The snake-men—the few that survived—scattered wildly across the broad, gold-frosted floor. But the invaders were not yet victorious. The giant snake, hissing again, flung forward from where Vekyra had left it.
The tank stopped abruptly, and the little group of white men behind it. Price saw the yellow reptile’s head swaying back and forth, knew that the men must be experiencing the deadly fascination of its terrible eyes.
Tearing his gaze away from the battle, Price turned to Aysa, tried again to wake her. His improvised gas mask was evidently protecting him from the somniferous influence of the golden vapor. Perhaps the girl would recover, if he fixed one for her. They might at least have a few minutes together, before the finish.
He removed her
kafiyeh,
shook the yellow, metallic powder from it, drenched it with water and spread it over her quiet face. He was wetting his own handkerchief again when a startling chorus of furious growls and hisses drew his attention back across the pit.
The golden tiger had attacked the snake. The two monstrous beings thrashed about the xanthic-frosted floor in colossal combat. The tiger, bulky as an elephant, and stronger, still carrying the black
howdah,
was slashing ferociously at the reptile with claw and fang.
It found the snake no mean opponent. As Price watched, the serpent whipped a gleaming yellow coil about the tiger’s thick body, then another, and a third, constricting with crushing force. Still hissing, it struck with yellow fangs, again and again.
A Titan conflict of semi-metal giants, each preternaturally strong and powerful, each
centuries
old.
The puny men beyond, dwarfed by this spectacle, stopped for a time to stare at the battle royal.
Then the tank came to lumbering life again. It clattered out upon the vast floor. Stuttering machine-guns moved back and forth, and the last of the snake-men, staring dazedly at this gigantic battle of their gods, fell upon xanthic frost.
Beast and reptile seemed evenly matched; Price’s former allies, for the moment, were masters of the situation. He saw them gathered about the tank—but pigmies in this colossal place.
Thick, gross Jacob Garth.
Joao de Castro, small, alert, active.
Huge, ape-like Pasic, the Montenegrin.
A dozen others.
Sam Sorrows, Price’s staunch friend, who might have aided him again, was not with them. Sam, he recalled, had returned to the oasis with orders for the planes. Müller was now driver of the tank.
Garth and Joao de Castro appeared to be arguing with Müller, who was looking through the manhole. The man shrugged, and retired into the machine. The motor roared again, and the tank lumbered on through the thick yellow mist.
The Cyclopean battle was still at issue. The coils of the snake were constricting ever tighter about the tiger’s body. The reptile had ceased to hiss; but golden fangs still flashed.
The tiger, far from conquered, was tumbling upon the gold-powdered floor, tearing desperately at the serpent’s coils with yellow, savage claws. The glistening, metal-scaled body of the snake was ripped in many places, oozing bright, golden blood.
The tiger, evidently alarmed as the tank roared at them, staggered to its feet, lifting the squeezing snake clear of the floor. But the tank struck before it could leap aside. The force of the collision sent it reeling and staggering toward the abyss. It fell again, the inexorable coils of the serpent constricting ever tighter.
Perilously near the brink of the abyss the tiger had fallen. And seemingly it realized the danger, for, abandoning its attempts to rid itself of the snake, it struggled laboriously to its feet again, already half dead from the pressure of golden coils.
The tank’s motor had stalled. For a little time the gray fighting-machine was motionless; then it roared into life again. The snake-burdened tiger was just heaving to its feet when the tank struck it. The impact sent it staggering once more toward the chasm’s lip. The tank paused, roared after it.
It may be that the driver momentarily lost control of the tank, or perhaps he had not seen the abyss. At any rate, tank, tiger and snake went over the brink as one mass. Price watched them, falling free into the green-gold void, turning slowly about, the tiger still squeezed in an embrace of death. Yellow vapor hid them…
The roar of the madly racing motor died away below, and Price looked back across the abyss.
His former allies were victorious, masters at last of the treasure for which they had struggled so long. He faintly heard their feverish, excited voices, saw them falling upon their knees, scraping up the thick encrustation of golden crystals from the floor with bare hands.
He watched Joao de Castro and Pasic toil madly to fill a little cloth sack, in which they had carried food, with the yellow dust. When it was full, both laid bands upon it. Pasic snatched it easily away; the Eurasian flung himself upon him, knife flashing. They struggled, and the gold spilled unnoticed on the yellow floor. Deliberately Jacob Garth drew out his automatic and shot them down in cold brutality.
Insane with the gold-lust, the others paid no heed. They remained scraping at the xanthic dust, until the sinister sleep of the golden vapor fell upon them. Jacob Garth took alarm at last, staggered toward the entrance with a hoarse cry of warning.
But too late…
No, the men had not won mastery of the gold—it had conquered them. They lay sprawled where they had fallen, motionless in the sleep that would endure until they were men of gold.
When Price realized all this meant, his heart skipped a beat with incredulous relief. The way was cleared, now, for him to carry Aysa out. When she was safe, he could return and give these men what aid he could. But the hope of his glorious moment was rudely shattered.
Malikar came striding into the enormous room, grim, diabolical giant in his crimson robes,
a
spiked golden mace upon his shoulder. With a caution worthy of his antiquity, he had kept clear of his enemies until they were helplessly sleeping.
One by one, he visited the inert men. Ruthlessly, methodically, he changed their slumber into one that would not end. He stood among them, then, for a little time, leaning upon the great mace—it was now no longer yellow, but encrimsoned with blood and brains—a golden Nemesis, red-robed.
Then, shouldering the reddened mace, he started across the bridge.
31. KISMET
IT HAD BEEN a tactical error to meet Vekyra upon the bridge, Price realized, because she had been quicker and more agile than
himself
. But, in Malikar’s case, the same arguments did not apply. Vekyra had proved amazingly strong; Malikar’s far bulkier body was doubtless far stronger. In a contest merely of strength, Price could be certain of defeat; he must make it a battle of skill. And skill, quickness, would count for far more upon the giddy span.
Black premonition of doom was in his heart. Three times before he had encountered Malikar; three times he had been bested.
He bent, brushed the golden frost from Aysa’s lips with his own.
A few moments before he had seen himself carrying the girl into sunlight and the open air, where she would surely wake.
Now his brief cup of joy was shattered. Malikar, his other enemies gone, was more dangerous than ever.
A roar of startled rage told Price that Malikar had seen him through the mist. Brandishing the bloody mace, the yellow giant came at a run. Replacing the damp cloth over the girl’s face, Price snatched up the ancient ax and ran out to meet the priest.
Upon recognizing him, Malikar stopped. Resting the great club carelessly upon the narrow path, he laughed with a bellow of triumphant evil.
“Iru, again?” he shouted. “Fool, know you not that I am a god who can never die?”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Price, still advancing.
“You can never conquer
kismet!”
The yellow priest chuckled thickly, with leering evil in his shallow, tawny eyes. “Three times we have met. And three times has fate struck you down.
“In the catacombs of Anz,
kismet
willed that your ax-helve should break. When we fought in the
wadi,
fate placed a loose stone beneath your foot. Again we met here, and
kismet
sent sleep upon you.
“You fight not
me
alone.
Kismet
is against you!”
Realizing that Malikar meant the boast merely as an attack upon his morale, Price ran forward to begin the battle, but the priest’s mocking words had already served their purpose. They had filled him with the baseless but disturbing idea that all this adventure had been but a play of unseen forces, of sporting gods handling puppet strings, the idea that he was but a toy of cruelly jesting fate.
At his approach Malikar lifted the bloody mace, whirled it aloft and down. Oval buckler lifted, Price took the blow. It drove the shield down upon his head with stunning force, numbed his arms and shoulder.
An instant he reeled. The green-golden depths beneath the narrow bridge whirled confusingly. He made a desperate effort to clear his brain.
Korlu, the ancient ax, was lifted. And Malikar had not yet recovered the mace from his terrific blow. Price put every atom of his strength into a swing for the priest’s red skull-cap.
Malikar ducked, but the hewing blade caught his shoulder.
The blow went true; it would have split an ordinary man to the abdomen. But Malikar was semi-metal. His skin was gashed, and bright yellow blood oozed out, but the wound was insignificant.
The violence of his own blow sent Price half off the bridge. He staggered awkwardly to regain his balance, as Malikar swung up the spiked club for another blow.
Price regained his balance, stepped backward and let the mace go past. As the force of his swing swayed Malikar toward the edge of the bridge, Price struck swiftly with the ax, in the hope of upsetting his balance. Malikar recovered easily, and evaded the ax.
Price struggled against grim despair. Human muscle and bone could not endure many such terrific blows as he had received; and the ax, swung true with his full strength behind it, had not seriously wounded the golden man. In any mere exchange of blows, Price knew, he was doomed. He had but a single chance of victory—to catch Malikar in a critical position,
knock
him off the bridge into the yawning abyss. And the priest appeared to possess caution and a cat-like sense of equilibrium.
Perforce, Price changed his tactics. No more did he come to close quarters. He kept his distance, tempting Malikar to strike, avoiding—when he could—the smashing mace, waiting for the moment when a quick blow might send the priest into the abyss.
The yellow giant pressed forward continually, so that Price was forced to give ground before each blow, retreating at grave risk of missing his footing on the dizzy way. Moreover, each step back brought Price nearer the niche where Aysa lay, lessening his chance of victory. For, once Malikar gained the platform, the battle would be lost.
Twice again the ax went home. It was splashed with golden blood; but Malikar seemed not inconvenienced by his wounds.
Price was reeling. Again and again the mace had fallen upon his buckler, despite his efforts to avoid it. His left arm and shoulder ached from the terrific shocks. His head rang from concussion, oppressed with red mists of pain.
Exhaustion was near. The accumulated fatigue of many hours descended upon him. His present exertions were anything but light—lunging forward to draw the bloody mace, darting back to avoid it, swinging the yellow ax when opportunity presented.
Price dared not look back to see how much of the bridge remained behind him. But presently he glimpsed beneath his feet the glittering gouts of golden blood Vekyra had shed. Then he knew it was only a few feet to the platform, where he would be at Malikar’s mercy.
Desperately he stood his ground, as the mace rose and fell again. It drove the lifted buckler down upon his head with staggering force. The ancient ax went out again, at Malikar’s thick neck, all Price’s strength behind it.
Fatigue and the faintness of concussion slowed his arm. Malikar swayed back. The yellow blade flashed futilely in front of his throat.
Half dazed as he was, Price staggered toward the edge of the bridge, drawn by the weight of his ax. He swayed for a moment over the side of the narrow span, while the green-golden void beneath spun crazily.
Before he could recover his balance, Malikar struck again with the spiked golden club. Though his blow was hasty and relatively weak, its impact was staggering.
It struck Price’s right shoulder. Painful numbness ran along his arm. His fingers, paralyzed, relaxed their grip upon the helve of the outflung ax. The golden weapon spun away from him, whirled silently into yellow-green mist.
Price’s dazed mind reeled under the impact of the disaster as if from a second blow. Once more fate had stepped in, to defeat him,
“Kismet!”
shouted Malikar, leering triumphantly.
He lumbered forward, his spiked mace lifted. Helpless, Price tottered uncertainly back, fighting to keep his head clear enough to stand upon the narrow way.
The bright pool of Vekyra’s blood was just before Malikar, gleaming like
a gout
of molten gold. As he sprang forward,
kismet
once more entered the battle.
He stepped into the golden woman’s blood. As if Vekyra’s own malicious hand had seized his ankle, his foot slipped. He lurched forward awkwardly, shifting his heavy mace aside to maintain his balance.
Thus was provided the opening Price had been hopelessly fighting for. His whole body numb with fatigue and pain, he braced himself, swung his fist at the golden priest’s head.
Into that blow went the last, convulsive effort of his tortured body. As he felt his fist meet solid flesh and bone, bright, glittering lights flashed up through the green-gold void, and darkness drowned them.
He fell flat upon the narrow bridge, flinging out his hands to clutch the xanthic-frosted rock.
32. THE ANCIENT AYSA