Elak of Atlantis (22 page)

In contrast with the huge figure of Cyaxares, Chalem seemed slight; yet, despite his wounds, he stood stiffly upright, no trace of expression on his pale face.

A strange contrast! The marbled, tapestried throne-room of the palace was more suitable to gay pageantry than this grim scene. The only man who did not seem incongruously out of place stood beside the throne, a slim, dark youth, clad in silks and velvets that had apparently not been marred by the battle. This was Necho, the king’s confidant, and, some said, his familiar demon. Whence he had come no one knew but of his evil power over Cyaxares there was no doubt.

A little smile grew on the youth’s handsome face. Smoothing his curled dark hair, he leaned close and whispered to the king. The latter nodded, waved away a maiden who was oiling his beard, and said shortly:

“Your power is broken, Chalem. Yet we are merciful. Render homage and you may have your life.”

For answer Chalem spat upon the marble flags at his feet.

A curious gleam came into Cyaxares’s eyes. Half inaudible he murmured, “A brave man. Too brave to die.…”

Some impulse seemed to pull his head around until he met Necho’s gaze. A message passed in that silent staring. For Cyaxares took from his side a long, bloodstained sword; he rose, stepped down from his dais—and swung the brand.

Chalem made no move to evade the blow. The steel cut through bone and brain. As the dead man fell, Cyaxares stood looking down without a trace of expression. He wrenched his
sword free.

“Fling this carrion to the vultures,” he commanded.

From the group of prisoners nearby came an angry oath. The king turned to face the man who had dared to speak. He gestured.

A pair of guards pushed forward a tall, well-muscled figure, yellow-haired, with a face strong despite its youth, now darkened with rage. The man wore no armor, and his torso was crisscrossed with wounds.

“Who are you?” Cyaxares asked with ominous restraint, the sword bare in his hand.

“King Chalem’s son—Prince Raynor.”

“You seek death?”

Raynor shrugged. “Death has come close to me today. Slay me if you will. I’ve butchered about a dozen of your wolves, anyway, and that’s some satisfaction.”

Behind Cyraxares came a rustle of silks as Necho moved slightly. The king’s lips twitched beneath the shaggy beard. His face was suddenly hard and cruel again.

“So! Well, you will crawl to my feet before the next sun sets.” He gestured. “No doubt there are torture vaults beneath the palace. Sudrach!”

“If I crawl to your feet,” Raynor said quietly, “It’ll be to hamstring you, bloated toad.”

The king drew in his breath with an angry sound. Without another word he nodded to Sudrach, and the torturer followed Raynor as he was conducted out. Then Cyaxares went back to his throne and mused for a time, till a slave brought him wine in a gilded chalice.

But the liquor had no power to break his dark mood. At last he rose and went to the dead king’s apartments, which the invaders had not dared to plunder for fear of Cyaxares’ wrath. Above the silken couch a gleaming image hung from its standard—the scarlet wyvern, wings spread, barbed tail stiffly upright. Cyaxares stood silently staring at it for a space.

He did not turn when he heard Necho’s soft voice. The youth said, “The wyvern has conquered once again.”

“Aye,” Cyaxares said dully. “Once again, through vileness and black shame. It was an evil day when we met, Necho.”

Low laughter came. “Yet you summoned me, as I remember. I was content enough in my own place, till you sent
your summons.”

Involuntarily the king shuddered. “I would Ishtar had sent down her lightnings upon me that night.”

“Ishtar? You worship another god now.”

Cyaxares swung about, snarling. “Necho, do not push me too far! I still have some power—”

“You have all the power,” the low voice said. “As you wished.”

For a dozen heart-beats the king made no answer. Then he whispered, “I am the first to bring shame upon our royal blood. When I was crowned I swore many a vow on the tombs of my fathers—and for a time I kept those vows. I ruled with truth and chivalry—”

“And you sought wisdom.”

“Aye. I was not content. I sought to make my name great, and to that end I talked with sorcerers—with Bleys of the Dark Pool.”

“Bleys,” Necho murmured. “He was learned, in his way. Yet—he died.”

The king’s breathing was unsteady. “I know. I slew him—at your command. And you showed me what happened thereafter.”

“Bleys is not happy now,” Necho said softly. “He served the same master as you. Wherefore—” The quiet voice grew imperious. “Wherefore live! For by our bargain I shall give you all power on earth, fair women and treasure beyond imagination. But when you die—you shall serve me!”

The other stood silent, while veins swelled on his swarthy forehead. Suddenly, with a bellowing, inarticulate oath, he snatched up his sword. Bright steel flamed through the air—and rebounded, clashing. Up the king’s arm and through all his body raced a tingling shock, and simultaneously the regal fires of the flambeaux darkened. The air was chill—and it whispered.

Steadily the room grew blacker. Now all was midnight black, save for a shining figure that stood immobile, blazing with weird and unearthly radiance. Little murmurs rustled through
the deadly stillness. The body of Necho shone brighter, blindingly. And he stood without moving or speaking, till the king shrank with a shuddering cry, his blade clattering on the marble.

“No!” He half sobbed. “For
His
mercy—no!”

“He has no mercy,” the low voice came, bleak and chill. “Therefore worship me, dog whom men call king. Worship me!”

And Cyaxares worshipped….

2. BLOOD IN THE CITY

Prince Raynor was acutely uncomfortable. He was stretched upon a rack, staring up at the dripping stones of the vault’s roof, and Sudrach, the torturer, was heating iron bars on the hearth. A great cup of wine stood nearby, and occasionally Sudrach, humming under his breath, would reach for it and gulp noisily.

“A thousand pieces of gold if you help me escape,” Raynor repeated without much hope.

“What good is gold to a flayed man?” Sudrach asked. “That would be my fate if you escaped. Also, where would you get a thousand golden pieces?”

“In my apartment,” Raynor said. “Safely hidden.”

“You may be lying. At any rate, you’ll tell me where this hiding place is when I burn out your eyes. Thus I’ll have the gold—if it exists—without danger to myself.”

Raynor made no answer, but instead tugged at the cords that bound him. They did not give. Yet Raynor strained until blood throbbed in his temples, and was no closer to freedom when he relaxed at last.

“You’ll but wear yourself out,” Sudrach said over his shoulder. “Best save your strength. You’ll need it for screaming.” He took an iron bar from the fire. Its end glowed red, and Raynor watched the implement with fascinated horror. An unpleasant way to die.…

But as the glowing bar approached Raynor’s chest there came an interruption. The iron door was flung open, and a tall, huge-muscled black entered. Sudrach turned,
involuntarily lifting the bar as a weapon. Then he relaxed, his eyes questioning.

“Who the devil are you?” He grunted.

“Eblik, the Nubian,” said the black, bowing. “I bear a message from the king. I lost my way in this damned palace, and just now blundered to my goal. The king has two more prisoners for your hands.”

“Good!” Sudrach rubbed his hands. “Where are they?”

“In the—” The other stepped closer. He fumbled in his belt.

Then, abruptly, a blood-reddened dagger flashed up and sheathed itself in flesh. Sudrach bellowed, thrust out clawing hands. He doubled up slowly, while his attacker leaped free, and then he collapsed upon the dark stones and lay silent, twitching a little.

“The gods be praised!” Raynor grunted. “Eblik, faithful servant, you come in time!”

Eblik’s dark, gargoylish face was worried. “Let me—” He slashed the cords that bound the prisoner. “It wasn’t easy. When we were separated in the battle, master, I knew Sardopolis would fall. I changed clothes with one of Cyaxares’ men—whom I slew—and waited my chance to escape. It was by the merest luck that I heard you had offended the king and were to be tortured. So—” He shrugged.

Raynor, free at last, sprang up from the rack, stretching his stiffened muscles. “Will it be easy to escape?”

“Perhaps. Many are drunk or asleep. At any rate, we can’t stay here.”

The two slipped cautiously out into the corridor. A guard lay dead, weltering in his blood, not far away. They hurried past him, and silently threaded their way through the palace, more than once dodging into passages to evade detection.

“If I knew where Cyaxares slept, I’d take my chances on slitting his throat,” Raynor said. “Wait! This way!”

At the end of the narrow hall was a door which, pushed open, showed a moonlit expanse of garden. Eblik said, “I remember—I entered this way. Here—” He dived into a bush and presently emerged with a sword and a heavy battle-ax; the latter he thrust in his girdle. What now?”

“Over the wall,” Raynor said, and led the way. The high rampart was not easy to scale, but a spreading tree grew close to it, and eventually the two had surmounted the barrier.
As Raynor dropped lightly to the ground he heard a sudden cry, and, glancing around, saw a group of men, armor gleaming in the moonlight, racing toward him. He cursed softly.

Eblik was already fleeing, his long legs covering the yards with amazing speed. Raynor followed, though his first impulse was to wait and give battle. But in the stronghold of Cyaxares such an action would have been suicidal.

Behind the pair the pursuers bayed menace. Swords came out flashing. Raynor clutched his comrade’s arm, dragged him into a side alley, and the two sped on, frantically searching for a hiding place. It was Eblik who found sanctuary five minutes later. Passing the blood-smeared, corpse-littered courtyard of a temple, he gasped a hasty word, and in a moment both Raynor and Eblik were across the moonlit stretch and fleeing into the interior of the temple.

From a high roof hung a golden ball, dim in the gloom. This was the sacred house of the Sun, the dwelling place of the primal god Ahmon. Eblik had been here before, and knew the way. He guided Raynor past torn tapestries and overthrown censers, and then, halting before a golden curtain, he listened. There was no sound of pursuit.

“Good!” The Nubian warrior said. “I’ve heard of a secret way out of here, though where it is I don’t know. Maybe we can find it.”

He drew the curtain aside, and the two entered the sanctuary of the god. Involuntarily Raynor whispered a curse, and his brown fingers tightened on his rapier hilt.

A small chamber faced them, with walls and floor and ceiling blue as the summer sky. It was empty, save for a single huge sphere of gold in the center.

Broken upon the gleaming ball was a man.

From the wall a single flambeau cast a flickering radiance
on the twisted, bloodstained body, on the white beard that was dappled with blood. The man lay stretched across the globe, his hands and feet impaled with iron spikes that had been driven deeply into the gold.

Froth bubbled on his lips. His hoary head rolled; eyes stared unseeingly. He gasped. “Water! For the love of Ahmon, a drop of water!”

Raynor’s lips were a hard white line as he sprang forward. Eblik helped him as he pried the spikes free. The tortured priest moaned and bit at his mangled lips, but made no outcry. Presently he lay prostrate on the blue floor. With a muttered word, Eblik disappeared, and came back bearing a cup which he held to the dying man’s mouth.

The priest drank deeply. He whispered, “Prince Raynor! Is the king safe?”

Swiftly Raynor answered. The other’s white head rolled.

“Lift me up—swiftly!”

Raynor obeyed. The priest ran his hands over the golden sphere, and suddenly, beneath his probing fingers, it split in half like a cloven fruit, and in its center a gap widened. A steep staircase led down into hidden depths.

“This altar is open? I cannot see well. Take me down there. They cannot find us in the hidden chamber.”

Raynor swung the priest to his shoulders and without hesitation started down the steps, Eblik behind him. There was a low grating as the altar swung back, a gleaming sphere that would halt and baffle pursuit. They were in utter darkness. The prince moved cautiously, testing each step before he shifted his weight. At last he felt the floor level beneath his feet.

Slowly, a dim light began to grow, like the first glow of dawn. It revealed a bare stone vault, roughly constructed of mortised stones, strangely at variance with the palatial city above. In one wall a dark hole showed. On the floor was a circular disk of metal, its center hollowed out into a cup. Within this cup lay a broken shard of some rock that resembled gold-shot marble, half as large as Raynor’s hand. On the shard were carved certain symbols the prince did not recognize, and one that he
did—the ancient looped cross, sacred to the sun-god.

He put the priest down gently, but nevertheless the man moaned in agony. The maimed hands clutched at air.

“Ahmon! Great Ahmon… give me more water!”

Eblik obeyed. Strengthened, the priest fumbled for and gripped Raynor’s arm.

“You are strong. Good! Strength is needed for the mission you must undertake.”

“Mission?”

The priest’s fingers tightened. “Aye; Ahmon guided your steps hither. You must be the messenger of vengeance. Not I. I have not long to live. My strength ebbs….”

He was silent for a time, and then resumed. “I have a tale to tell you. Do you know the legend of the founding of Sardopolis? How, long ago, a very terrible god had his altar in this spot, and was served by all the forest dwellers… till those who served Ahmon came? They fought and prisoned the forest god, drove him hence to the Valley of Silence, and he lies bound there by strong magic and the seal of Ahmon. Yet there was a prophecy that one day Ahmon would be overthrown, and the bound god would break his fetters and return to his first dwelling place, to the ruin of Sardopolis. The day of the prophecy is at hand!”