Almuric, Robert E. Howard [love books to read .txt] 📗

only god the winged people

recognized—their own inhuman lust.

 

The thought of Altha being subjected to such a fate drove me into a

berserk frenzy, and steeled my resolution. There was but one chance—

to escape myself, and try to reach Koth and bring back enough men to

attempt a rescue. My heart sank as I contemplated the difficulties in

the way, but there was nothing else to be done.

 

Lifting Gotrah’s limp body I dragged it out of the chamber through a

door different from that through which Yasmeena had gone; and

traversing a corridor without meeting anyone, I concealed the corpse

behind some tapestries. I was certain that it would be found, but

perhaps not until I had a good start. Perhaps its presence in another

room than the chamber of the trap might divert suspicion from my

actual means of escape, and lead Yasmeena to think that I was merely

hiding somewhere in Yugga.

 

But I was crowding my luck. I could not long hope to avoid detection

if I lingered. Returning to the chamber, I entered the shaft, lowering

the trap above me. It was pitch-dark, then, but my groping fingers

found the catch that worked the trap, and I felt that I could return

if I found my way blocked below. Down those inky stairs I groped, with

an uneasy feeling that I might fall into some pit or meet with some

grisly denizen of the underworld. But nothing occurred, and at last

the steps ceased and I groped my way along a short corridor that ended

at a blank wall. My fingers encountered a metal catch, and I shot the

bolt, feeling a section of the wall revolving under my hands. I was

dazzled by a dim yet lurid light, and blinking, gazed out with some

trepidation.

 

I was looking into a lofty chamber that was undoubtedly a shrine. My

view was limited by a large screen of carved gold directly in front of

me, the edges of which flamed dully in the weird light.

 

Gliding from the secret door, I peered around the screen. I saw a

broad room, made with the same stern simplicity and awesome

massiveness that characterized Almuric architecture. The ceiling was

lost in the brooding shadows; the walls were black, dully gleaming,

and unadorned. The shrine was empty except for a block of ebon stone,

evidently an altar, on which blazed the lurid flame I had noted, and

which seemed to emanate from a great somber jewel set upon the altar.

I noticed darkly stained channels on the sides of that altar, and on

the dusky stone lay a roll of white parchment—Yasmeena’s word to her

worshippers. I had stumbled into the Akka holy of holies—uncovered

the very root and base on which the whole structure of Akka theology

was based: the supernatural appearances of revelations from the

goddess, and the appearance of the goddess herself in the temple.

Strange that a whole religion should be based on the ignorance of the

devotees concerning a subterranean stair! Stranger still, to an

Earthly mind, that only the lowest form of humanity on Almuric should

possess a systematic and ritualistic religion, which Earth people

regard as sure token of the highest races!

 

But the cult of the Akkas was dark and weird. The whole atmosphere

of the shrine was one of mystery and brooding horror. I could imagine

the awe of the blue worshippers to see the winged goddess emerging

from behind the golden screen, like a deity incarnated from cosmic

emptiness.

 

Closing the door behind me, I glided stealthily across the temple.

Just within the door a stocky blue man in a fantastic robe lay snoring

lustily on the naked stone. Presumably he had slept tranquilly through

Gotrah’s ghostly visit. I stepped over him as gingerly as a cat

treading wet earth, Gotrah’s dagger in my hand, but he did not awaken.

An instant later I stood outside, breathing deep of the river-laden

night air.

 

The temple lay in the shadow of the great cliffs. There was no moon,

only the myriad millions of stars that glimmer in the skies of

Almuric. I saw no lights anywhere in the village, no movement. The

sluggish Akkas slept soundly.

 

Stealthily as a phantom I stole through the narrow streets, hugging

close to the sides of the squat stone huts. I saw no human until I

reached the wall. The drawbridge that spanned the river was drawn up,

and just within the gate sat a blue man, nodding over his spear. The

senses of the Akkas were dull as those of any beasts of burden. I

could have knifed the drowsy watchman where he sat, but I saw no need

of useless murder. He did not hear me, though I passed within forty

feet of him. Silently I glided over the wall, and silently I slipped

into the water.

 

Striking out strongly, I forged across the easy current, and reached

the farther bank. There I paused only long enough to drink deep of the

cold river water; then I struck out across the shadowed desert at a

swinging trot that eats up miles—the gait with which the Apaches of

my native Southwest can wear out a horse.

 

In the darkness before dawn I came to the banks of the Purple River,

skirting wide to avoid the watchtower which jutted dimly against the

star-flecked sky. As I crouched on the steep bank and gazed down into

the rushing swirling current, my heart sank. I knew that, in my

fatigued condition, it was madness to plunge into the maelstrom. The

strongest swimmer that either Earth or Almuric ever bred had been

helpless among those eddies and whirlpools. There was but one thing to

be done—try to reach the Bridge of Rocks before dawn broke, and take

the desperate chance of slipping across under the eyes of the

watchers. That, too, was madness, but I had no choice.

 

But dawn began to whiten the desert before I was within a thousand

yards of the Bridge. And looking at the tower, which seemed to swim

slowly into clearer outline, etched against the dim sky, I saw a shape

soar up from the turrets and wing its way toward me. I had been

discovered. Instantly, a desperate plan occurred to me. I began to

stagger erratically, ran a few paces, and sank down in the sand near

the river bank. I heard the beat of wings above me as the suspicious

harpy circled; then I knew he was dropping earthward. He must have

been on solitary sentry duty, and had come to investigate the matter

of a lone wanderer, without waking his mates.

 

Watching through slitted lids, I saw him strike the earth near by,

and walk about me suspiciously, scimitar in hand. At last he pushed me

with his foot, as if to find if I lived. Instantly my arm hooked about

his legs, bringing him down on top of me. A single cry burst from his

lips, half-stifled as my fingers found his throat; then in a great

heaving and fluttering of wings and lashing of limbs, I heaved him

over and under me. His scimitar was useless at such close quarters. I

twisted his arm until his numbed fingers slipped from the hilt; then I

choked him into submission. Before he regained his full faculties, I

bound his wrists in front of him with his girdle, dragged him to his

feet, and perched myself astride his back, my legs locked about his

torso. My left arm was hooked about his neck, my right hand pricked

his hide with Gotrah’s dagger.

 

In a few low words I told him what he must do, if he wished to live.

It was not the nature of a Yaga to sacrifice himself, even for the

welfare of his race. Through the rose-pink glow of dawn we soared into

the sky, swept over the rushing Purple River, and vanished from the

sight of the land of Yagg, into the blue mazes of the northwest.