Elak saw a touch of horror in Ithron’s face as he glanced at the chalice beside Tyrala’s throne. The woman went on bitterly.
“And if I have called on Baal-Yagoth—what then, my lord Ithron? Who are you to halt me? Serve Assurah then, if you will—rule over Nyrvana! But I have made a pact with a priest of Sarhaddon, and for him I have freed Baal-Yagoth from his chains. Soon now I shall go to the outer world, where there are strong men—men with flame and life blazing within them, like this one here”—she slung out her hand toward Elak—“and they shall taste my wine!”
“Stop!” Ithron was facing the woman now, his face grim and hard. “You dare—under the very symbol of Assurah—”
“Aye—I dare! Nor can you thwart me, Ithron. Now I warn you—stay here. Rule Nyrvana. But if you think to meddle with my plans, you may taste my wine yourself!”
Laughing, Tyrala swept down from the dais, across the room and through open doors of bronze. Ithron turned, flung up his arms at the carven Phoenix on the wall. His voice was a rolling thunder.
“Assurah! Waken! Let your wrath pour down upon this harlot and utterly destroy her!”
The incense drifted up.…
“Lord of Nyrvana—waken! Baal-Yagoth is risen from his prison and hangs like a shadow over all the world. Smite him with your lightnings; rend him with your iron beak!
“Assurah—god of Sarhaddon! Waken!”
3. DUEL OF GODS
The night is gone and the sword is drawn
And the scabbard is thrown away!
—John G. Neihardt
Very slowly the wall behind the thrones began to move. It slid up, the Phoenix rising with it, and revealed a hazy depth beyond, dimly lit with silver radiance. Ithron turned.
“You three—follow.”
He moved forward confidently. Elak hesitated, felt Esarra tug at his arm. Warily he went toward the gap where the wall had been. Lycon trailed them. His sword brushed the pedestal beside Tyrala’s throne, set the goblet rocking. He glanced at it and shuddered.
“Ishtar! I would not taste that wine—”
They stood in glowing haze. The wall dropped behind them. Nothing existed now but silvery fog; somehow Elak had a weird feeling that they stood on the very brink of a gulf that fell away to abysmal depths.
At their feet lay an open coffin. In it was King Phrygior, his dead face relaxed and peaceful. He wore a white robe, and an unsheathed sword rested on his breast.
Esarra dropped to her knees beside the sarcophagus. She whispered something Elak did not hear. Her brown curls fell forward, hiding the cameo face.
Ithron touched the coffin; it slid forward and was gone. The silver mists brightened. Far below came the rolling of deep thunder.
And behind them—the clash of arms! A woman’s voice, commanding, angry.
Ithron turned swiftly, gripped Elak’s arm. “Your bracelet! Hold it—thus—” He lifted Elak’s wrist. “Stay here! Tyrala is mad. But her madness gives her strength; I must keep her at bay till Assurah wakes—”
He was gone. A deep-throated roar came faintly to Elak’s ears. Dimly he heard Ithron’s voice.
But nothing existed but the mist, and two shadows beside him—Esarra and Lycon, waiting… and Elak stood with his arm raised, the Phoenix bracelet shining.…
Queer tingles darted through his wrist, ran down into his shoulder, racing into every nerve of his body. A flood of power poured into him, shaking the citadel of his mind with its alien strength.…
The fog alternately darkened and lightened; the muttering of thunder grew louder. And dimly he heard Tyrala’s voice raised in a cry of triumph from the throne room beyond the wall.
“I have won, my lord Ithron! None can waken Assurah now. And you—you shall taste my wine!”
The thunder bellowed ominously. The fog brightened with a blaze of silver radiance, and before him Elak saw something rise up, a Cyclopean shadow, almost formless, yet with a suggestion of sweeping wings and a beaked, upthrust head.…
He heard Esarra cry out, felt Lycon drop to his knees, breath rasping in his throat. From the Phoenix bracelet a tide of primal magic raced through him. The colossal shadow waited in the mist.
Elak felt words rising to his lips without will of his own. He heard himself crying.
“Assurah! Baal-Yagoth is risen! He has burst his chains—”
Elak was never to understand what happened in the next amazing moment. The power that the bracelet had given him was nothing to the inconceivable flood that crashed down on him from the risen god—flood of strange magic, blinding and deafening him, flaming through his brain like lightning. And dimly he heard a voice within his mind.
“I give you strength. Go forth and slay!”
Forthwith the tide lifted Elak and bore him weightless back; he had a vague impression of walls and rooms flickering past like segments of a dream, and yet he knew, somehow, that Esarra and Lycon kept pace with him, shoulder to shoulder. Something was in his mind, and Elak’s fingers closed about the hilt of a sword—a blade of flame, white and terrible. All about him the very air shook with unimaginable power.…
Elak’s vision cleared; he stood in a room and remembered—the room of his dream, where he had first seen Tyrala. The walls were blue as infinity, and in that clear depth hung the glowing flower-things he had already seen. Avidly they waited, with a horrible air of expectation in their attitude, seemingly watching the horror before them.
A muffled drumming throbbed out; shrill insane flutings piped weirdly. There were monstrously misshapen beings that squatted on scaled haunches, demonic toad-like creatures whose flaming eyes dwelt on the two figures that danced before an altar.
Tyrala—and Ithron! Both nude, Ithron’s pale body in strange contrast to the dark vividness of the witch-woman—and Ithron dancing, whirling like a weightless leaf in Tyrala’s grasp. An empty goblet lay on the stones. Ithron had tasted the dreadful wine!
The two figures moved in a swift, grotesque saraband, to the tune of the evil drumming and the pipes. The flower-things in the walls waited. And as Tyrala and Ithron danced, the strength seemed to be draining from the man—the life itself—pouring as though sucked by evil vampirism into the body of the witch.
Ithron grew shrunken, paper-white, skeletal. And Tyrala’s vivid body seemed to drink in life—whirling and swaying with increased energy. Sparks danced eerily in her streaming black hair. Her eyes were pools of lambent radiance.
“Strike!” a voice whispered in Elak’s mind.
He scarcely seemed to move, yet the flaming sword in his hand swung up. From its blade poured a cascade of lightnings, crackling, flashing, veiling the room with light. Through the blaze he heard Tyrala’s scream, knife-edged, keening with an agony beyond life.…
And other cries came, thin, utterly horrible. He knew that the glowing flower-things were dying.…
The curtain of light faded. And now nothing existed within the chamber but an altar, blackened and twisted; the walls were burned and blank, and there were mounds of dust on the floor.
The power caught Elak again, lifting him. He caught a momentary glimpse of a broad vista spread far beneath him, a land of sluggish rivers and dark forests stretching into the distance—and it was gone. Brief blackness, and then a flash of metallic walls sliding past, a shaft up which he sped with frightful rapidity, knowing Esarra and Lycon were beside him.…
A cavern now, and high gates. A river, under the warm radiance of the sun, tumbling through a craggy gorge. Then a valley—and Sarhaddon, the castles and walls of Sarhaddon, lay beneath him, and he was slanting down through empty air.…
Down he swept, through gates and walls and barriers, until he stood in the throne room of Sarhaddon’s kings. On the great carven chair, ornate with gems and precious metals, sat Xandar the priest, his twisted body hung with royal robes. A circlet of gold crowned the bald head. The scarred half of the priest’s face was deftly disguised with paints that could not hide the frightful deformity.
A girl
lay before the throne, strapped to an engine of torture. Her body was reddened with sword-cuts. She was screaming as cords slowly wrenched her limbs apart.
Around the room stood nobles and priests. On almost every face Elak saw thinly-hidden horror and disgust. One man turned away, and Xandar saw him.
“Ho, you Chemoch!” he roared. “Are you daintier than your king? Would you share this maiden’s couch?”
White-faced, the man looked again at the tortured girl. Yet his hand closed convulsively on his sword-hilt.
And then—the voice whispered again in Elak’s mind.
“Slay!”
Elak lifted his blade. A great cry went up within the throne-room; the crowd surged back against the tapestried walls. If they had not seen Elak before—he was surely visible now!
The monster on the throne thrust out clawing hands. He bellowed,
“Baal-Yagoth! Yagoth!”
A cloudy veil swept down over the priest, hiding him in shadow like a shroud. A foul, miasmic stench was strong in Elak’s nostrils. He swung the sword.
Lightnings blazed out crashing. They thundered down on the priest, enveloping him in flame. They licked at his armor of black fog, and drew back—impotent!
The air was choked with that charnel smell. The darkness crept out from the priest, fingering toward Elak. Again he lifted his sword.
Again the lightnings flared. And this time Elak moved forward, confidently, doggedly, slashing with blade of fire at the dark tendrils that crept in toward him. As he neared Xandar a cold revulsion shuddered through Elak’s flesh. He sensed the nearness of an alien thing, a being so evil that it could exist only in the blackness of the pit.
Lightning and shadow clashed, and the castle rocked with thunderous conflict. The priest roared insane blasphemy.
The blackness coalesced into a tenebrous cloud. Out of it rose a head, malefic and terrible, with serpent eyes of ancient evil. A flattened head that swayed and arose on shimmering scaled coils—
The head of Baal-Yagoth!
It swung down at Elak. He countered desperately with his sword—felt himself driven back.
The shadow of Cyclopean wings filled the throne room with rushing winds. Something, unseen yet tangible, dropped toward that monstrous head. A blinding flare of consuming light crashed out, and for a brief moment Elak saw a gleam of blood-red feathers, eyes golden as the moon, and a striking silver beak.
And the shadow surrounding Xandar faded and was gone. The rearing serpent-head had vanished. Only the priest stood before the throne, stripped of his magic and his power, contorted lips wide in a despairing shriek. His face was a Gorgon mask, seared and blackened into a charred cindery horror.
Eyes of insane rage glared at Elak. The priest sprang forward, hands clawing for Elak’s throat.
Once more, and for the last time, the alien voice whispered within Elak’s brain.
“Strike!”
Sword of flame screamed through the air. Bone and brain and flesh split under that blow, and for a second Xandar stood swaying, cloven in half from skull to navel, blood spurting in a red tide. A moment the priest stood, and crashed down at Elak’s feet dead in a widening crimson pool.
From the court a great cry went up—of triumph and thanksgiving. Elak felt the sword plucked from his hand; it was a flash of light in the air—and then was gone. He stood alone before the throne of Sarhaddon.
The magic had fled. Power of the Phoenix and evil spell of Baal-Yagoth alike were vanished. The nobles pressed forward, shouting.
Elak turned, saw Esarra cutting the last of the cords that bound Xandar’s victim to her rack. A guardsman lifted the sobbing girl, bore her out. Esarra obeyed Elak’s gesture.
He led her to the throne, seated her in it, and on her slender wrist clasped the Phoenix bracelet he took from his own arm. Elak swung to face the room. His rapier came out, was lifted.
And a hundred swords were unsheathed, shimmering together, at his shout,
“Esarra of Sarhaddon!”
“Esarra!” roared the nobles.
They dropped to their knees, heads bent, paying homage to the girl. But Elak felt a soft hand on his shoulder as he knelt, and looked up into Esarra’s eyes. The girl whispered, knelt, and looked up into Esarra’s eyes. The girl whispered,
“Elak—you will stay in Sarhaddon?”
Slowly he nodded, and Esarra sank back on her throne, a little smile curving her red lips, as the nobles arose and came forward one by one, sword-hilts extended for her touch. Elak made his way through the group, looking for Lycon. He found him at last investigating the contents of a drinking-horn.
“We stay in Sarhaddon—for a while anyhow,” he told the little man.
“As you will,” Lycon said, smiling wisely. He glanced toward the throne. “No doubt you’ll be content enough for a few moons. As for me”—he buried his round face in the horn and gulped noisily—“as for me,” he finished, wiping his mouth with a pudgy hand, “I hear good reports of the royal wine-cellars. And may the gods blast me if I don’t get the keys to ’em before sunset!”
Dragon Moon
1. ELAK OF ATLANTIS
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night—
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
—Chesterton
THE WHARF-SIDE TAVERN was a bedlam. The great harbor of Poseidonia stretched darkly to the southeast, but the waterfront was a blaze of bright lanterns and torches. Ships had made port today, and this tavern, like the others, roared with mirth and rough nautical oaths. Cooking-smoke and the odor of sesame filled the broad low room, mingled with the sharp tang of wine. The swarthy seamen of the south held high carnival tonight.
In a niche in the wall was an image of the patron god, Poseidon of the sunlit seas. It was noticeable that before swilling liquor, nearly every man spilled a drop or two on the floor in the direction of the carved god.
A fat little man sat in a corner and muttered under his breath. Lycon’s small eyes examined the tavern with some distaste. His purse was, for a change, heavy with gold; so was that of Elak, his fellow adventurer. Yet Elak preferred to drink and wench in this brawling, smelly tavern, a predilection that filled Lycon with annoyance and bitterness. He spat, muttered under his breath, and turned to watch Elak.
The lean, wolf-faced adventurer was quarreling with a sea captain whose huge, great-muscled body dwarfed Elak’s. Between the two a tavern wench was seated, her slanted eyes watching the men slyly, flattered by the attention given her.
The seaman, Drezzar, had made the mistake of underestimating Elak’s potentialities. He had cast covetous eyes upon the wench and determined to have her, regardless of Elak’s prior claim. Under other circumstances Elak might have left the slant-eyed girl to Drezzar, but the captain’s words had been insulting. So Elak remained at the table, his gaze wary, and his rapier loosened in its scabbard.
He watched Drezzar, noting the sunburnt, massive face, the bushy dark beard, the crinkled scar that swept down from temple to jawbone, blinding the man in one gray eye. And Lycon called for more wine. Steel would flash soon, he knew.
Yet the battle came without warning. A stool was overturned, there was a flare of harsh oaths, and Drezzar’s sword came out, flaming in the lamplight. The wench screamed shrilly and fled, having little taste for bloodshed save from a distance.
Drezzar feinted; his sword swept out in a treacherously low cut that would have disemboweled Elak had it reached its mark. But the smaller man’s body writhed aside in swift, flowing motion; the rapier shimmered. Its point gashed Drezzar’s scalp.
They fought in silence. And this, more than anything else, gave Elak the measure of his opponent. Drezzar’s face was quite emotionless. Only the scar stood out white and distinct. His blinded eye seemed not to handicap him in the slightest degree.
Lycon waited for a chance to sheathe his steel in Drezzar’s bac
k. Elak would disapprove, he knew, but Lycon was a realist.
Elak’s sandal slipped in a puddle of spilled liquor, and he threw himself aside desperately, striving to regain his balance. He failed. Drezzar’s lashing sword drove the rapier from his hand, and Elak went down, his head cracking sharply on an overturned stool.
The seaman poised himself, sighted down his blade, and lunged. Lycon was darting forward, but he knew he could not reach the killer in time.
And then—from the open door came the inexplicable. Something like a streak of flaming light lashed through the air, and at first Lycon thought it was a thrown dagger. But it was not. It was—flame!
White flame, darting and unearthly! It gripped Drezzar’s blade, coiled about it, ripped it from the seaman’s hand. It blazed up in blinding fiery light, limning the room in starkly distinct detail. The sword fell uselessly to the floor, a blackened, twisted stump of melted metal.
Drezzar shouted an oath. He stared at the ruined weapon, and his bronzed face paled. Swiftly he whirled and fled through a side door.
The flame had vanished. In the door a man stood—a gross, ugly figure clad in the traditional brown robe of the Druids.
Lycon, skidding to a halt, lowered his sword and whispered, “Dalan!”
Elak got to his feet, rubbing his head ruefully. At sight of the Druid his face changed. Without a word he nodded to Lycon and moved toward the door.
The three went out into the night.
2. DRAGON THRONE
Now we are come to our Kingdom,
And the Crown is ours to take—
With a naked sword at the Council board,
And under the throne the snake,
Now we are come to our Kingdom!
—Kipling
“I bring you a throne,” Dalan said, “but you must hold it with your blade.”
They stood at the end of a jetty, looking out at the moonlit harbor waters. The clamor of Poseidonia seemed far away now.
Elak stared at the hills. Beyond them, leagues upon leagues to the north, lay a life he had put behind him. A life he had given up when he left Cyrena to gird on an adventurer’s blade. In Elak’s veins ran the blood of the kings of Cyrena, northernmost kingdom of Atlantis. And, but for a fatal quarrel with his stepfather, Norian, Elak would have been on the dragon throne even then. But Norian had died, and Elak’s brother, Orander, took the crown.
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