by Don Wilcox
A guard, followed by a squad of boys, came trudging toward our alcove.
“Prisoners, where are you? Prisoners, where are you?” The guard went over his little sing-song rhythm. “Come out. Veeva wants to see you. Follow me.”
His squad opened our doors, and he turned and walked off, confident that we would follow him. We did.
The Queen herself rode across the vast Red Room to meet us.
“Come, follow me. I promised that you would meet the King.”
“Is he awake?” Shorty blurted anxiously.
The girl laughed. “We can’t wait for that. I’ve been waiting for thousands of years for him to awaken.”
“Thousands?” the professor asked gravely.
“Thousands,” said Veeva.
Shorty jumped at the chance to pursue this topic.
“Thousands of years. Gee-Wilikins.
Did he tell you it would be like that, or did you just figure he was droppin’ down fer an afternoon nap?”
“I’ve never talked with him,” the girl said.
“Never?” I gasped. “But at the time you married him you must have at least said ‘I do’ or something.”
Veeva smiled at me and gave a funny little toss of her head as if these matters didn’t concern her too much.
“I’ve no particular recollection of getting married to him. I only know that his sleep began before the ceremony, and he’s never been awake since.”
The passage from the Red Room led into a narrow winding tunnel.
Soon we were ascending steps that were hewn out of the brightest pink stone. The walls, too, were a luminous pink. The color lent a magic to this winding stairway.
When we reached the top of the ascent, we seemed to be in complete darkness. Then our eyes adjusted, and the scene became half-visible. We were in a round blue-walled chamber, as spherical as if it had been cut with a diamond point.
Thin lines of deep blue light encircled us like windings of luminous blue wire. The room was about fifty-five feet wide. The ceiling was lost in the steamy blue darkness. A few stone benches could be seen, lined around the circular wall.
We spoke in whispers. Every breath, every whisper, every footstep echoed round and round.
“The Firemakers are here,” said Veeva. “They are watching Gandl.”
“Is he sleeping?” Shorty asked.
“That’s all he does. It is such a sleep that you will think him dead,” said Veeva. “But he is the King.”
To her, that explained everything. “How do you know that the Firemakers haven’t killed him?”
Shorty’s suggestion was shocking to Veeva. She was quick with a confident answer—an answer which was packed with superstition. “They wouldn’t dare. If they thought of such a thing, the King himself would strike them dead. He sleeps with a jeweled dagger at his side.”
“I see,” said Professor Peterson, choosing to stifle any further questions from Shorty. When the professor found a guarded moment he whispered a bit of advice to us. We must not say things that would suggest any doubt to Veeva’s faith in the King.
“Only Gandl has cut through this maze,” Peterson warned us. “The girl is as saturated with it as the Firemakers themselves.”
We sat on the stone benches, staring at the deep gloom in the center of the room. We were in the King’s presence now. He was there on the coffin-shaped resting place, Veeva assured us, though I could scarcely see anything until she led us to the middle of the room.
The unbelievable was at hand. There lay Gandl on a simple slab of stone. That was his bed, right beside the King’s. It was a full step lower and it made me wonder whether a King’s dreams flowed downhill.
Now I could make out the figure of the King, a long slender form of darkness upon the highly ornamented bed of stone. For the moment, I did not scrutinize his features, being more concerned with Gandl.
The light was too dim for me to be sure Gandl was breathing. He was as still as death. My heart skipped a beat. Could it be that the sleeping King had already acted?
But how could he? It was silly for me to fall into the spell of these ignorant superstitions. The power of any King, sleeping or awake, lies in the belief of his people in him.
We moved from Gandl to the more ornamental bed. The moment of meeting was at hand.
Veeva stood before us. Her manner was reverent. She was motioning us to look down upon this figure. This undoubtedly was the only person in the world to whom she was subject.
Then we gazed down at the shadows.
I could make out a little dagger, bright with jewels, lying at the King’s side. But the King was nothing more nor less than an old gray skeleton, crumbling in decay.
For a few minutes I did not realize what perils were impending. It was all silence that prevailed in this chilled room of the cave. It was a frightening silence.
The King had lain there for thousands of years, a heap of dry bones. And yet, by the strange miracle of iron-bound tradition, he was the ruler of this lost civilization. And now once more he was about to exert his will.
The Firemakers sat rigidly, their cruel eyes burning fiercely through the darkness. They were like statues, but one could not easily forget that they were present. Peterson, Shorty and I retired to the farther end of the rounded room. I had edged around until the sight of Gandl came clearly. A dim light glinted off his profile, and there was a slow rhythmic breathing evident in the turning of reflected light over the iron muscles of his chest.
Shorty whispered to me, “How in hell can the King kill him?”
“The King can’t.”
The round walls of the room echoed our whispers, and we dared say no more. But suddenly this whole situation came clear to me. I saw the ritual for what it was—gross superstition. And to think I had almost fallen for it!
Yes, the Firemakers had everything their way. All they needed to do was to destroy Gandl and their authority would remain unchallenged. They could destroy Gandl and somehow make the people believe the King had done it.
A sound of footsteps intruded. The boys were coming. Their chattering voices hushed as they approached the door of the King’s room. I saw the tallest Firemaker gesture to his fellows to remain seated. Then he crossed to the entrance.
“What do you want?”
There was a low jumble of conversation in the language I could not understand. The tall Firemaker appeared to be relieved. He turned to his fellows.
“The ice roof is crumbling three rooms beyond the red corridor. Go! All help is needed.” He turned to us. “You, too. Your help is needed at once. Follow the boys.”
Terrifying chills raced through my spine. Nothing had frightened me more than the falling during our descent. I knew the ceilings could not be stable when there were such frequent evidences of breaks and faults in the overhead ice. And so for an instant I was taken in. We all moved toward the door—all except the tall Firemaker, who sauntered back, intent on remaining here.
I acted on impulse. I rolled under a low shelf of rock that had been left for a bench. Here the darkness was complete. The Firemaker could not see me.
He paced uneasily until the voices of the retreating party faded away. Finally he sat down on the stone bench. Again everything was deathly silent.
I hardly dared breathe. Among these round walls the slightest sound was dreadfully magnified. But I had a terrifying curiosity that made me want to crawl the length of this hiding place to make sure no one else was with me. A foolish thought. I had seen everyone go. There were only the four of us now—the tall Firemaker, and Gandl asleep, the dead King, and myself.
Was Gandl asleep?
The tall Firemaker was asking himself that question too, I knew. He must have been in doubt, or he would have committed a murder on the spot. Now he sauntered to the doorway, and his footsteps could be heard retreating down the hall.
This was perfect. It gave me a chance to know whether Gandl was asleep or only pretending. I made the most of my opportunity I crawled out
of my shadowy hiding-place and crept over to Gandl’s side.
“Listen, Gandl. It’s me, Jim McClurg. I am here watching you. There’s no one on guard now except the tall Firemaker. Do you hear me?”
Gandl made no response other than a slight change in the rhythm of his breathing.
“I have something to say to you,” I persisted. “You know their proposition. The King is supposed to whisper his will to you. But you know he can’t do that. It’s impossible. Do you hear me?”
CHAPTER XXI
Gandl Hears the King
Gandl breathed drowsily. “Go ahead. I’m listening. Are you the King?”
“It’s me, Jim McClurg. Are you going to lie here and let them kill you?”
Such a heaviness of sleep was upon him that he must have been having nightmares. From his mumbling I gathered that he thought I was the King and that he welcomed my whisper.
“They are going to kill me if I don’t get your message. They think you won’t speak to me because I am a rebel.”
That was my cue. I could not pass it by.
I whispered in a heavy authoritative accent that I thought a king might use:
“I am the King. I am talking with you, Gandl .. Have you ever heard me before?”
“No, never. I have only pretended.
This is the first time your voice has reached me. I never believed in you. I thought you were nothing but Death.”
“But you do hear me now, and I have many things to say to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“First of all, you were right to leave this place and visit the lands beyond. Now that you have come back, you must tell these people what you have seen. There are no enemies abroad.”
Gandl murmured happily, “No enemy. That’s what I told them. I did not find anyone in the outside world who was not a friend.” Then his tone changed. “But you are asleep, and if there are no enemies, why don’t you awaken?”
This question stumped me. I had run into a trap of my own making, but I took a long chance.
“I can’t awaken. I am dead. Whether enemies come or go, I shall always remain in a state of death. But you, Gandl, you must lead the people out of their ignorance.”
“Have I the power? The Firemakers would not let me—”
“You must over-rule them,” I commanded.
“Does Veeva know that you are dead?”
“If you tell her that I have come to you in this dream, giving you my last message, she will believe.”
“I will tell her,” said Gandl, “but will she not be heartbroken?”
My heart almost stopped beating as I realized what power lay in my hands at this moment. But I had already plunged, and if my trick failed, I would have earned death already. So I replied to Gandl with the bold answer that inflamed my mind.
“You must tell her that it is time for her to choose a new king.”
“A new king . . . a new king . . .”
Gandl drifted back into the deep mists of sleep.
I started to crawl back to the side of the room, but something stopped me. Echoing footsteps; the Firemaker was returning. I hastily hid myself under Gandl’s low bed beside the resting place of the King. For many minutes I watched the sandaled feet of the tall Firemaker as he walked around.
“Sleeping well, my friend?” the Firemaker whispered. Gandl made no response.
“The ice is falling in some of the rooms beyond. There is danger.”
This suggestion apparently made no impression on the sleeping rebel. But I knew that the Firemaker was testing to make sure that his victim was sound asleep.
The sandaled feet came near to the stone bed right before my eyes. I knew that the Firemaker was hovering over Gandl now. From the stain of the angles I guessed that he was reaching.
Then I heard a metallic scraping over the King’s resting place. That was the little jeweled dagger. The Firemaker had picked it up. Now he was taking a stance, his feet wide apart. The moment was at hand.
I struck with all my force. My right arm swung like a mallet against the Firemaker’s left ankle. With a flash of light, a silver sandal swept upward and the tall man went down. His metal bracelets clanked against the floor.
I rolled out from under the stone. My eyes were sharp for signs of the jeweled dagger, and my hands groped. But my only advantage was another strike at his ankles, and for the second time I hurled him off balance.
Then I saw that the weapon of death was still in his hand. He was bounding up, coming at me. In the dimness, he was but three spots of light—a pair of fiery eyes and the gleaming blade.
I was on my feet now, and instantly I raced away to the far side of the elevated resting place of the King.
In doing so I left Gandl unprotected, and the poor fellow was still sleeping. How fatigued he must have been from his journey over the ice wilderness, or was he perhaps sleeping into death? Once more the grip of this underworld magic was upon him. Strange, that such thoughts could paralyze me in the brief seconds that held the fate of Veeva and her people in the balance.
Above all, Gandl must not be killed. For that would restore the Firemakers to power and exalt them and magnify their glory for generations to come.
The Firemaker glided to the edge of Gandl’s stone bed, like a bird about to take flight. He was plunging over the top to me. Gandl and the King were merely his stepping-stones. Veeva should have seen that!
With upraised arm he plunged down at me. I flung myself at his feet once more, and he went sprawling across the floor. To my horror, some of the bones from the dusty old skeleton fell with him, for he had tripped over the King in crossing. As he lay there, momentarily stunned by his fall, I could see the decaying bones of the King’s hand lying across his metal sandal. Somehow, that glimpse struck home. Even as I rushed forward, impelled to capture the dagger, I paused long enough to fling a hand at that bit of skeleton. It scooted under the stone bed.
That was a costly moment. I might have had my hands on the dagger, but the tall Firemaker was coming back into action in a flash. He rolled away from me and bounded up on his feet. I think I got in three or four blows over his head and back before he could wheel on me.
Instantly the chase was on again, and I was retreating. The room fairly roared with the noise of battle. It was enough to wake the King from the dead. How many times we ran around the regal resting-place, I do not know.
My moments were numbered. Once the blade ripped down across the back of my hand. My feet were like lead, it seemed, and my breath was gone. I seemed to be guiding myself more by sound than sight, keeping out of range of the shadowy form, scowling and panting and growling threats in weird words that I could not misunderstand.
Then I picked up the only weapon I could lay my hands on—a bone from the resting place of the King. I hurled a thigh-bone full into the Firemaker’s face. For an instant he staggered, then I was upon him, clutching the gaunt wrist which was frozen upon the dagger. We struggled back and forth in a deadlock. Once the tip of the blade cut the side of my neck. Until that moment I had hoped to knock out my enemy somehow, without doing him mortal injury. But it was kill or be killed.
Summoning all my strength, I forced him over the King’s resting place. He tripped, and his long, shadowy body fell. I threw him on a twist. His elbow was under him as he went down, and the dagger plunged up through his chest.
CHAPTER XXII
Gandl’s Farewell to the King
He was quiet. I shrank back to the wall, rubbing my hands, terrified over the hideous thing I had done.
I waited. There were no further sounds of breathing. Those little murmurings came from Gandl. I wonder what weird nightmares he had endured during his battle.
I could hear his voice becoming distinct.
“I will tell them,” he said, “that you are dead. Veeva must choose another king. That’s what I will tell them.”
His words brought me to my senses.
There was no time to lose. Even now I could hear a gr
owing clamor of voices, from a distance. The other Firemakers were returning. Again I whispered:
“You are right, Gandl. I, the King, am at last dead. But I must whisper to you one more secret. There was one Firemaker who would not believe what you are about to tell them. And so, as my last act, I have killed him. You must tell the others I have done this, and they will believe.”
I hastily dragged the body of the tall Firemaker to the side of the room where he had previously stationed himself. His fur clothing had absorbed a part of his blood, so that no trail was left.
I returned to the King’s resting place and recovered the skeletal hand. It was almost complete. One of the bones of the lower arm was attached, part of the little finger was missing. I closed this cluster of bones around the handle of the dagger, which still hung in the dead Firemaker’s chest.
By the time the party returned the scene was in order. I was hidden. I held my breath, listened.
Veeva and the most loyal of her Firemakers were the first to arrive. They paused in the doorway. Gandl was mumbling.
“He is still asleep,” Veeva said. “Can you see him?”
“Our eyes will adjust to the light in a moment,” said the friendly Firemaker. “Come—I will lead you to him. He is talking in his sleep.”
The low mumbling went on for several minutes, and I could hear Veeva whispering to her companion as they tried to make out what Gandl was saying.
“Yes, I have heard your message,” Gandl said. “Are you gone now?.. Are you gone? . . . Come back, O King, and say these words to them. I am afraid they won’t believe me. They call me a rebel . . . What, you assure me that they will believe?”
Other Firemakers appeared at the doorway and waited there, listening to this weird, one-sided communication. Veeva whispered to them to stay back.
“He is talking with the King. He is receiving some very strange message. He thinks we will not believe him because he is a rebel.”