Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  He put the priest down gently, but nevertheless the man moaned in agony. The maimed hands clutched at air.

  “Ahmon! Great Ahmon . . . give me more water!”

  Eblik obeyed. Strengthened, the priest fumbled for and gripped Raynor’s arm.

  “You are strong. Good! Strength is needed for the mission you must undertake.”

  “Mission?”

  The priest’s fingers tightened. “Aye; Ahmon guided your steps hither. You must be the messenger of vengeance. Not I. I have not long to live. My strength ebbs . . .

  He was silent for a time, and then resumed, “I have a tale to tell you. Do you know the legend of the founding of Sardopolis? How, long ago, a very terrible god had his altar in this spot, and was served by all the forest dwellers . . . till those who served Ahmon came? They fought and prisoned the forest god, drove him hence to the Valley of Silence, and he lies bound there by strong magic and the seal of Ahmon. Yet there was a prophecy that one day Ahmon would be overthrown, and the bound god would break his fetters and return to his first dwelling place, to the ruin of Sardopolis. The day of the prophecy is at hand!”

  The priest pointed. “All is dark. Yet the seal should be there—is it not?”

  Raynor said, “A bit of marble—”

  “Aye—the talisman. Lift it up!” The voice was now peremptory. Raynor obeyed.

  “I have it.”

  “Good. Guard it well. Lift the disk now.”

  Almost apprehensively the prince tugged the disk up, finding it curiously light. Beneath was nothing but a jagged stone, crudely carved with archaic figures and symbols. A stone—yet Raynor knew, somehow, that the thing was horribly old, that it had existed from the dawn ages of Gobi.

  “The altar of the forest god,” said the priest. “He will return to this spot when he is freed. You must go to the Reaver of the Rock, and give him the talisman. He will know its meaning. So shall Ahmon be avenged upon the tyrant . . .”

  Suddenly the priest surged upright, his arms lifted, tears streaming from the blind eyes. He cried, Ohe—ohe! Fallen forever is the House of Ahmon! Fallen to the dust . . .”

  He fell, as a tree falls, crashing down upon the stones, his arms still extended as though in worship. So died the last priest of Ahmon in Gobi.

  Raynor did not move for a while. Then he bent over the lax body. A hasty examination showed him that the man was dead, and shrugging, he thrust the marble shard into his belt.

  “I suppose that’s the way out,” he said, pointing to the gap in the wall, “though I don’t like the look of it. Well—come on.”

  He squeezed himself into the narrow hole, cursing softly, and Eblik followed.

  CHAPTER III

  The Reaver of the Rook

  WITH slow steps Cyaxares paced his apartment, his shaggy brows drawn together in a frown. Once or twice his hand closed convulsively on his sword-hilt, and again the secret agony within him made him groan aloud. But not once did he glance at the scarlet symbol of the wyvern that hung above his couch.

  Going to a window, he looked down over the city, and then his gaze went out to the plain and the distant, forested mountains. He sighed heavily.

  A voice said, “You may well look there, Cyaxares. For there is your doom, unless you act swiftly.”

  “Is it you, Necho?” the king asked heavily. “What new shame fulness must I work now?”

  “Two men go south to the Valley of Silence. They must be slain ere they reach it.”

  “Why? What aid can they get there?”

  Necho did not answer at first. His voice was hesitant when he said, “The gods have their own secrets. There is something in the Valley of Silence that can send all your glory and power crashing down about your head. Nor can I aid you then. I can only advise you now and if you follow my advice—well. But act I cannot and must not, for a reason which you need not know. Send out your men therefore, with orders to overtake those two and slay them—swiftly!”

  “As you will,” the king said, and turned to summon a servitor.

  “SOLDIERS follow us,” Eblik said, shading his eyes with a calloused hand. He was astride a rangy dun mare, and beside him Raynor rode on a great gray charger, red of nostril and fiery of eye. The latter turned in the saddle and looked back.

  “By the gods!” he observed. “Cyaxares has sent half an army after us. It’s lucky we managed to steal these mounts.”

  The two had reined their horses at the summit of a low rise in the forest. Back of them the ground sloped to the great plain and the gutted city of Sardopolis; before them jagged mountains rose, covered with oak and pine and fir. The Nubian licked dry lips, said thirstily, “The fires of all hells are in my belly. Let’s get out of this wilderness, where there’s nothing to drink but water.”

  “The Reaver may feed you wine—or blood,” Raynor said, “Nevertheless, our best chance is to find this Reaver and seek his aid. A mercenary once told me of the road.”

  He clapped his heels against the charger’s flanks, and the steed bounded forward. In a moment the ridge had hidden them from the men of Cyaxares. So the two penetrated deeper and deeper into the craggy, desolate wilderness, a place haunted by wolves and great bears and, men whispered, monstrous, snake-like cockadrills.

  They went by snow-peaked mountains that lifted white cones to the blue sky, and they fled along the brink of deep gorges from which the low thunder of cataracts rose tumultuously. And always behind them rode the pursuers, a grim and warlike company, following slowly but relentlessly.

  But Raynor used more than one stratagem. Thrice he guided his charger up streams along which the wise animal picked its way carefully; again he dislodged an avalanche to block the trail. So it came about that when the two rode down into a great, grassy basin, the men of Cyaxares were far behind.

  On all sides the mountains rose. Ahead was a broad, meadow-like valley, strewn with thickets and green groves. Far ahead the precipice rose in a tall rampart, split in one place into a narrow canyon.

  To the right of the gorge lifted a great gray rock, mountain-huge, bare save for a winding trail that twisted up its surface to a castle upon the summit. Dwarfed by distance, the size of the huge structure could yet be appreciated—a castle of stone, incongruously bedecked with fluttering, bright banners and pennons.

  Raynor pointed. “He dwells there. The Reaver of the Rock.”

  “And here comes danger,” Eblik said, whipping out his battle-ax. “Look!”

  From a grove of nearby trees burst a company of horsemen, glittering in the afternoon sunlight, spears lifted, casques and helms agleam. Shouting, they rode down upon the waiting pair. Raynor fingered his sword-hilt, hesitating.

  “Put up your blade,” he directed Eblik. “We come in friendship here.”

  The Nubian was doubtful. “But do they know that?”

  Nevertheless he sheathed his sword and waited till the dozen riders reined in a few paces away. One spurred forward, a tall man astride a wiry black.

  “Are you tired of life, that you seek the Reaver’s stronghold?” he demanded. “Or do you mean to enter in his service?”

  “We bear a message,” Raynor countered. “A message from a priest of Ahmon.”

  “We know no gods here,” the other grunted.

  “Well, you know warfare, or I’ve misread the dents in your armor,” Raynor snapped. “Sardopolis is fallen! Cyaxares has taken the city and slain the king, my father, Chalem of Sardopolis.”

  TO his amazement a bellow of laughter burst from the troop. The spokesman said, “What has that to do with us? We own no king but the Reaver. Yet you shall come safely before him, if that is your will. It were shameful to battle a dozen to two, and the rags you wear aren’t worth the taking.”

  Eblik started like a ruffled peacock. “By the gods, you have little courtesy here! For a coin I’d slit your weasand!”

  The other rubbed his throat reflectively, grinning. “You may have a trial at that later, if you wish, my ragged gargoyle. But come, now, f
or the Reaver is in hall, and tonight he rides forth on a raid.”

  With a nod Raynor spurred his horse forward, the Nubian at his side, and, surrounded by the men of the Reaver, they fled across the valley to the castle. Thence they mounted the steep, dangerous path up the craggy ramp, till at last they crossed a drawbridge and dismounted in a courtyard.

  So they took Raynor before the Reaver of the Rock.

  A great, shining, red-cheeked man he was, with grizzled gray beard and a crown set rakishly askew on tangled locks. He sat before a blazing fire in a high-roofed stone hall, an iron chest open at his feet. From this he was taking jewels and golden chains and ornaments that might have graced a king’s treasury, examining them carefully, and making notes with a quill pen upon a parchment on his lap.

  He looked up; merry eyes dwelt on Raynor’s flushed face and touseled yellow hair.

  “Well, Samar, what is it now?”

  “Two strangers. They have a message for you—or so they say.” Suddenly the Reaver’s face changed. He leaned forward, spilling treasure from his lap. “A message? Now there is only one message that can ever come to me . . . speak, you! Who sent you?”

  RAYNOR stepped forward confidently. From his belt he drew the broken shard of marble, and extended it.

  “A priest of Ahmon bade me give you this,” he said. “Sardopolis is fallen.”

  For a heartbeat there was silence. Then the Reaver took the shard, examining it carefully. He murmured, “Aye. So my rule passes. For long and long my fathers held the Rock, waiting for the summons that never came. And now it has come.”

  He looked up. “Go, all of you, save you two. And you, Samar—wait, for you should know of this.” The others departed. The Reaver shouted after them, “Summon Delphia!”

  He turned to stare into the fire. “So I, Kialeh, must fulfill the ancient pledge of my ancestors. And invaders are on my marches. Well—” There came an interruption. A girl strode in, dark head proudly erect, slim figure corseted in dinted armor. She went to the Reaver, flung a blazing jewel in his lap.

  “Is this my guerdon?” she snarled. “Faith o’ the gods, I took Ossan’s castle almost single-handed. And my share is less than the share of Samar here!”

  “You are my daughter,” the Reaver said quietly. “Shall I give you more honor, then, in our free brotherhood? Be silent. Listen.”

  Raynor was examining the girl’s face with approval. There was beauty there, wild dark lawless beauty, and strength that showed in the firm set of the jaw and the latent fire of the jet eyes. Ebony hair, unbound, fell in ringlets about steel-corseleted shoulders.

  The girl said, “Well? Have you had your fill of staring?”

  “Let be,” the Reaver grunted. “I have a tale for all of you . . . listen.”

  His deep voice grew stronger. “Ages on ages ago this was a barbarous land. The people worshipped a forest-god called—” his hand moved in a queer quick sign—“called Pan. Then from the north came two kings, brothers, bringing with them the power of the sun-god, Ahmon. There was battle in the land then, and blood and reddened steel. Yet Ahmon conquered.

  “The forest-god was bound within the Valley of Silence, which lies beyond my castle. The two kings made an agreement. One was to rule Sardopolis, and the other, the younger, was to rear a great castle at the gateway of the Valley of Silence, and guard the fettered god. Until a certain word should come . . .”

  The Reaver weighed a glittering stone in his hand. “For there was a prophecy that one day the rule of Ahmon should be broken. Then it was foretold that the forest-god should be freed, and should bring vengeance upon the destroyers of Sardopolis. For long and long my ancestors have guarded the Rock—and I, Kialeh, am the last. Ah,” he sighed. “The great days are over indeed. Never again will the Reaver ride to rob and plunder and mock at gods. Never—what’s this?”

  A man-at-arms had burst into the hall, eyes alight, face fierce as a wolf’s. “Kialeh! An army is in the valley!”

  “By Shaitan!” Raynor cursed. “Cyaxares’ men! They pursued us—”

  The girl, Delphia, swung about. “Gather the men! I’ll take command—”

  Suddenly the Reaver let out a roaring shout. “No! By all the gods I’ve flouted—no! Would you grudge me my last battle, girl? Gather your men, Samar—but I command!”

  Samar sprang to obey. Delphia gripped her father’s arm. “I fight with you, then.”

  “I have another task for you. Guide these two through the Valley of Silence, to the place you know. Here—” he thrust the marble shard at the prince. “Take this. You’ll know how to use it when the time comes.”

  Then he was gone, and curtains of black samite swayed into place behind him.

  Raynor was curiously eying the girl. Her face was pale beneath its tan, and her eyes betrayed fear. Red battle she could face unflinchingly, but the thought of entering the Valley of Silence meant to her something far more terrible. Yet she said, “Come. We have little time.”

  Eblik followed Raynor and Delphia from the hall. They went through the harsh splendor of the castle, till at last the girl halted before a blank stone wall. She pressed a hidden spring. A section of the rock swung away, revealing the dim-lit depths of a passage.

  Delphia paused on the threshold. Her dark eyes flickered over the two.

  “Hold fast to your courage,” she whispered—and her lips were trembling. “For now we go down into Hell . . .”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Valley of Silence

  YET at first there seemed nothing terrible about the valley. They entered it from a cavern that opened on a thick forest, and, glancing around, Raynor saw tall mountainous ramparts that made the place a prison indeed. It was past sunset, yet already a full moon was rising over the eastern cliffs, outlining the Reaver’s castle in black silhouette.

  They entered the forest.

  Moss underfoot deadened their footsteps. They walked in dim gloom, broken by moonlit traceries filtered through the leaves. And now Raynor noted the curious stillness that hung over all.

  There was no sound. The noise of birds and beasts did not exist here, nor did the breath of wind rustle the silent trees. But, queerly, the prince thought there was a sound whispering through the forest, a sound below the threshold of hearing, which nevertheless played on his taut nerves.

  “I don’t like this,” Eblik said, his ugly face set and strained. His voice seemed to die away with uncanny swiftness.

  “Pan is fettered here,” Delphia whispered. “Yet is his power manifest . . .”

  Soundlessly they went through the soundless forest. And now Raynor realized that, slowly and imperceptibly, the shadowy whisper he had sensed was growing louder—or else his ears were becoming more attuned to it. A very dim murmur, faint and far away, which yet seemed to have within it a multitude of voices . . .

  The voices of the winds . . . the murmur of forests . . . the goblin laughter of shadowed brooks . . .

  It was louder now, and Raynor found himself thinking of all the innumerable sounds of the primeval wilderness. Bird-notes, and the call of beasts . . .

  And under all, a dim, powerful motif, beat a wordless shrilling, a faint piping that set the prince’s skin to crawling as he heard it.

  “It is the tide of life,” Delphia said softly. “The heart-beat of the first god. The pulse of earth.”

  For the first time Raynor felt something of the primal secrets of the world. Often he had walked alone in the forest, but never yet had the hidden heart of the wilderness reached fingers into his soul. He sensed a mighty and very terrible power stirring latent in the soil beneath him, a thing bound inextricably to the brain of man by the cords of the flesh which came up, by slow degrees, from the seething oceans which once rolled unchecked over a young planet. Unimaginable eons ago man had come from the earth, and the brand of his mother-world was burned deep within his soul.

  Afraid, yet strangely happy, as men are sometimes happy in their dreams, the prince motioned for his companions to i
ncrease their pace.

  The forest gave place to a wide clearing, with shattered white stones rearing to the sky. Broken plinths and peristyles gleamed in the moonlight. A temple had once existed here. Now all was overgrown with moss and the slow-creeping lichen.

  “Here,” the girl said in a low whisper. “Here . . .”

  In the center of a ring of fallen pillars they halted. Delphia pointed to a block of marble, on which a metal disk was inset. In a cuplike depression in the metal lay a broken bit of marble.

  “The talisman,” Delphia said. “Touch it to the other.”

  Silence . . . and the unearthly tide of hidden life swelling and ebbing all about them. Raynor took the amulet from his belt, stepped forward, fighting down his fear. He bent above the disk—touched marble shard to marble—

  As iron to lodestone, the two fragments drew together. They coalesced into one. The jagged line of breakage faded and vanished.

  Raynor held the talisman—complete, unbroken!

  Now, quite suddenly, the vague murmurings mounted into a roar—gay, jubilant, triumphant! The metal disk shattered into fragments. Beneath it the prince glimpsed a small carved stone, the twin of the one beneath the temple of Ahmon.

  Above the unceasing roar sounded a penetrating shrill piping.

  Delphia clutched at Raynor’s arm, pulled him back. Her face was chalk-white.

  “The pipes!” she gasped. “Back—quickly! To see Pan is to die!”

  Louder the roar mounted, and louder. In its bellow was a deep shout of alien laughter, a thunder of goblin merriment. The chuckle of the shadowed brooks was the crash of cataracts and waterfalls.