuffling up the slope, emerging from the stars as from a thick fog, his malice-bright eyes gloating on the prisoned men. From above, Yarol’s voice poured smoking Venusian curses upon the wizard’s unheeding head.

  Jirel matched his fervor with a hot French oath and spun toward Franga purposefully. He smiled crookedly and stepped back, his hands weaving in the air between them. And once more the cloudy barrier thickened in the dimness. Through it, in a triumphant voice, Franga called to Smith,

  “Now will you fulfill your bargain and wrest the jewel from Jirel?”

  Smith pressed his head back against the stone and said wearily,

  “Not until you return us to Joiry.” The warlock’s eyes were on his, and in the baffled fury glaring there he thought he read suddenly the full reason why they had been brought here. Franga had no thought of paying the debt he had contracted, nor of letting any of the three escape alive. Once the stone was surrendered they would die here, in some unimaginable way, and their bones would whiten until Judgment Day in the darkness at the mountain’s foot. Their only hope of salvation lay in their ability to bargain with Franga over the Starstone. So he shut his lips on the refusal and shifted his shoulders to ease his already aching arms. The weight of the gun on his leg was a tantalization almost unbearable, so near and yet so hopelessly far from his shackled hands.

  Franga said: “I think I can change your mind.”

  His hands behind the barrier moved cryptically, and there came a stirring in the stars that danced between him and Smith. They moved as if fireflies were swarming there, moved toward Smith and swirled about him dizzyingly, blindingly, so that the ey
e despaired of following their motion. They turned into streaks of flame spinning about him, and now the nearest brushed across his cheek.

  At the touch he started involuntarily, jerking back his head from the flame. For it was hot with a heat that sent pain stabbing deeper than a ray-burn through his flesh. Above him he heard Yarol’s sharply caught breath, and knew that the hot pain was upon him too. He set his teeth and stared through the swirl at the warlock, his eyes pale and deadly. The spinning flames closed in, brushing his body with scores of tiny tongues, And at every touch the white-hot pain of their torment leaped through him until it seemed to him that every inch of his body flamed with deep-running agony.

  THROUGH the blinding pain and the blinding shimmer Franga’s voice rasped, “Will you do my bidding?” Stubbornly Smith shook his head, clinging even in the hot torture of the flames to the desperate hope which was all that remained to him—that so long as Franga had not the Starstone he dared not kill them. Smith had endured pain before; he could endure it now long enough to hold Franga to his bargain.

  And Yarol must endure it with him for a while. The Venusian had a shameless sort of bravery against physical pain for the simple reason that he could not endure it, quietly fainted and was out of it if called upon to suffer long. Smith hoped he reached that point soon. He said, “No,” shortly, between clenched teeth, and pressed his head back against the rock, feeling sweat gather on his forehead as the flashing streaks of flame seared by him, every touch sending deep agony flaming through his flesh.

  Franga laughed in a brief, hard cackle and gestured with one hand. And the star-swirls began to flash like knives before Smith’s eyes. If they had flamed before, now they dazzled too blindingly to follow. The deep, hot torture of their flickering roared over him in a storm of agony, so that the torment wiped out all thought of Franga or Jirel or Yarol or anything but his own racked flesh flaming with ray-hot pain. He did not know that his fists were clenched above the shackles, or that the muscles stood out in ridges along his jaws as he fought to keep the agony voiceless behind his teeth. The world was a hell of unbearable torment that swept him on a white-hot tide of pain deep into blazing oblivion. He did not even feel the drag on his wrists as his knees gave way beneath him.