The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  Before the first stroke could fall the phalanxes of the doves had wheeled; had formed themselves into a shield mighty enough to have been held and wielded by Ishtar’s own arm!

  And ever as the scimitar of fire slashed and thrust at the radiant globe and ship, the shield of the doves met it. Fiery point and fiery edge struck and blackened the living argent—but could not pierce. And ever the seared wounds of that shield shimmered moon white, as soft, untouched silver breasts darted in and healed them.

  In mid-sweep it met another sword of brilliant light—a sword forged all of those white flames he had seen in his vision and that were the life of that radiance that fructified the swarms of worlds!

  The scimitar was dimming! No longer was its fire so crimson bright!

  The moon orb pulsed; its radiance flamed wide, dazzling, blindingly, hurling back the darknesses. Swiftly as it had come it vanished! With it went the doves!

  Kenton saw the gigantic scimitar pause, quiver uncertainly—as though the dread hand that held it had been stilled with sudden doubt—then down it swept once more.

  The red scimitar fell shattered!

  He heard a voice—the voice of Ishtar—

  “I have beaten you, Nergal!”

  And Nergal, snarling—

  “A trick, Ishtar! Not with you, but with your Sister-Self was my warfare to be!”

  And again Ishtar—

  “No trick, Nergal! I never said that I would not fight you. Yet this I will grant—though you have lost the ship—I will not take it! The ship is free!”

  Then Nergal, grudgingly, snarling still—

  “The strife is ended! The ship is free!”

  For one beat in time Kenton seemed to see a vast vague face gazing down upon the ship, a face in which were all the tendernesses of all mothers, all loving women beneath the sun—the shadowy eyes dwelt softly on Sharane, softly but enigmatically upon him—

  The face was gone!

  As when a shutter is dropped before a closed lamp, so the darkness had fallen; and abruptly as when the shutter is lifted so the darkness fled; light took its place.

  The ship lay in a wide channel; around it the phantasmagoria of the sea floored city of stone. At port a thicket of obelisks all dull greens and glaring vermilions raised tops on high. Three arrow flights on starboard a pointed monolith arose, pyramidal, its pointed tip hundreds of feet in air.

  Around an edge of it crept the black bireme of Klaneth!

  CHAPTER 30

  The Last Battle

  Sight of that lean boat that like a lank hound leaped at them was like wine to Kenton; like strong wine to all. Heavy upon them had hung the conflict just passed—they but midges, dancing helplessly now in the fierce radiance of life’s spirit, now stilling as helplessly in the blackness of life’s negation. The charnel odor was still in Kenton’s nostrils; the chill of the grave on his heart; the touch of the worm upon his eyes.

  But there—there on the black priest’s ship—were things he knew!

  Sword edges and arrow point; death—it might be; death with pulse beating like war drums; hot death striking in as the red tides of life rushed out; things understandable; reality.

  He heard the golden clarion of Sharane’s defiance, the roar of Gigi, the shouting of Sigurd. And he was shouting too—challenging the black priest, taunting him, menacing him.

  Silently the lean ship drove down on them. “Sigurd, to the helm!” Sanity returned to Kenton. “Make for a narrow channel. One we can row but one that will force them to draw in their upper bank of oars. Thus shall we equal their speed—at the least!”

  The Norseman ran back to the tiller. The whistle of the overseer shrilled in the pit; the ship leaped forward.

  It swept round the obelisks, the bireme now only two arrow flights behind, and into a wide lake of blue water bordered by a hundred domes, magenta set on huge cubes of damask; the turquoise tides ran between the mathematically spaced sides of the cubes in a hundred canals, each barely wide enough for the oars of the ship to dip without touching the stone.

  “In there! Take any channel!” shouted Kenton. The ship heeled, darted to the closest opening. A flight of arrows from the bireme whistled into their wake—five ship lengths short!

  The huge blocks with their mosqued tops bordered the narrow canal into which they had passed; for a full mile the open way stretched, straight ahead of them. A third through and they heard the bireme’s sweeps clanking, saw it come swinging on a single bank of oars into the entrance. Quicker, at Kenton’s command, dipped the ship’s blades; heavier than the ship, the bireme fell behind.

  And as they flew through the blue water Kenton and Sharane took swift counsel with Gigi and Sigurd back at the stern.

  “Ravens gather!” chanted Sigurd, eyes brightening with fey fires. “Shield maidens ride from Valhalla! I hear the feet of their horses!”

  “They may return empty handed!” exclaimed Kenton. “Nay, Sigurd—now we have our only chance. None but Klaneth has smelled us out. Let us pick our place and give battle to him.”

  “We are but seven, and there are many times seven on that bireme, Wolf,” said Gigi, doubtful it seemed—although his little eyes sparkled.

  “I run no longer from the black swine!” cried Kenton, hotly. “I am weary of dodging and skulking. I say let us play the game out now! What does your thought tell you, Sharane?” he asked.

  “My thought is as yours,” she told him, tranquilly. “As you will it, so is my will, beloved!”

  “What do you say, Norseman?” asked Gigi. “Quick now—decide!”

  “I am with the Wolf,” replied Sigurd. “No time better than now. In the old days when I was a dragon master there was a trick we played when we were chased. Have you seen the dog when the cat turns on him—ho! ho!” laughed Sigurd. “Swift flies the cat until it has reached a corner. And there it lurks until dog yelps past. Then out springs cat, digging deep its claws, striking at eyes, raking dog’s sides. Ho! Ho!” roared Sigurd. “Swift we would fly like the cat until we had found a place to turn and skulk. Then as other dragon sped by, out we would spring upon it; like the dog, loud would it howl while we clung and tore! Ho—let us find such a corner where we may lurk till this hell dog leaps past. Then we shall spring. Give me two of the maids to guard me here as I steer. You three with the other maid, stand by the crossbows and when I shear their oars, loose the fire shafts upon them.”

  “In the meantime,” asked Gigi, face wrinkling, “what about their own arrows?”

  “We must take our luck as it comes,” said Kenton. “Gigi, I am one with Sigurd—unless you have a better plan to offer.”

  “No,” answered Gigi—“No—I have none, Wolf”—he lifted his great body, shook long arms on high.

  “By the Hollow Hells and Ischak their Keeper,” roared Gigi, “I, too, am weary of running away! I ran away from my princess because of my bald head—and what luck did it bring me. By Nazzur the Eater of Hearts—by Zubran.” his voice softened—“who gave his life for us—I run no more! Pick your place, Wolf—you and Sigurd—and let us fight!”

  He waddled away; then turned.

  “The end of the channel draws close,” he said. “Sharane, between the hearts of you and your maids and their arrow points are only soft breasts and a fold of cloth. Don coats of mail like ours and caps and buskins and greaves for your knees. I go to put on another linked shirt and get me my mace.”

  He dropped down the steps; Kenton nodded, and after Gigi trooped Sharane and her three women to doff their robes and kirtles, don battle garb.

  “And after you have shorn their oars—if you do?” asked Kenton of the Viking, lingering.

  “Then we return and ram,” said Sigurd. “So we did in the old days. The ship is lighter than the black priest’s galley and far more quickly can she turn. When we ram, be all of you at the bow ready to beat off any who try to drop abroad. After Klaneth’s galley is both shorn and rammed we can tear at it as we will—like the cat.”

  The end
of the canal was near; half a mile behind, the bireme clung to the ship’s wake.

  Out of her cabin came Sharane and her three maids, four slender warriors in coats of mail, hair hidden under brown-linked caps, leathern buskins on legs and greaves at knees. They piled arrows on stern and bow; with Gigi seeing to it that crossbows were in order, tow and oil and flints ready.

  The ship swept out of the canal, hung on reverse oars while Kenton and the Viking took survey. At left and right, in two great arcs, ran high walls of unbroken crimson rock. Smooth and precipitous, continuing they would make a circle a mile or more in diameter—but whether they did so continue Kenton could not see.

  Out of the waters they walled, in its center if they encircled it, a huge pinnacle lifted, its needle point thrice the height of the walls, shutting off the further view. Its pedestal was one colossal block, octahedral, shaped like a star. But from it rayed the star points, long and narrow like titanic wedges, their ends fifty feet high and edged like a knife.

  “We go to the left,” said Sigurd. “Let the black dog know which way we turn.”

  Kenton leaped to the cabin’s top; waved derisive arms; heard shouting.

  “Good!” rumbled Sigurd. “Now let them come. For here Wolf, we make our stand! Look”—he pointed as the ship drove past the first star point—“between the tip of stone and wall there is a little more than room for ship and galley to pass each other. Also the stone is high and hides us when we have passed. Yes, it is the place! Yet not here beyond the first star shall we lurk—Klaneth may expect that and come by it slowly and alert; nor beyond the second—for again he may come slowly though surely not so slowly as before. But not finding us there he will believe that we have but one thought—and that to run. So he will pass the third tip at speed to close in on us. And it is there that we shall leap out upon him!”

  “Good!” Kenton, and dropped down to the deck; stood beside Sharane and Gigi.

  And Gigi grunted approval and walked away to test once more the crossbows. But Sharane locked mailed arms around Kenton’s neck and drew his face close to hers and drank him with wistful eyes that seemed as though they could not drink enough of him. “Is it the end, beloved?” she whispered. “There shall be no end—for us, O heart of mine,” he answered.

  They stood so, silent, while the second star point wheeled by. And now the third leveled its tip at them and Sigurd cried out to raise oars; and when the ship had swam a hundred yards or so, brought her sharply around. He called to him the overseer.

  “We strike at the bireme’s left bank of oars,” he said. “No wish have I to run risk of splitting the ship on that edge of rock. When I shout, draw in your left sweeps. When we have sheared and passed, whip the slaves again into full speed. When we have rammed, reverse oars and pull free. Is it clear?”

  The black’s eyes glistened; he bared white teeth; ran back to the pit.

  Now from beyond the great stone wedge came faint rasp of sweeps, splashings of oars. Two of the warrior women sped back to Sigurd, crouched beside him, arrows ready at slits of the high shields. A tenseness gripped the ship.

  “One kiss,” whispered Sharane, eyes now misty. Their lips clung.

  Nearer came the oar sounds, closer, closer—faster-speeding—-

  A low whistle from the Viking, and the rowers bent back under sting of whip. A dozen strong strokes and the ship leaped like a dolphin straight for the star tip.

  Past tip it shot; heeled as the Viking threw the rudder sharp to port.

  Ten ship lengths ahead of them was the bireme, racing on its four fold multiple feet of oars like an enormous water spider. And as the ship flashed out and at it a roar arose from its crowded decks, a shouting confused and clamorous, medley of wild commands—and filling all that clamor, bewilderment.

  The oars of the bireme faltered; stopped at midstroke; held rigid, just touching sea.

  “Faster!” howled Sigurd and as the pit’s whip cracked, he drove with a twist of the rudder the ship down parallel to the course of the galley.

  “In oars!” he howled again—

  The prow of the Ship of Ishtar struck the bireme’s port oars. It swept through them like a blade through brittle stubble. Broken, splintered, the long shafts fell, holding back the rush of the Ship of Ishtar as little as though they had been straws. But in the bireme those who gripped the great handles fell back with ribs crushed, backs snapped, as the heavy stocks were flung against them.

  Up from the ship’s side as it passed, up into the ranks staring down on it, ranks turned wooden with surprise of that unexpected attack, hissed the fireballs from the crossbows. Hissing like serpents of fire, expanding as the air fanned them, the fire-balls struck—hurling back the soldiers, searing them, flaming up as they fell on deck and into open hold and touching with fingers of inextinguishable flame all that would burn.

  Again the galley roared—and now with terror in its voice.

  The Ship of Ishtar was clear; down thrust the withdrawn oars of it; straight ahead she flew into the wider space beyond the star tip of stone and circling wall. Swift once more the Viking turned her. Back raced the ship upon the bireme.

  And the bireme swung helplessly, sidled grotesquely like a huge spider from one of whose sides all legs have been cut, slithered like that same spider toward the knife-edged tip of the stone star ray. From hold and deck little columns of smoke swirled.

  Now Sigurd realized all that galley’s peril; saw that it was close to piercing stone ray; saw that he might drive it upon that ray; send stone blade biting into it; destroy it.

  “Guard bow!” shouted Sigurd.

  He threw back the rudder, made wider turn, hurtled upon the galley not at stern as he had planned but far toward midship. The ram of Ishtar’s ship struck and bit deep; prow too. Under the shock Kenton and the others toppled over and before they could set foot on bow fell prone on faces, clutching at deck.

  Beneath the blow the bireme reeled, heeled until the seas sucked over its farther side. Down dipped its starboard oars seeking to thrust back from the menacing stone. The sweeps churned, but under the weight of the ship clinging to its flank, its bow turned sharply in.

  It struck the knife edge of the rock.

  There was a crackling as rock bit through hull.

  “Ho!” roared the Viking. “Drown, you rats!”

  Down upon the ship whistled an arrow cloud. The shafts shrilled over Kenton, staggering to his feet. They pierced deck and pit. Before the rowers could back sweeps, pull free, they dropped, hung limp over oars, bristling with quivering bolts.

  On the ship’s bow fell a dozen grapples, holding it fast to the wrecked galley. Ropes whirled and sliding down them came the swordsmen.

  “Back! Back to me!” shouted Sigurd.

  The bireme shuddered, its gashed bow slid down the rock edge for a dozen feet or more, the water pouring over its fore deck. Up from the sea bobbed heads of soldiers, washed away and swimming for the ship. On the deck of the bireme a milling began as those on it fought to drop upon the ship.

  “Back!” cried Kenton.

  He caught Sharane’s arm; they ran with heads bent low as from the steerman’s place the arrows of Sigurd and his flanking maids winged into the mass of men swarming over the rosy cabin.

  The bireme slipped again along the cleaving edge of stone; checked fall with bow half under water, yet held by the ship’s ram. But that last slipping had wrenched sharply down the ship’s own prisoned bow. As the deck tilted Kenton fell, dragging Sharane with him. He caught swift glimpse of men dropping from the bireme’s side; throwing themselves into the sea, striking for the ship.

  He scrambled to his feet as the soldiers at the bow rushed. And now Gigi sprang past him, twirling his great mace. Kenton leaped to his side, Sharane at his heels.

  “Back! Back to Sigurd!” grunted the Ninevite, club sweeping the soldiers before it like a flail among wheat.

  “Too late!” cried Sharane.

  Too late!

  Men were swarming
up the stern chains, clambering up from the sea, tearing away the shields.

  From the bireme came a howling, frenzied and beastlike. At its sound even the soldiers halted, Gigi’s mace hung in air.

  Then upon the Ship of Ishtar leaped—the black priest!

  Pale eyes pools of hell fire, mouth an open square from which black hate flew screaming, he hurled himself through the swordsmen, dived under Gigi’s falling mace and flung himself on Kenton.

  But Kenton was ready.

  Out flashed the blue blade and met the thrust of the black priest’s sword. Quicker than he, that sword swept back, bit into that old wound in his side!

  Kenton staggered, hilt half dropping from his hand.

  Howling triumph Klaneth swept down the death blow.

  Before it could fall Sharane had thrown herself between Kenton and priest, had parried the stroke with her own sword.

  The left hand of the black priest shot out, dagger in its grip. He buried that dagger in Sharane’s breast!

  Now all the world was but one red flame before Kenton—one red flame in which was nothing but Klaneth’s face. Ere the black priest could move, swifter than the lightning stroke, Kenton had struck.

  His sword bit down, shearing away half the black priest’s face, leaving in place of cheek and jowl, only a red smear—swept on half through his shoulder.

  The black priest’s sword clanged upon the deck.

  The sword of Kenton bit again—straight through his neck.

  The head of Klaneth leaped from his shoulders, struck the rail and whirled into the sea. For another instant the gross bulk of the body stood, the neck spouting. The body crashed.

  No further heed paid Kenton to him nor to the bireme’s men. He bent over Sharane, raised her.

  “Beloved!” he called, and kissed the pale lips, the closed eyes. “Come back to me!”