At his right, a seneschal in scarlet robe read off the names of warriors at a rapid clip. These passed singly before the Lugal, saluting smartly and receiving from the nishak on the Lugal’s left their chits of entitlement. This each man pressed to his lips, bowing to his ruler, then turned and left the dais. Skal, whom Thork had pointed out to Jarvis, was approaching closer and closer to the head of the line of warriors awaiting their turn. Though Jarvis could not see Thork, he sensed him in the throng and knew that the giant Tharn was tensed and ready for action.
Ilil was not aware of Jarvis’ presence, and he worked subtly upon her Mag receptiveness to let her know he was there. He could not be sure she had wholly received his message, but he had no time for further effort.
“The bejak Skal!” rang out the voice of the seneschal. “For capturing the princess of Gipar, Ilil, one full na of purest gold, straight from the refinery of Drahubba!”
A cheer went up as Skal stepped forward and received his chit of entitlement. And that was Thork’s moment to act.
“Liar!” he roared. “Thief! I, Thork, contest Skal’s right to the prize! It was I who fought for her while that coward stole her and fled!”
Dead and utter silence reigned. Thork jostled his way up the line of warriors to the Lugal’s throne.
Skal shrieked aloud. “Seize that fugitive! Arrest him!”
“The first to lay a hand upon Thork,” bellowed the giant Tharn, “shall feel the edge of Thork’s blade!” He drew his sword and held it threateningly. “O Lugal!” he cried. “I claim the right of a Tharn—to put this coward’s accusations to the test of steel!”
The Lugal leaned forward interestedly in his throne, motioning his guard to stay their weapons.
“By the Dinigir, it really is Thork!” he boomed. “And you interest me. The Tharn admire audacity and you display it here in full measure.” He turned to the fuming Skal. “Now which of you is the more audacious, Skal? Would you prove your accusation?”
“The stealer of tharn impugns my courage,” Skal returned, outraged. “I am a noble Tharn, he but a thief and a liar!”
“I would know,” said the Lugal, “which fought the Giparian company and which fled the field of combat. The proof seems to favor Skal, who brought back the prize!”
“And he says so, Skal lies between his tusks!” retorted Thork contemptuously. “You know me, O Lugal. You gave me my name for my courage. Only one man accompanied the princess, not a Giparian, but a foreigner to Eloraspon. He fought like one of the Dingir, slaying Klor, Skloos and Bojar in the twinkling of an eye before engaging me with his sword. We fought long, while the sun climbed the sky, and in that time miserable Skal stole the prize and ran!”
The Lugal rose heavily to his feet, turning toward Jarvis.
“Is it true as he speaks, maid of Gipar?”
“Why ask her?” yelled Skal. “Out of hatred of me, she would lie!”
“Men of Gipar,” boomed the Lugal, “are brave warriors and truthful men. Their women cannot be less. Least of all, their princess. Speak, maid!”
Ilil’s pure voice rang out clearly. “He speaks truth!”
The Lugal sat down with a frown. “You should have approached me privately, Thork—”
He was interrupted by a squeal of rage from Skal, whose blade whistled in a cowardly blow that would have been fatal to Thork had not the Tharn anticipated just such a tactic. He leaped back, the tip of the glittering blade grazing his trappings, then his own weapon flashed and Skal wailed, blood flowing from his cheek, glistening crimson on his tusk.
Again Thork lifted his weapon. Skal squeaked with hate mingled with fear and ran behind the Lugal’s throne, the giant Thork hot on his heels. The audience hall was transformed into bedlam; the high ceiling rang with cheers and shouts of approval. Here was blood, and even the Lugal looked as if he enjoyed the sight of it. Nishaks and nobles scattered, clearing the dais.
Rounding the throne on a dead run, Skal, as a cornered rat suddenly turns and bares its fangs, skidded to a halt and faced his enemy with lifted blade. But he moved not quickly enough. Thork’s blade flashed in a glittering arc, cleaving the scoundrel from shoulder to navel, so that Skal fell down in parted halves at the Lugal’s feet. His blood gushed forth in a crimson flood, spoiling the precious carpet covering the dais.
With every glance riveted in the ecstasy of attention on the gory scene, it was the moment for Jarvis to act. He sprang at once to the captive-laden platform and lifted the princess Ilil into his arms.
A shout rang out from across the audience chamber charged with such a burden of authority that Jarvis instinctively froze in his tracks.
“Stay, Jeff Jarvis!”
Ilil moaned, burying her face against Jarvis’ chest, her voice muffled.
“Too late, my love! The Dingir have come!”
CHAPTER VII
Jarvis’ heart was singing, even as he stood immobile, holding Ilil in his arms. She had called him “my love”! From his elevated position, he saw the Dingir plainly, but he was not afraid.
There were three of them and they stood framed in the arched opening through which they had entered. They were three giant men, naked except for leather trappings, with hides of golden bronze.
Jarvis boomed a derisive meeting across the audience hall.
“I know you, Bronze Men of Surandanish! It is well that you know me, as you once knew Eamus Brock. I am like him, a Child of the Mighty, and I fear you not!”
The leader of the Dingir turned to the Lugal Zag-ab-Shab.
“Where the Dingir tread, order prevails. Clear out this mob!”
The order was scarcely necessary, for already the packed assemblage was thinning as those on the outskirts streamed out of the hall. Glad of the chance to get out themselves, the royal guard pressed upon the remainder, thrusting with the butts of spears and smacking with the flats of their blades. Terror at their heels, the crowd vanished like moisture sucked up by the sun.
The Dingir returned his attention to Jarvis.
“Now you see who rules here, Jeff Jarvis! You know what we know—that the maid too is a Child of the Mighty. Bring her and come with us.”
Jarvis set Ilil upon her feet, jumped to the floor below and took her down by his side. Signing her to stay where she was, he stalked toward the Dingir.
“What I know of you, Dingir, I know by hearsay. I do not like what I have heard. I do not like what I see. You can not intimidate the Mighty!”
The Dingir were armed all three with long swords. Other things hung also at their belts, unfamiliar things which Jarvis guessed were other weapons. The leader’s hand reached for one of these. Quick as light, Jarvis’ axe leaped into his hand, thence hurtled with a brilliant flash the space between them. The Dingir slammed to the floor, his skull split open. Jarvis retrieved the axe so swiftly it spun through the air and slammed into his hand like the Hammer of Thor.
The other two Bronze Men stooped and picked up their leader.
“You will have cause to regret this, Jeff Jarvis,” said one accusingly. He turned to the Lugal. “Let your guard take this man and this woman. Do not harm them. They are under protection of the Dingir. We shall be back!”
They carried their burden across the opposite corridor, to the wall bounding the central cylinder. The nearest to the wall drew a wand-like object from his belt, touched the wall with its tip, and they carried their burden through before the eyes of the Lugal and his nobles. Jarvis rushed to follow, but in the next moment he was surrounded by sword points. Elsewhere he heard the clashing of blades, strong oaths in the coarse voice of Thork and the ringing shout of Valdez, who had stormed out of hiding at the first show of force.
Slashing desperately, Jarvis fought his way to his friends and they stood together, ringed with steel, blade clanging upon blade in a furious effort to
carve a pathway to freedom. But for every Tharn that fell, two more took his place. The Peruvian plied a good blade and Jarvis shot Valdez a glance of approval as he saw him shake an incautious Tharn from its bloody tip.
Such an unequal battle could not hope for success. All three were soon disarmed, dragged to the Lugal and cast down at the foot of the throne, where the leader of the Tharn stared down at them with great, baleful eyes.
“You who call yourself Jarvis,” he growled, “have taught me something. I have seen you face the Dingir and defeat them. No longer do I fear them myself. I, Zag-ab-Shab, assert my rulership! You three shall be food for the slul—the maid I take for myself!” To his guard, “Take them to the tower!”
Jarvis felt the heavy hands of warriors. He was yanked to his feet and prodded with stinging sword tips toward the exit. He looked back over his shoulder. Thork and Valdez staggered under the same ignominious treatment, but it was not for them he had eyes. He saw the princess of Gipar, the great Lugal of the Tharn at her side, towering over her. Then Zag-ab-Shab picked her up as if she were thistledown and strode with her through the drapes at the back of the dais.
Then the Lugal’s warriors crowded in behind and Jarvis was pushed, shoved and dragged up ramp after ramp until it seemed that the painful ascent would never end. At the topmost floor, a Tharn climbed a ladder and opened a trap door in the ceiling. The prisoners were lifted and thrust through and the trap door slammed shut.
Jarvis got up from where he had sprawled, wincing from bruises. Overhead was the sky of Eloraspon; the surface under foot was gritty with blown dust. There was a low wall or coping around the limited area on which he found himself and Jarvis went to it and looked over, straight down into the streets of Drahubba.
“We have surely reached the end,” Thork said behind him. “No man could climb down that sheer wall, and none but the slul can approach this place from the air!”
“Rani!” Valdez called. “What about Rani?”
“She is still safe enough,” Jarvis replied, “and no worse off than she was before. I wish I could say as much for us.”
“We are as good as dead,” said Thork.
Jarvis almost was inclined to agree with him, for the material of the roof resisted his best efforts to pierce it with his Mag senses. They were marooned in the sky of Kullab.
“Tell me about the slul.” Jarvis spoke tersely to Thork.
“I have seen you walk through walls and strike down the Dingir themselves,” Thork said bleakly, “but you cannot escape the slul. None of us can. Tonight, Nanna and Munus rise in their full raiment of light—it is the night of the full moon… the Night of the Slul! On this night each month the slul glide through the upper air and man and Tharn alike huddle indoors. The slul are fierce, terrible, and invulnerable to weapons—and the worst punishment inflicted on the continent Dimgal is to condemn a man to the slul!”
“You are gabbling like an old woman,” Jarvis put in. “Tell me something accurate about the slul.”
Thork shrugged. “Who can say what the slul are like? Those who have seen them did not live to tell what they saw. They are shadows in the night, winged, beaked, clawed—what else can I tell you? They come from a land to the southeast, beyond the farthest mountains. The country is a high plateau where the Lulu used to believe their souls went after death to dwell underground, beneath pyramids of stone. The place is called Kurgal—the Great Mountain. It is inhabited by a race of troglodyte Lulu who live underground because the slul inhabit the surface and the air.
“The slul began their flight three nights ago—they fly over by night. By the time the moons are full, they shall have swarmed over the entire length and breadth of the land. Tonight they will sweep down the valley of the Idnal, attacking every living thing that walks abroad. They will ravage grain crops and slaughter cattle. By dawn, they will have returned to the snowy mountains behind Drahubba; thence by nightly stages they will return to their cheerless homeland.”
Jarvis interpreted for Valdez. The Peruvian shrugged, scratching his bearded chin.
“He paints a terrible picture, all right, but I don’t know whether to believe it or not. I gave myself up for dead once. It is too soon to suffer the ordeal again.”
“What does he say?” Thork wanted to know.
“He does not believe he is going to die,” Jarvis said.
The Tharn grunted. “He talks like a warrior. But the slul are not like a battle. The advantage is all on one side—theirs.”
Thork relapsed into silence and stared out over the thousand rooftops of Drahubba with arms folded. The expression on his twisted, blue features was resigned; his tusks glistened in the crimson glow of sunset, as if dipped in blood.
Already Nanna was a pale, milky shield at rest upon the eastern horizon. Twilight seemed to linger forever upon the hills and peaks towering over the city. Slowly the light faded. Stars came out and blinked upon the Elorasponian scene. Nanna climbed the eastern sky with Munus, his woman, tagging behind. It was a scene of rare beauty, Jarvis thought, the empty streets and barren rooftops aglow, the sky milky with the light of twin moons. He should remember it forever if he escaped this impossible situation.
A few of the window openings below glowed with internal light, but these quickly blacked out as nervous Tharn hastily installed shutters of dingan wood. Down there, somewhere behind one of the blacked-out windows, Ilil was shut away. Jarvis thought of her as he had seen her last, helpless in the arms of Zag-ab-Shab. His hands clenched and he felt the pain of his nails biting into his palms.
Thus Jarvis brooded on the topmost stage of that ancient tower, shut away from his companions, occupied with thoughts of his own. He knew that responsibility for their lives was his; responsibility for the maid Rani, too. He had acted too precipitously, imperiled them all. A sadness gripped him but did not blot out the hammering questions that macerated his brain. Who were the Dingir? Why had they not slain him when he attacked their leader? He had no doubt they could do it. And why, if they were immortal as Ilil asserted, had that one died so quickly with the first blow of his axe? Why did they want him and Ilil alive? There was something strange and unfathomable about it all and something about his remembrance of the slain Dingir that somehow frightened him.
Suddenly he stiffened. Like the thunder of a wild Wagnerian opera, a mighty sensation swept through his being and he knew that within his soul he heard the approaching song of the slul. Distant through they still were, the music of their being burst upon him in a welling flood of indescribable hate and rage, a nerve-shaking, soul-battering hymn of power that wrenched him through and through. The slul! Horrid and ferocious their soul-song, frightful their look and actions! Yet awoke in the being of Jeff Jarvis a kinship with those shadows in the night. He threw back his shoulders and flung his face to the sky. From the well-springs of his being burst forth an answering song, a call as from deity to deity, that winged forth upon the stillness of the night to say to the slul that he waited.
CHAPTER VIII
“The slul are coming,” Jarvis said to his companions, “but don’t be afraid.”
Valdez shivered. “Why not? Where are they?”
Jarvis gestured toward the mountains. “That way. They are my friends.”
Valdez looked at him strangely, his expression a mixture of scorn and disbelief in the pallid light of the city.
“I think I hear something,” Thork put in, “like the whistle of wind on millions of wings!”
Jarvis nodded. “I was telling Valdez they come. But they are our friends. My friends, at least, but they will not harm you because of me.”
Valdez said, “You don’t look crazy, Jarvis. Who—or what—are these ‘friends’ of yours?”
“It is a long story,” Jarvis said, “and when we get away from here I will explain it all to you. I can say this much: There are two types of being
s inhabiting this planet—natural creatures and what I call conceptual beings. The latter are invariably monsters, and they typify, each in its own kind, a concept of emotion. On the northern continent, I met the Sea People, like giant spiders but with souls of intense spiritual devotion. Then there were the Eeima, tiny humans who flutter in the sun on butterfly wings, and they represent the concept of carnal love. And now come the slul—the concept of rage and hate…but they descend, as well as do the others, from the race of the Mighty of old; a race that is beginning again in the modern mutants whom these conceptual beings call Children of the Mighty.”
“And you…?” said Valdez.
“They call me Child of the Mighty,” Jarvis said simply.
He turned his attention again to the milky sky and saw upon it fluttering shapes winging between the stars and again sent forth his call, that Song of Power, which to these conceptual was a promise of the re-establishment of the Mighty.
Into his being sliced a saw-edged thought, promulgated in the horde, piercing to his brain like an instrument of trepan.
“Jeff Jarvis! Welcome! We have heard of your coming. We have awaited you. Because of you, the Mighty will one day walk again upon the fields and hills of Eloraspon and our waiting will be over. We weary, Jeff Jarvis, of rage and hate. We weary of cruelty and destruction. We would live in peace with men…which we cannot do without you.”
“Shall the Mighty indeed walk again upon Eloraspon?” Jarvis cried from the depths of his soul. “The Tharn have placed me and my friends upon this tower to die in the foray of the slul. But none must die, else Eloraspon die also, and the seed of the Mighty be forever extinguished. We need your help, O slul!”
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 73