“Enough, Regor, enough!” It was Huon’s voice, depression in it.
“It is not enough,” stormed the giant. “Was it the Dark One bade you do this? By the Lord of Lords, the Fellowship must deal with you!”
“You are right, of course, Regor. It is your duty to summon the Fellowship, if you think best. I am sorry and I am ashamed. When the stranger awakens from his swoon, and indeed I am sure it is no worse, I will make amends to him. And the Fellowship, not I, shall decide what is to be done with him.”
“All of which does not seem to flatter me,” said Dorina, sweetly suave, and too sweetly. “Do you hint, Regor, that I am an agent of the Dark One, for clearly it was I who gave the impulse to Huon’s rage?”
“I hint nothing—” began the giant, and was interrupted by Huon.
“Dorina, I will answer that. And I say to you that it is no unfamiliar doubt to me. Be careful that some time you do not change that doubt to certainty. For then I will kill you, Dorina, and there is no power in Yu-Atlanchi, nor above it nor below it, that may save you.”
It was said calmly enough, but with a cold implacability.
“You dare say that, Huon—”
Graydon knew that more of truth often enters ears thought closed than those believed open. Therefore he had kept quiet, listening, and mustering his strength. A quarrel among these three could not help him. He groaned, and opened his eyes, and thereby silenced whatever had been on the woman’s tongue to say. He looked up into Huon’s face, in which was nothing but concern; at Dorina, her black eyes blazing, long white hands clenched to her breast in effort to control her rage.
His eyes fell upon a scarlet figure beyond them both. It was Kon, the spider-man, and Graydon forgot his danger and all else, contemplating him.
He was something that might have stepped out of one of Durer’s nightmare fantasies of the Witches’ Sabbath, stealing from the picture into reality through a scarlet bath. And yet there was nothing demonic, nothing of the Black Evil, about him. Indeed, he was touched with a grotesque charm, as though created by a master in whom the spirit of beauty was so vital that even in shaping a monster it could not be wholly lost.
The spider-man’s head hung three feet above Huon’s. The torso, the body, was globular, and little bigger than a lad’s. The round body was supported on four slender stiltlike legs; from the center of it stretched out two more, longer by half than the others and terminating in hands or claws whose fingers, delicately slender and needle pointed, were a foot in length.
He had no neck. Where head joined body there was a pair of small arms whose terminations were like the hands of a child. And over these hands was the face, chinless and earless, framed in matted red locks. The mouth was human, the nose a slender beak. Except for face and hands and feet, which were slate gray, he was covered with a vivid scarlet down.
But the eyes, the great lidless lashless eyes of phosphorescent gold, were wholly human in expression, sorrowful, wondering, and apologetic, too—as though Huon’s present mood were reflected in them. Such was Kon, highest of all his kind in Yu-Atlanchi, whom Graydon was destined to know much more intimately.
He staggered up, Regor’s arm supporting him. He looked straight at the woman.
“I thought,” he muttered, “I thought—you were—Suarra!”
The anger flew from Dorina’s face; it sharpened, as though with fear; Huon’s grew intent; Regor grunted.
“Suarra!” breathed the woman, and loosed her clenched hands.
If Suarra’s name brought fear to her, and Graydon felt a fleeting wonder at that, it carried no such burden to Regor.
“I told you, Huon, that this was no ordinary matter,” he cried jubilantly, “and here is still another proof. Suarra whom the Mother loves—and he is friend of Suarra! Ha—there is purpose here, a path begins to open—”
“You go a little too fast along it,” broke in Huon warningly, yet with a certain eagerness, a repressed excitement. He spoke to Graydon.
“For what has occurred, I am sorry. Even if you are an enemy—still I am sorry. Our welcome to strangers is never too cordial, but this ought not to have happened. I can say no more.”
“No need,” answered Graydon, a bit grimly. “If not too cordial, at least the welcome was warm enough. It is forgotten.”
“Good!” There was a flash of approval in Huon’s eyes. “Whatever you may be,” he went on, “we are hunted men. Those who would destroy us are strong and cunning, and we must ever be alert against their snares. If you come from them, there is no harm in telling you this, since you already know it. But if you seek the Snake Mother and—Suarra—and have happened upon us by chance, it is well for you to know we are outlaws of Yu-Atlanchi, although we are no enemies of those two. Convince us of your honesty, and you shall go from us unharmed, to follow your fortune as you choose; or if you ask our aid, remembering that we are outlaws, we will give you aid to the limit of our means. If you fail to convince us, you shall die as all the baits sent to trap us have died. It will be no pleasant death; we do not delight in suffering, but it is wisdom to discourage others from following you.”
“Fair enough,” said Graydon.
“You are not of our race,” Huon said. “You may be a prisoner sent to betray us, your life and liberty the promised rewards. The bracelet you wear may have been given you to blind us. We do not really know that you passed the Messengers. You may have been guided through the lairs of the Urd, and set down where you met the men who brought you here. That you slew some of the Urd proves nothing. There are many, and their lives are less than nothing to Lantlu and the Dark One whose slaves they are. I tell you all this,” he added with a touch of apology, “that you may know the doubts you must dissipate to live.”
“And fair enough,” said Graydon again. Huon turned to the woman, who had been studying Graydon with a wholly absorbed, puzzled intentness ever since he had named Suarra.
“You will stay with us and help us judge?” he asked.
“As if,” drawled Dorina, and stretching herself upon the couch, “as if, Huon, I had the slightest intention of doing anything else!”
Huon spoke to the spider-man; a red arm stretched out and brought a stool to Graydon’s feet. Regor lowered his bulk upon another; Huon dropped into his chair. The eyes of that strange quartet upon him, Graydon began his story.
A little he told them of the world from which he had come, and his place in it; as briefly as he could, of his trek into the Forbidden Land with the three adventurers; and of his meeting with Suarra. He heard Regor growl approval as he sketched his battle with Starrett, saw Huon’s eyes warm. He told of Suarra’s return next morning. And as he spoke of the Lord of Folly, he saw conviction of his truth begin to steal into their faces, and deepen as he told of his glimpse of Lantlu among his hissing pack. But he was amazed to see it turn to such a horror of belief as it did when his story led them into the cavern of the great stone Face.
For as he described that visage of ultimate evil, and the seeming transmutation of the three men into globules of golden sweat, Dorina covered her face with shaking hands, and the blood was drained from Huon’s own, and Regor muttered; only Kon, the spider-man, stood unmoved, regarding him with his sorrowful, shining golden eyes.
And this could only mean that none of them had ever seen the Face—and that therefore there were in Yu-Atlanchi secrets hidden even from its dwellers. Some obscure impulse bade him be cautious. So he said nothing of his vision of the Temple, but told them of his awakening, of the Indian he had found beside him as guide, and of his impulsive return. He showed them the scar of the wound that had been its penalty.
“As for what it was that summoned me back,” he said, “I cannot tell you—at least not now. It was a summons I might not disobey—” and that was true enough, he thought, as the face of Suarra came before him, and her appeal echoed in his heart.
“It is all I can say,” he repeated. “And all I have said is truth. How the summons came to me has no bearing upon the
matter, since because of it I am here. Stay—there is something else—”
He took from his pocket the packet that held Suarra’s caraquenque plume, opened it and held it toward them.
“Suarra’s,” breathed Dorina, and Huon nodded.
There was no question of their belief now. It might be well to put a spur to their own self-interest.
“And still there is one more thing,” he said slowly. “Regor has spoken of some purpose. Of that purpose, it may be I know as little as you. But this happened—”
He told them of the elfin bugles that had led him across the plain of the monoliths, and finally to the cleft in the ramparts. Huon drew a deep breath and stood erect, hope blazing upon his face, and Regor leaped to his feet, swinging his clubbed arm in a whistling circle.
Huon clasped Graydon’s shoulders. “I believe!” he said, voice shaking; he turned to Dorina:
“And you?”
“Of course it is truth, Huon!” she answered; but some swift calculation narrowed her lids and clouded her face, and Graydon thought for an instant she looked menacingly at him.
“You are our guest,” said Huon. “In the morning you shall meet the Fellowship and repeat to them what you have told us. And then you shall decide whether to call upon us for help, or go on alone. All that is ours is yours for the asking. And—Graydon—” he hesitated, and then with abrupt wistfulness—“by the Mother, I hope you throw your lot with ours! Regor, see to it that the little beast is cared for. Take this, Graydon,” he stooped and picked up the rifle. “Tomorrow you shall show us what it is. I will take you to your quarters. Wait for me, Dorina.”
He took Graydon by the arm, and led him toward the wall of the room opposite that which he had entered. He parted the webs.
“Follow,” he bade.
Graydon looked back as he passed after him. Dorina was standing, watching him with that menacing speculation stronger upon her face.
Graydon passed through the webs and followed Huon’s broad back into another faintly sparkling, black-walled corridor.
CHAPTER XI
The Deathless People
“Up, lad, bathe and break your fast. The Fellowship will soon be gathering, and I am here to take you to them.”
Graydon blinked uncomprehendingly at his awakener. Regor stood at the foot of his couch, on his face a broad smile that his scars turned into the grin of a benevolent gargoyle. He had changed the chain armor for the close-fitting garments that seemed to be the fashion of Yu-Atlanchi’s men. Black Regor he still was, however, for these were black, and black was the cloak that hung from his immense shoulders.
Graydon looked around that chamber to which Huon had led him, at the thick rugs which were like spun silk of silver, the walls covered by the webs of shadowy silver through which ran strange patterns of a deeper argent, webs which were drawn aside at one end of the room to reveal a wide alcove in which a sunken pool sparkled. He drew together the threads of memory.
Huon had watched and talked while two silent brown men had bathed and massaged away his weariness and the marks of Kon’s talons. And then had sat with him whilst he had eaten unfamiliar meats which two Indian girls, with wide wondering eyes, had set before him in dishes of crystal. Huon himself had poured his wine, asking many questions about the people who dwelt outside the Hidden Land. He had not seemed much interested in their arts or sciences or governments; but avidly so upon how death came to them, and what was done with the old, the customs of mating, whether there were many children and their upbringing. Ever and ever be had returned to the subject of death and the forms in which it came, as though it held for him some overpowering fascination.
And, at last, he had sat silent, thinking; then, sighing, had said:
“So it was in the old days—and which is the better way?”
He had risen, abruptly, and passed out of the chamber; the light had dimmed, and Graydon had thrown himself upon the couch to sink into deep slumber.
Why had Huon dwelt so persistently upon death? There was something about that which vaguely troubled Graydon. Suddenly he recalled that Suarra had said her people had closed the Door of Death. He realized that he had not taken her literally. But might it be truth—
He roused himself from his reverie, shook himself impatiently, and rising, walked over to the pool, splashed about and dried himself upon silken cloths. He returned to his chamber to find a table set with fruits, and with what seemed like wheaten cakes, and milk. He dressed quickly, and sat down to it. Not till then did Regor speak.
“Lad,” he said, “I told you that I am a subtle one. Now my subtlety tells me that so are you, and that very subtly you held back much from your story last night. Notably—your command from the Mother.”
“Good Lord,” exclaimed Graydon, in the Aymara equivalent “There’s nothing subtle in that discovery. I warned you I couldn’t tell you how—”
He stopped, afraid that he had hurt the giant’s feelings. But Regor smiled broadly.
“I’m not referring to that,” he said. “What you were careful not to mention was the reward the Mother promised you if you obeyed her summons—and managed to reach her.”
Graydon jumped, in his astonishment, choking on a bite of the wheaten cake.
“Ho! ho!” roared Regor, and gave him a resounding whack upon the back. “Am I not a subtle one, eh?
“Dorina is not here now,” he muttered slyly, looking up at the ceiling, “nor am I bound to tell Huon all I hear.”
Graydon swung around on his stool and looked at him.
Regor looked back quizzically, yet with such real friendship in his eyes that Graydon felt his resolve waver. There was something about Huon, as there had been about Lantlu, that made him feel lonely; something alien, something unhuman. Whether it was their beauty, so far beyond any dream of classic, antique sculpture, or whether it lay deeper, he did not know. But he felt none of it concerning this man. Regor seemed of his own world. And certainly he had demonstrated his kindliness.
“You can trust me, lad,” Regor answered his thought. “You were wise last night, but what was wisdom then may not be so now. Would this help you to decide—that I know Suarra, and love her as my own child?”
It turned the scale in Graydon’s mind.
“A bargain, Regor,” he said. “Question for question. Answer mine, and I’ll answer yours.”
“Done!” grunted Regor, “and if we keep them waiting let the Fellowship chew their thumbs.”
Graydon went straight to the matter that was troubling him.
“Huon asked me many questions last night. And the most of them were about death in my own land, its shapes, how it came to us; and how long men lived there. One would think he knew nothing of death except that which comes by killing. Why is Huon so curious about—death?”
“Because,” said Regor, tranquilly, “Huon is deathless!”
“Deathless!” echoed Graydon, incredulously.
“Deathless,” repeated Regor, “unless, of course, some one kills him, or he should choose to exercise a certain choice which all of us have.”
“Which all of you have!” echoed Graydon again. “You, too, Regor?”
“Even I,” answered the giant, bowing urbanely.
“But surely not the Indians,” cried Graydon.
“No, not they,” Regor replied, patiently.
“Then they die,” Graydon was struggling desperately to find some flaw in what seemed to him a monstrous condition. “They die, like my people. Then why have they not taught Huon all that death can be? Why ask me?”
“There are two answers to that,” said Regor with quite a professional air. “First, you—and therefore your race—are much closer to us than are the Emer, or as you call them, the Aymara. Therefore, Huon argues, he might learn from you what would probably come out of the Door of Death for us if it should be decided to reopen that door upon Yu-Atlanchi—all Yu-Atlanchi. It is, by the way, one of the matters that has made us outlaws. The second answer is, however, all-embra
cing. It is that, except in the rarest of cases, the Emer do not live long enough for any one to find out how they might possibly die except in the distressingly similar manner in which they do. I mean, they are killed before they have opportunity to die otherwise! It is another of the matters that has made us outlaws.” Graydon felt a nightmarish creep. Was Suarra too—deathless? And if so, then in the name of God how old was she? The thought was definitely unpleasant. They were unhuman, those hidden people; abnormal! Surely Suarra, with all her sweetness, was not one of these—monsters! He did not dare ask; approached the question obliquely.
“Dorina too, I suppose?” he asked.
“Naturally,” said Regor, placidly.
“She looks very like Suarra,” hazarded Graydon. “She might be her sister.”
“Oh, no,” said Regor. “Let me see—she was, I believe, the sister of Suarra’s grandmother—yes, or her great-grandmother. Something like that, at any rate.”
Graydon glared at him suspiciously. Was Regor after all making game of him?
“A sort of an aunt,” he observed, sarcastically.
“You might say so,” agreed Regor.
“Hell!” shouted Graydon, in utter exasperation, and brought down his fist on the table with a crash. Regor looked startled, then chuckled.
“What does it matter?” he asked. “One of your day-old babes, if it had the brain to think, would probably consider you an ancient as you do me. But it would accept it as natural. All these things are comparative. And if our ages offend you,” he added, unctuously, “be thankful that it is Dorina who is Suarra’s great-grandmother’s sister, and not the other way about.”
Graydon laughed; this was comforting common sense after all. And yet—Suarra centuries old, perhaps! Not Primavera, not the fresh young Springtide maid he had thought her! Well, there was no use crying about it. It was so, or it wasn’t. And if it were so—still she was Suarra. He thrust the whole matter aside.
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 119