The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  And, flaring into sudden rage at this untimely interruption just in the very moment of success, he jerked his pistol from its holster, and stood up in the boat.

  “I’ll have no butting in here!” he cried in a loud, harsh voice. “Who the devil is Kamrou, I’d like to know? Go on, on, to shore!”

  “My son—”

  “You order these men to grab those ropes again and go ashore or I warn you there’s going to be a whole big heap of trouble!”

  Over the waters drifted another hail, and the strange long boat, under the urge of vigorous arms, now began to move toward Stern’s fleet. At the same time, mingled cries arose on shore. Stern could see lights moving back and forth; some confusion was under way there, though what, he could not imagine.

  “Well,” he cried, “are you going to order these men to go forward? Or shall I—with this?”

  And menacingly he raised the grim and ugly gun.

  “Oh my son!” exclaimed the patriarch, his lips twitching, his hands outstretched—while in the boats a babel of conflicting voices rose—“O my son, if I have sinned in keeping this from you, now let me die! I hid it from your knowledge, verily, to save my people—to keep you with us till this thing should be accomplished! My reckoning was that Kamrou and his men would stay beyond the Great Vortex, at their labor, until after—”

  “Kamrou?” shouted Stern again. “What the deuce do I care about him? Who is he, anyhow? A Lanskaarn, or—”

  The girl seized Allan’s hand.

  “Oh, listen, listen!” she implored. “I—”

  “Did you know about this? And never told me?”

  “Allan, he said our work could all be done before they—”

  “So you did know, eh?”

  “He said I must not tell you. Otherwise—”

  “Oh, hang that! See here, Beatrice, what’s the matter, anyhow? These people have all gone crazy, just in a second, the old man and all! If you know anything about it, for God’s sake tell me! I can’t stand much more!

  “I’ve got to get this machine to land before they go entirely nutty and drop it, and we lose all our work for nothing. What’s up? Who’s this Kamrou they’re talking about? For Heaven’s sake, tell me!”

  “He’s their chief. Allan—their chief! He’s been gone a long time, he and his men. And—”

  “Well, what do we care for him? We’re running this village now, aren’t we?”

  “Listen. The old man says—”

  “He’s a hard nut, eh? And won’t stand for us—is that it?” He turned to the patriarch. “This Kamrou you’re talking about doesn’t want us, or our new ideas, or anything? Well, see here. There’s no use beating around the bush, now. This thing’s going through, this plan of ours! And if Kamrou or anybody else gets in the way of it—good-by for him!”

  “You mean war?”

  “War! And I know who’ll win, at that! And now, father, you get these men here to work again, or there’ll be some sudden deaths round here!”

  “Hearken, O my son! Already the feast of welcome to Kamrou is beginning, around the flame. See now, the boat of his messenger is close at hand, bidding all those in this party to hasten in, for homage. Kamrou will not endure divided power. Trust me now and I can save you yet. For the present, yield to him, or seem to, and—”

  “Yield nothing!” fairly roared the engineer, angrier than he had ever been in his whole life. “This is my affair now! Nobody else butts in on it at all! To shore with these boats, you hear? or I begin shooting again! And if I do—”

  “Allan!” cried the girl.

  “Not a word! Only get your gun ready, that’s all. We’ve got to handle this situation sharp, or it’s all off! Come, father,” he delivered his ultimatum to the patriarch; “come, order them ashore!”

  The old man, anguished and tremulous, spoke a few words. Answers arose, here, there. He called something to the standing figure in the despatch-boat, which slackened stopped, turned and headed for the distant beach.

  With some confusion the oarsmen of the fleet took up their task again. And now, in a grim silence, more disconcerting even than the previous uproar, the boats made way toward land.

  Ten minutes later—minutes during which the two Americans kept their revolvers ready for instant action—the aeroplane began to drag on the bottom. Despite the crowd now gathered on the beach, very near at hand and ominously silent, Stern would not let the machine lie even here, in shallow water, where it could easily have been recovered at any time. Like a bulldog with its jaws set on an object, he clung to his original plan of landing the Pauillac at once.

  And, standing up in the boat with his pistol leveled, he commanded them, through the mediumship of the patriarch, to shorten the ropes and paddle in still closer. When the beach was only a few rods distant he gave orders that all should land, carrying the ropes with them. He himself was one of the first to wade ashore, with Beatrice.

  Ignoring the silent, expectant crowd and the tall figure of Kamrou’s messenger—who now stood, arms crossed, amazed, indignant, almost at the water’s edge—he gave quick commands:

  “Now, clear these boats away on both sides! Make a free space, here—wider—so, that’s right. Now, all you men get hold of the ropes—all of you, here, take hold, you! Ready, now? Give way, then! Out she comes! Out with her!”

  The patriarch, standing in fear and keen anxiety beside him, transmitted the orders. Truly the old man’s plight was hard, torn as he was between loyalty to the newcomers and terror of the implacable Kamrou. But Stern had no time to think of aught but the machine and his work.

  For now already the great ungainly wings of the machine were wallowing up, up, out of the jetty waters; and now the body, now the engine showed, weed-festooned, smeared with mud and slime, a strange and awesome apparition in that blue and ghastly torch-flare, as the toiling men hauled it slowly, foot by foot, up the long slope of the beach.

  Dense silence held the waiting throng; silence and awe, in face of this incomprehensible, tremendous thing.

  Even the messenger spoke not a word. He had lost somewhat of his assurance, his pride and overbearing haughtiness. Perhaps he had already heard some tales of these interlopers’ terrible weapons.

  Stern saw the man’s eyes follow the revolver, as he gestured with it; the high-lights gleaming along the barrel seemed to fascinate the tall barbarian. But still he drew no step backward. Still in silence, with crossed arms, he waited, watched and took counsel only with himself.

  “Thank God, it’s out at last!” exclaimed the engineer, and heaved a sigh of genuine, heartfelt relief. “See, Beatrice, there s our old machine again—and except for that broken rudder, this wing, here, bent, and the rent where the grapple tore the leather covering of the starboard plane I can’t see that it’s taken any damage. Provided the engine’s intact, the rest will be easy. Plenty of chance for metalwork, here, and—”

  “Going to take it right up to the village, now?” queried she, anxiously glancing at the crowd of white and silent faces, all eagerly staring—staring like so many wraiths in a strange dream.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “That depends,” he answered. He seemed already to have forgotten Kamrou and the threatening peril in the village, near the great flame. Even the sound of distant chanting and the thudding of dull drums stirred him not. Fascinated, he was walking all round the great mechanical bird, which now lay wounded, weed-covered, sodden and dripping, yet eloquent of infinite possibilities, there on that black, unearthly beach.

  All at once he spoke.

  “Up to the village with it!” he commanded, waving his pistol-hand toward the causeway and the fortified gates. “I can’t risk leaving it here. Come, father, speak to them! It’s got to go into the village right now!”

  Then Kamrou’s messenger, grasping the sense if not the words of the command, strode forward—a tall, lithe figure of a man, well-knit and hard of face. Under the torchlight the dilated pupils of his pinkish eyes seemed to shine as pho
sphorescent as a cat’s.

  Crying out something unintelligible to Stern, he blocked the way. Stern heard the name “Kamrou! Kamrou!”

  “Well, what do you want now?” shouted the engineer, a huge and sudden anger seizing him. Already super-excited by the labors of the day and by the nervous strain of having recovered the sunken biplane, all this talk of Kamrou, all this persistent opposition just at the most inauspicious moment worked powerfully upon his irritated nerves.

  Cool reason would have dictated diplomacy, parley, and, if possible, truce. But Stern could not believe the Folk, for so long apparently loyal to him and dominated by his influence, could work against their vital interest and his own by deserting him now.

  And, all his saner judgment failing him, heeding nothing of the patriarch’s entreaties or of the girl’s remonstrance as she caught his arm and tried to hold him back, he faced this cooly insolent barbarian.

  “You, damn you, what d’you want?” he cried again, his finger itching on the trigger of the automatic. “Think I’m going to quit for you, or Kamrou, or anybody? Quit, now?”

  “Think a civilized white man, sweating his heart out to save your people here, is going to knuckle under to any savage that happens to blow in and try to boss this job? If so, you’ve got another guess coming! Stand back, you, or you’ll get cold lead in just one minute!”

  Quick words passed from the old man to the messenger and back again. The patriarch cried again to him, and for a moment Stern saw the barbarian’s eyes flicker uneasily toward the revolver. But the calm and cruel face never changed, nor did the savage take one step backward.

  “All right, then!” shouted Stern, “seeing red” in his overpowering rage. “You want it—you’ll get it—take it, so!”

  Up he jerked the automatic, fair at the big barbarian’s heart—a splendid target by the torchlight, not ten feet distant; a sure shot.

  But before he could pull trigger the strange two-pronged torch was tossed on high by somebody behind the messenger, and through the dull and foggy gloom a wild, fierce, penetrant cry wailed piercingly.

  Came a shooting, numbing pain in Stern’s right elbow. The arm dropped, helpless. The boulder which, flung with accurate aim, had destroyed his aim, rolled at his feet. The pistol clattered over the wet, shining stones.

  Stern, cursing madly, leaped and snatched for it with the other hand.

  Before he could even reach it a swift foot tripped him powerfully. Headlong he fell. And in a second one of the very ropes that had been used to drag the Pauillac from the depths was lashed about his wrists, his ankles, his struggling, fighting body.

  “Beatrice! Shoot! Kill!” he shouted. “Help here! Help! The machine—they’ll wreck it! Everything—lost! Help!”

  His speech died in a choking mumble, stifled by the wet and sodden gag they forced into his mouth.

  About him the mob seethed. Through his brain a quick anguish thrilled, the thought of Beatrice unaided and alone. Then came a wonder when the death-stroke would fall—a frightful, sick despair that on the very eve of triumph, of salvation for this Folk and for the world as well as for Beatrice and himself, this unforeseen catastrophe should have befallen.

  He struggled still to catch some glimpse of Beatrice, to cry aloud to her, to shield her; but, alone against five hundred, he was powerless.

  Nowhere could he catch even a glimpse of the girl. In that shoving, pushing, shouting horde, nothing could be made out. He knew not even whether civil war had blazed or whether all alike had owned the rule of Kamrou the Terrible.

  Like buoys tossing upon the surface of a raging sea, the flaring torches pitched and danced, rose, fell. And from a multitude of throats, from beach and causeway, walls and town, strange shouts rang up into the all-embracing, vague, enshrouding vapor.

  Still striving to fight, bound as he was, he felt a great force driving him along, on, on, up the beach and toward the village.

  Mute, desperate, stark mad, he knew the Folk were half carrying, half dragging him up the causeway.

  As in a dark dream, he vaguely saw the great fortified gate with its huge, torchlighted monolithic lintel. Even upon this some of the Folk were crowded now to watch the strange, incredible spectacle of the man who had once turned the tide of battle against the Lanskaarn and had saved all their lives, now haled like a criminal back into the community he had rescued in its hour of sorest need.

  His mind leaped to their first entry into the village—it seemed months ago—also as prisoners. In a flash he recalled all that had happened since and bitterly he mocked himself for having dared to dream that their influence had really altered these strange, barbarous souls, or uplifted them, or taught them anything at all.

  “Now, now just as the rescue of these people was at hand, just as the machine might have carried us and them back into the world, slowly, one by one—now comes defeat and death!”

  An exceeding great bitterness filled his soul once more at this harsh, cynic turn of fate. But most of all he yearned toward Beatrice. That he should die mattered nothing; but the thought of this girl perishing at their hands there in the lost Abyss was dreadful as the pangs of all the fabled hells.

  Again he fought to hold back, to try for some sight, even a fleeting glimpse of Beatrice; but the Folk with harsh cries drove him roughly forward.

  He could not even see the patriarch. All was confusion, glare, smoke, noise, as he was thrust through the fortified gate, out into the thronged plaza.

  Everywhere rose cries, shouts, vociferations, among which he could distinguish only one a thousand times repeated: “Kamrou! Kamrou!”

  And through all his rage and bitter bafflement and pain, a sudden great desire welled up in him to see this chief of the Folk, at last—to lay eyes on this formidable, this terrible one—to stand face to face with him in whose hand now lay everything, Kamrou!

  Across the dim, fog-covered expanse of the plaza he saw the blue-green shimmer of the great flame.

  Thither, toward that strange, eternal fire and the ghastly circle of the headless skeletons the Folk were drifting now. Thither his captors were dragging him.

  And there, he knew, Kamrou awaited Beatrice and him. There doom was to be dealt out to them. There, and at once!

  Thicker the press became. The flame was very near now, its droning roar almost drowning the great and growing babel of cries.

  On, on the Folk bore him. All at once he saw again that two-pronged torch raised before him, going ahead; and a way cleared through the press.

  Along this way he was carried, no longer struggling, but eager now to know the end, to meet it bravely and with calm philosophy, “as fits a man.”

  And quite at once he found himself in sight of the many dangling skeletons. Now the quivering jet of the flame grew visible. Now, suddenly, he was thrust forward into a smooth and open space. Silence fell.

  Before him he saw Kamrou, Kamrou the Terrible, at last.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  GAGE OF BATTLE

  The chief of the People of the Abyss was seated at his ease in a large stone chair, over which heavy layers of weed-fabric had been thrown. He was flanked on either side by spearsmen and by drummers, who still held their iron sticks poised above their copper drums with shark-skin heads.

  Stern saw at a glance that he was a man well over six feet tall, with whipcord muscles and a keen, eager, domineering air. Unlike any of the other Folk, his hair (snow-white) was not twisted into a fantastic knot and fastened with gold pins, but hung loose and was cut square off at about the level of his shoulders, forming a tremendous, bristly mass that reminded one of a lion’s mane.

  Across his left temple, and involving his left eye with a ghastly mutilation, ran a long, jagged, bright red scar, that stood out vividly against the milk-white skin. In his hands he held no mace, no symbol of power; they rested loosely on his powerful knees; and in their half-crooked fingers, large and long, Stern knew there lay a formidable, an all but irresistible strength.

  At sight
of the captives—for Beatrice, too, now suddenly appeared, thrust forward through another lane among the Folk—Kamrou’s keenly cruel face grew hard. His lips curled with a sneer of scorn and hate. His pinkish eyes glittered with anticipation. Full on his face the flare of the great flame fell; Stern could see every line and wrinkle, and he knew that to beg mercy from this huge barbarian (even though he would have begged), were a task wholly vain and futile.

  He glanced along the circle of expectant faces that ringed the chief at a distance of some fifteen feet. Surely, thought he, some of the many Folk that he and the girl had saved from butchery, some to whom they had taught the rudiments of the world’s lost arts, would now show pity on them—would stand by them now!

  But no; not one face of all that multitude—now that Kamrou had returned—evinced other than eager interest to see the end of everything. To Stern flashed the thought that here, despite their seeming half-civilization in the use of metals, fire, dwellings, fabrics and all the rest, dwelt within them a savagery even below that of the ancient, long-extinct American Indians.

  And well he knew that if both he and Beatrice were not to die the death this day, only upon themselves they must depend!

  Yes, one face showed pity. But only one—the patriarch’s.

  Stern suddenly caught sight of him, standing in the front rank of the circled crowd, about twenty feet away to the left, just beyond the girl. Tears gleamed in the old man’s sightless eyes; his lips quivered; the engineer saw his hands tremble as he twisted the feeble, impotent fingers together in anguish.

  And though he could catch no sound in that rising, falling, ever-roaring tumult of the flame, he knew the patriarch, with some vague and distant remnant of the old-time and vanished religion of the world, was striving to pray.

  Stern’s eyes met the girl’s. Neither could speak, for she, too, was gagged with a rough band of fabric which cruelly cut her beautiful, her tender mouth. At sight of her humiliation and her pain, the man’s heart leaped hotly; he strained against his bonds till the veins swelled, and with eyes of terrible rage and hate stared at Kamrou.