WEIRD TALES
ping of blue sparks. The woman toppled sidewise, shriveling and withering like a mummy even as she fell.
Valeria rolled from the altar on the other side, and started for the opposite wall on all fours. For hell had burst loose in the throneroom of dead Olmec.
The man who had held Valeria's hands was the next to die. He turned to run, but before he had taken half a dozen steps, Tolkemec, with an agility appalling in such a frame, bounded around to a position that placed the man between him and the altar. Again the red fire-beam flashed and the Tecuhltli rolled lifeless to the floor, as the beam completed its course with a burst of blue sparks against the altar.
Then began slaughter. Screaming insanely the people rushed about the chamber, caroming from one another, stumbling and falling. And among them Tolkemec capered and pranced, dealing death. They could not escape by the doors; for apparently the metal of the portals served like the metal-veined stone altar to complete the circuit for whatever hellish power flashed like thunderbolts from the witch-wand the ancient waved in his hand. When he caught a man or a woman between him and a door or the altar, that one died instantly. He chose no special victim. He took them as they came, with his rags flapping about his wildly gyrating limbs, and the gusty echoes of his tittering sweeping the room above the screams. And bodies fell like falling leaves about the altar and at the doors. One warrior in desperation rushed at him, lifting a dagger, only to fall before he could strike. But the rest were like crazed cattle, with no thought for resistance, and no chance of escape.
The Jast Tecuhltli except Tascela had fallen when the princess reached the Cimmerian and the girl who had taken refuge beside him, Tascela beat
and touched the floor, pressing a design upon it. Instantly the iron jaws released the bleeding limb and sank back into the floor.
"Slay him if you can!" she panted, and pressed a heavy knife into his hand. "I have no magic to withstand him!"
With a grunt he sprang before the women, not heeding his lacerated leg in the heat of the fighting-lust. Tolkemec was coming toward him, his weird eyes ablaze, but he hesitated at the gleam of the knife in Conan's hand. Then began a grim game, as Tolkemec sought to circle about Conan and get the barbarian between him and the altar or a metal door, while Conan sought to avoid this and drive home his knife. The women watched tensely, holding their breath.
There was no sound except the rustle and scrape of quick-shifting feet. Tolkemec pranced and capered no more. He realized that grimmer game confronted him than the people who had died screaming and fleeing. In the elemental blaze of the barbarian's eyes he read an intent deadly as his own. Back and forth they weaved, and when one moved the other moved as if invisible threads bound them together. But all the time Conan was getting closer and closer to his enemy. Already the coiled muscles of his thighs were beginning to flex for a spring, when Valeria cried out. For a fleeting instant a bronze door was in line with Conan's moving body. The red line leaped, searing Conan's flank as he twisted aside, and even as he shifted he hurled the knife. Old Tolkemec went down, truly slain at last, the hilt vibrating on his breast.
Tascela sprang—not toward Conan, but toward the wand where it shimmered like a live thing on the floor. But as she leaped, so did Valeria, with a dagger snatched from a dead man, and the W. T,—6
RED NAILS
}5»
blade, driven with all the power of the pirate's muscles, impaled the princess of Tecuhltii so that the point stood out between her breasts. Tascela screamed once and fell dead, and Valeria spurned the body with her heel as it fell.
"I had to do that much, for my own self-respect!" panted Valeria, facing Co-nan across the limp corpse.
"WelL this cleans up the feud," he grunted. "It's been a hell of a night! Where did these people keep their food? I'm hungry."
"Yon need a bandage on that leg." Valeria ripped a length of silk from a hanging and knotted it about her waist, then tote off some smaller strips which she bound efficiently about the barbarian's lacerated limb.
"I can walk on it," he assured her.
"Let's begone. It's dawn, outside this infernal city. I've had enough of Xuchotl. It's well the breed exterminated itself. I don't want any of their accursed jewels. They might be haunted."
"There is enough clean loot in the world for you and me," she said, straightening to stand tall and splendid before him.
The old blaze came back in his eyes, and this time she did not resist as he caught her fiercely in his arms.
"It's a long way to the coast," she said presently, withdrawing her lips from his.
"What matter?" he laughed. "There's nothing we can't conquer. We'll have our feet on a ship's deck before the Stygians open their ports for the trading season. And then we'll show the world what plundering means!"
[THE END]
R. E. H.
T,—7
Died June 11, 1936 By R. H. BARLOW
Conan, the warrior king, lies stricken dead Beneath a sky of cryptic stars; the lute That was his laughter stilled, and sadly mute
Upon the chilling earth his youthful head.
There sounds for him no more the clamorous fray. But dirges now, where once the trumpet loud: About him press old memories for shroud,
And ended is the conflict of the day.
Death spilled the blood of him who loved the fight As men love mistresses, and fought it well— His fair young flesh is marble where he fell
With broken sword that vanquished all but Night; And as of mythic kings our words must speak Of Conan now, who roves where dreamers seek.
The
®
oors of Death
By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE
r A strange and curious story is this, about a banker whose only feat.
was that he might be buried alive, like his
grandfather before him
A HEAVY stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished ' rooms of Judson McMasters' residence, and even seemed to extend out over the velvet lawns, the shrub-lined walks and sun-blotched reaches under the lacy elms and somber maples.
Biggs glided about the sick-chamber like a specter, apparently striving to keep busy, while he cast countless furtive, uneasy glances at the heavy figure under the white sheets. An odor of drugs and fever tainted the air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was laden with the familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders. On the wall behind the table, near the head of the bed, hung a small oil-painting of Napoleon.
The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, and attempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position. At the first movement Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating the coverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of long service and deep affection. As the massive gray head sank into the fluffed pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint of thankfulness. Then they closed again and the once powerful body relaxed.
With a pitiful, wistful expression on
his aged face, the faithful Biggs stood
helplessly peering at the sick man until
hot tears began to course down his fur-
354
rowed cheeks, and he turned hastily away.
"Biggs!"
The voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi-gloom like a knife.
Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in a flash was across the great room and beside the bed.
"Did you call, sir?" His voice quavered.
"No"—a faint twinkle lighted the sick man's eyes—"I just spoke."
"Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed Biggs, "you are better, sir."
"Biggs, 1 want some air and sunshine."
"But the doctor, sir "
"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to pass out I want to see where I'm going."
"Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the cur
tains and partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that, sir."
"I believe in facing a situation scjuare-ly, Biggs. My father and grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed over the same route."
"Please, sir," entreated Biggs.
"Biggs, I want to ask you a question."
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you a Christian?"
"I try to be, sir."
"Do you believe in death?"
Biggs was thoroughly startled and con* fused.
'"Why —a—we all have to die, some-
THE DOORS OF DEATH
355
time, sir," he answered haltingly, not knowing what else to say.
"But do we actually die?" insisted the sufferer.
"Well, I hope—not yet," ventured the old servant. "The doctor said "
"Forget the doctor," interposed Mc-Masters. "Biggs, you have been in our service since I was a lad, haven't you?"
Tears welled into the servant's eyes, and his voice faltered.
"Fifty-six years, come next November," he answered.
"Well, let me tell you something, that even in those fifty-six years you never learned, Biggs. My grandfather was buried alive!"
"Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs, in horror.
"Absolutely," asserted the banker.
"Why—are you—how do you know, sir?" in a hoarse whisper.
"My father built a family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate, didn't
her
"Yes, sir—he hated burial in the earth, sir, after reading a poem of Edgar Allan Poe's, sir!"
"What poem was that, Biggs?"
"I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," faltered Biggs.
"What was it?"
"Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's talk about something cheerful."
"Not until we're through with this discussion, Hiram."
The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker resorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidences with his old houseman.
"Well, the line goes, 'Soft may the worms about him creep,' sir."
A slight shudder seemed to run through McMasters' body. Then after a
tomb-like silence, "Good reason for building the mausoleum."
"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."
"Well," with an apparent effort, "when they exhumed my grandfather's remains to place them in the new vault, the casket was opened, and "
"Oh, sir," cried Biggs, throwing out a trembling, expostulating hand, but the banker went on, relentlessly.
" the body was turned over, on its
side, with the left knee drawn up partway."
"That's the way he always slept—in life." Biggs' voice was a hollow whisper.
"And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum, insisted that his body be cremated," said McMasters. "He took no chances."
Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the great fireplace and rested there, fascinated.
"Hiram, where is heaven?"
Biggs' eyes flitted back to rest in surprize upon the questioner.
"Why, up there, sir," pointing toward the ceiling.
"Do you believe that the earth rotates on its axis?"
"That's what I was taught in school, sir."
"If that hypothesis is true, we are rolling through space at the rate of about sixteen miles a minute," figured the banker. "Now you say heaven is up there."
"Yes, sir."
"Biggs, what time is it?"
The servant glanced at the great clock in the corner.
"Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time for your medicine," in a voice full of relief.
"Never mind the drugs," commanded McMasters, "until we finish our problem in higher mathematics. Now, if I ask you where heaven is at midnight,
WEIRD TALES
which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point," triumphantly.
"Why, up there," replied the bewildered servant, again indicating the ceiling.
"Then," cried McMasters, "you will be pointing directly opposite from the place you indicated a moment ago; for by midnight the earth will have turned approximately upside down. Do you get my point?"
"Yes, sir," replied poor Biggs, thoroughly befuddled.
"Then where will heaven be at six o'clock this evening?" fairly shouted the sick man.
"Out there," replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward the window,
"And where will heaven be at six o'clock in the morning?"
"Over there." And Biggs pointed a trembling finger at the fireplace. Then, "Oh, sir, let's not—the doctor "
"Hang the doctor," interrupted McMasters testily. "I've been thinking this thing over, and I've got to talk about it to someone."
"But don't you believe in a hereafter?" queried Biggs, a horrible note of fear in his pitiful voice.
For a moment the banker was silent; the massive clock ticked solemnly on. A coal toppled with a sputter and flare in the fireplace.
"Yes, Hiram," in a thoughtful voice, "I suppose I do."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried Biggs in very evident relief.
"Ah, if you could but tell me," continued the banker, "from whence we come, and whither we go?"
"If I knew, sir, I'd be equal with the Creator," answered Biggs with reverence.
"That's well said, Hiram, but it doesn't satisfy me. I've made my place in the world by getting to the root of things. Ah, if I could only get a peek behind the
curtain, before I go—back-stage, you know—mayhap I would not be afraid to die," and his voice fell almost to a whisper.
"The Great Director does not permit the audience behind the footlights, unless he calls them," answered Biggs whimsically, the ghost of a smile lighting up his troubled features.
"Another thing, Biggs, do you believe those stories about Jonah, and Lazarus, and the fellow they let down through a hole in the roof to be healed?"
"I do, sir," with conviction.
"Do you understand how it was done?" testily.
"Of course not, sir, being only a human."
"Then tell me, Hiram, when you cannot see through it, how can you swallow all this theology?"
"My faith, sir," answered Biggs, simply, raising his eyes with reverence.
At this, a quizzical smile came over the sick man's face.
"In looking up, Hiram, don't forget, since it is twelve-thirty, that we have swung around four hundred and eighty miles from the spot you originally designated as the location of the Pearly Gates."
"Oh, sir, I beg of you," remonstrated the servant, "I cannot bear to have you jest on such a—why, master!" he broke off with a little cry, rushing to his bedside.
The quizzical smile on the banker's face had suddenly faded, and his head had fallen feebly back upon the pillow.
"Oh, why did he waste his strength so?" cried Biggs, piteously, as with trembling hands and tear-blurred eyes he searched the little table for the smelling-salts.
After a few breaths, the patient sighed and opened his eyes wearily.
"My medicine, Hiram, and then I must rest"
THE DOORS OF DEATH
357
At midnight, Biggs, dozing in a big •A*- chair by the fire, was aroused by a voice from the sick bed.
"Hiram."
"Yes, sir," scurrying to turn on a subdued light.
"Where is heaven now?"
Noting the wan flicker of a smile, the old servant pointed solemnly downward.
"You are a bright pupil," came in a scarcely audible voice.
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you know, Biggs, 1 wish I had led a different—a better life."
"You have been a good master, sir. You have been kind, you have given liberally to charity," Biggs defended him.
"Yes," cynically, "I have given liberally to charity. But it has been no sacrifice."
'You have been a pillar in the church,
" ventured Biggs.
"Yes," bitterly, "a stone pillar. I have paid handsomely for my pew, and slept peacefully through the sermons. I have bought baskets of food for the poor at Thanksgiving and Christmas time, only to let others reap the happiness of giving them away. 1 could have had so much joy out of Christmas, if I would. I could have been a jolly, rosy-cheeked Santa Claus and gone to a hundred homes, my arms loaded with gifts."
"True, sir, but you made that joy possible for others."
"When I should have known the thrill of it myself. I have not really lived, Hiram. To draw the sweets truly out of life, one must humble himself and serve his fellow men. Yes, the scales have fallen from my eyes, Hiram, But it is too late, 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'."
"It doesn't seem right, sir," said Biggs after a pause.
"What's that, Hiram?"
"Why, sir, that you should be stricken
down in the prime of life, just at a time when you could mean so much to others, while 1, old and useless, am permitted to live on. But I am not finding fault with Providence, sir," Biggs hastened to say; "I just can't find the meaning of the riddle, sir."
"Probably I've had my chance and fumbled it, Biggs."
"Even so, sir, God is not vindictive, according to my ideas. There surely is some other solution. I'm still going to pray that He will take me in your stead, even if a miracle must be performed."
"So you have faith in your prayers, do you, Biggs?"
"Yes, sir, if they are unselfish prayers.™
"That brand is rather scarce, I take it," answered McMasters, but his tone was reflective rather than sarcastic.
"Oh, sir, I wish you would pray as I do. God would surely understand."
"Rather a queer request, Hiram. If my life depends upon your death no prayer shall ever pass my lips."
"But, sir, I'm an old— "
"However," interrupted McMasters, "I shall pray that if my life is spared in any; other fashion, I will make full amends for my years of indifference and neglect. And, Hiram, no one knows hour much I truly seek this divine dispensation. But I have always scoffed at death-bed confessions, and so my heart grows cold, for I have no right to ask—now." Again, wearily, "No right—now."
Weird Tales volume 28 number 03 Page 15