E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK® Page 10

  In deep, resonant tones they chanted as they advanced into the abysmal blacknesses of the vault, swaying their torches in cadence:

  “Lord of many brazen hells,

  Lord of the Painted Fan,

  Prince of the Outer Marches,

  Prince of the Borderland,

  Iblis, ’tis Thee that we adore,

  Just and logical God!”

  Flight after flight they marched, chanting as they descended into the depths, until finally, arriving at the foot of the winding stairs, they halted at the entrance of a great hall whose floor was paved with tiles of lapis lazuli.

  The master halted and lifted his left arm. His followers ceased chanting and, following Zantut’s example, removed their shoes before entering the sanctuary of Iblis.

  “Lord and Master,” intoned Zantut as he made a swift gesture with his left hand, “we Thy faithful servants bring Thee reverence and worship.” Then, with heads bowed and arms crossed, Zantut and his followers advanced across the blue tiles toward the Presence that sat cross-legged on a lofty dais at the farther end of the hall. When within five paces of the dais, all except Zantut halted, and kneeling, formed a semicircle.

  Zantut advanced to the first step, knelt, and carefully scrutinized the approach to the high place. With his finger tips he caressed the polished stones.

  “The holy place has not been defiled,” he announced. “The dust of the weary centuries has not been disturbed. The Master sits dreaming of the Night of Power; and his sleep has not been broken.”

  Then, raising his head and lifting up his arms, Zantut gazed full at the Presence.

  “Hail, Iblis, Lord of the Outer Darkness, Malik Taûs, Prince of the Painted Fan!” he saluted, and bowed his head once more to the paving.

  “Servants of Iblis,” he announced, “you may lift up your eyes and gaze at your Prince.”

  They contemplated their Prince, stared in wonder at the onyx blackness of his lean, aquiline features: the predatory nose and hard mouth of one whose iron soul has experienced everything save submission. But the eyes were sightless and blank.

  “He breathes,” murmured an adept.

  “That is but the final trace of life the conqueror could not quite extinguish,” explained Zantut. “And it is that trace which we must fan into full flame tonight. At each former meeting, Abdemon has failed; and this is his last chance. And we know best what this last chance is worth!

  “Talaat! Saoud! Ismail! Go up and get the girl, and Abdemon also. And tell Ibrahaim that when the comrades from Azerbaijan arrive, they are to descend at once. The hour is close at hand.”

  “Harkening and obedience, saidi,” replied Talaat, bowing first to the Dark Presence on the throne, and then to Zantut.

  From the dim shadows of the hall, Zantut and the two remaining adepts dragged forth a great block of chiseled porphyry, which they slid readily enough across the polished tiles to a position exactly in front of the throne. Zantut then plucked from five of the tiles the pentagonal silver plates with which they were inlaid, uncovering orifices that led to unplumbed depths beneath that subterranean hall. An adept, standing by, presented with ceremonious gestures a small glazed flask which Zantut with gestures equally formal accepted. As he un-stoppered the flask, acrid, resinous, violet-colored fumes rose from its mouth. The adepts knelt as Zantut paced about the ominous block of porphyry, pausing at each of the five holes in the floor to pour into the depths a portion of the fuming contents of the flask.

  Then a faint humming was heard, which in a few moments became a steady throbbing as of a slowly beaten drum: and tall, slender threads of violet flame rose from the openings in the floor.

  At Zantut’s signal, the torches were extinguished.

  “They are here, Master,” whispered the adept at the right of the altar.

  Zantut turned to face the entrance of the hall.

  The acolytes were bringing in the veiled Azizah, and Rankin, securely bound.

  “Lay them on the altar,” commanded Zantut.

  The deep resonance of a brazen gong rang down the succession of winding stairways, and rolled and thundered in the vaulted holy of holies.

  “The hour is at hand,” proclaimed Zantut solemnly. And then, to those who had carried Azizah and Rankin into the sanctuary: “The brethren from Azerbaijan are late. Did you see any signs of them?”

  “Yes, saidi. And Ibrahaim up there is watching the star of our Lord very closely so as to withhold the final signal until the very last moment. He will strike two warning taps. And then the third, to let you know that the moment has arrived. But they heard the first stroke, and are riding hard to get here in time.”

  “Very good,” acknowledged Zantut, as he stripped from Azizah the silken gauze that enfolded her. “This time our Lord will not be bothered with bungling swordsmen… Unbeliever, would it not have been better to have stayed in Feringhistan where you belong?”

  To which Rankin, bound and gagged, could reply with neither word nor gesture.

  “Ismeddin,” thought Rankin, as he saw an acolyte kneel at Zantut’s feet and present a long knife and a whetstone, “for once was wrong… That butcher’s tool is no thirsty sword…”

  Again the solemn, brazen resonance of the gong rolled and surged through the vaulted sanctuary.

  “Number two,” reflected Rankin. “Thank God she’s unconscious …”

  As the note of the gong died, there came from above the clank of arms and the tinkle of accouterments, and the measured tread of feet descending the winding stairways.

  “Ismeddin and the guard!” exulted Rankin.

  And then he heard the measured cadence of voices chanting in an unknown tongue.

  “The brethren from Azerbaijan!” shouted the assembled adepts.

  And Zantut, with statuesquely formal gestures, stroked the blade of his long knife against the whetstone, with each steely caress pausing to intone a sentence in a language that was forgotten when the last stone of that sanctuary of devil-worship was laid and awfully cemented into place.

  The brethren from Azerbaijan, still chanting, were filing into the hall, and grouping themselves in a crescent about the sacrificial stone.

  * * * *

  Through the coolness of the desert’s windswept night and through the sultry flame of its day rode Ismeddin and the Shareef, with but an occasional rest to share with their horses a handful of parched corn. But as the sun set on the eve of the 14th of Nisan, Ismeddin reined in the asil mare.

  “Slowly, uncle. We must let those sons of confusion get into their underground rendezvous with Satan. They are eight…eight at least—”

  “And doubtless, Hajj Ismeddin,” laughed’ the Shareef, “you are an old man—”

  “Praise be to Allah,” agreed the darvish, “my days have been many—”

  “And pious also,” scoffed the Shareef. “But what is your plan, Haaji?”

  “The sentry at the entrance must be silenced without disturbance. As for the rest…six or seven to one is not so bad… Inshallah! but I have a surprise for them. Hot fires for Satan’s wings, saidi!

  “To our left front, an hour’s easy ride from here, is Biban ul Djinni, in which the home of Malik Taûs is buried,” continued Ismeddin as he scanned the horizon.

  Dusk came swiftly on the heels of sunset. The Shareef followed the dirty white blotch that was Ismeddin’s djellab, and wondered what strange device the darvish had in mind. For while Ismeddin had signaled the captain of the guard, he had not given him a chance, even with the hardest riding, to overtake them. The encounter would surely be against odds.

  From afar they heard the sonorous clang of a gong. The lower edge of the first full moon of spring had just cleared the horizon. Filing down Biban ul Djinni was a caravan of camels and horses, bearing at a steady gait toward a dust
er of shattered columns whose stumps towered skyward. As the light of the rising moon grew stronger, they could pick out the figure of a warder on guard in the center of a circular courtyard.

  “Worse and worse yet!” exclaimed Ismeddin, as the Shareef drew up beside him. “Though I more than half expected as much. About forty of those sons of Satan… You and I might have taken those seven by surprise—”

  “Well, why not wait for the guard, Haaji?” demanded the Shareef.

  “Too late!” snapped Ismeddin. “You heard that gong? A warning signal. That caravan arrived just in time for the sacrifice. You and I must stop it.”

  “Wallah! But the odds are great… Still—” The Shareef drew his scimitar.

  “After my own heart, saidi!” exclaimed the darvish. “But rash. Let them first get under ground—”

  “But how about the sentry?” demanded the Shareef. “He’ll give the alarm.”

  “On the contrary, uncle. Look!”

  Ismeddin produced from his capacious wallet a small, glittering object: the effigy of a peacock carved of silver.

  “Malik Taûs! The damnation of Allah upon him!” exclaimed the Shareef as he recognized the symbol of the devil-worshipers.

  “Follow me!” commanded Ismeddin, as he spurred his weary horse flown the steep side of the valley.

  They rode boldly now, making no attempt at concealment. The warder standing watch in the center of the ruined courtyard was taking an observation with his astrolabe, following the course of a star that flamed bloodily overhead. Then he set aside his instrument and smote a brazen gong whose golden sheen they could plainly see in the white moonlight. The solemn, vibrant note rolled dreadfully across the valley. The tall figure of doom once more turned his astrolabe on the star whose altitude he was reading.

  Ismeddin leaned forward in the saddle, chirping and muttering to his exhausted beast.

  “Allah, what a horseman!” gasped the Shareef as he saw the asil mare, true to her breeding, stretch out again at a full gallop.

  They clattered up the broad avenue, clearing fragments of monstrous columns at a bound, Ismeddin shouting in a language unknown to the Shareef.

  The warder started, and turned to face them.

  “Hurry, saidi! The moment is almost here.” And then: “The sign and the symbol!”

  Ismeddin extended the silver image of the peacock, and in response to the warder’s muttered formula, replied in that same obscure tongue.

  The warder bowed, gestured toward the cavernous entrance to the vault, and turned to resume his observations…

  The Shareef’s blade flickered in the moonlight.

  Ismeddin seized one of the torches that flared smokily at each side of the copper image, and plunged into the depths, three steps at a time.

  * * * *

  “Snick-snick-snick!” whispered the slender knife as Zantut continued the ceremonial whetting.

  “Christ on the mountain tops!” despaired Rankin. “Sharpen that knife and be done with it!”

  Rankin sighed, and relaxed as the diabolical whisper of steel against stone ceased, and Zantut, pacing about the altar, passed his hands and knife through each of the five streamers of violet flame. The Dark Prince would this time be victorious without even stepping from his throne. And this was the last chance…

  From the depths came the ever-increasing volume of a beaten drum.

  “Abaddon in the darkness beats his black drum triumphantly!” intoned Zantut. And then he uttered a word of command, at which the assembled devil-worshipers knelt about the altar.

  Zantut, knife in hand, stepped forward.

  “Malik Taûs, Lord and Master, accept the sacrifice that Thy servants offer!” he intoned, timing his words so that the last syllable would be coincident with the final stroke of the gong. “Malik Taûs, the Night of Power is at hand. Malik Taûs, the broad moon rises—”

  “Halt!” commanded a voice that rang like sword against sword.

  Zantut whirled about, knife in hand.

  The adepts leaped to their feet.

  Ismeddin, sword in one hand, torch in the other, stood in the entrance. Following him came the Shareef.

  “Holy darvish! Oh, son of many pigs!” roared the Shareef, and opened fire with his pistol. But the old man’s rage was too much for his aim.

  “Steady, uncle!” snapped Ismeddin. “You’ll hit the girl!”

  Zantut and his followers charged, swords drawn.

  Ismeddin dashed his blade to the floor, drew from his djellab a slim tube the length of his forearm, and touched it with his torch.

  The fuse sputtered…and then a cascade of sparks and flame.

  “There is neither might nor majesty save in Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!” thundered Ismeddin. “Out, sons of calamity!”

  And as he sprayed the devil-worshipers with his torrent of flame, he side-stepped to his right, flanking the howling, smoking, milling company of adepts, driving them toward the entrance of the vault.

  The devil-worshipers bolted, Zantut leading.

  The Shareef opened fire with his pistol.

  Ismeddin tossed aside the dead signal rocket and retrieved his blade.

  “Allah Akbar!” roared the Shareef as he dropped his emptied pistol, drew his sword, and carved his way into the fugitives, cutting them down as they fought their way up the stairs.

  Above the confusion and uproar of the slaughter, Ismeddin heard the clank of arms and the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, far above them.

  “If that’s the guard,” observed Ismeddin, as he paused to wipe on his djellab the blood-drenched grip of his scimitar, “all is well. But if it’s reinforcements for these sons of flat-nosed mothers, they’ll regain their wits… Drive hard, uncle!”

  And the two graybeards resumed the pursuit, slashing and hacking as they took the steps three at a leap.

  “Bismillahi!” exclaimed the Shareef, as he paused for breath. And then, listening to the increasing uproar from the courtyard: “Mamoun and the guard are at it!”

  “Wallah! But he made good time,” agreed Ismeddin. “Do you blame me for stealing a few horses like those, Cousin of the Prophet?”

  “Not after a night like this,” panted the Shareef.

  “And now,” resumed Ismeddin, “let us attend to our work downstairs. Much is to be done, and there is little time.”

  They retraced their steps, picking their way among the devil-worshipers that lay on the slippery stairs.

  “Seven…eight,” counted Ismeddin as he led the way, “nine…son of a disease, how did I miss you?”

  The old man’s blade drove home.

  “Nine…ten…eleven,” continued the darvish. “And now, when we release Saidi Rankin, we will see some fighting. The Father of Lies must step from his black throne and meet Abdemon, sword to sword. And if Abdemon defeats him, the promise of Suleiman will at last be kept.”

  “But he is a kaffir!” protested the Shareef. “And my brother’s daughter—”

  “Be that as it may. If Saidi Rankin wins, it will only be because it so pleases Allah. Would you rather leave her spirit in the hands of Shaitan the Damned? Give me a hand, here,” directed Ismeddin, as they halted at the black altar on which the prisoners lay bound.

  Together they pushed the massive block a dozen paces from the throne, then cut the cords that bound Rankin, and removed from between his teeth the piece of wood with which he had been gagged.

  “Ismeddin!” gasped Rankin as he stretched his numbed limbs. “How much of this did you foresee?”

  “All of it, saidi,” smiled the darvish. “Except the final outcome. And that, inshallah, depends on your sword.”

  Rankin leaped to the tiled floor and flexed his cramped legs. He stared in wonder at the unveiled feature
s of Azizah.

  “Allah, and again, by Allah! Neferte…after all these centuries… Then give me a sword!”

  “Presently, my lord, presently.” And then, to the Shareef: “Kaffir or true believer, she is his…for even Satan’s fortune can not last forever.”

  Whereupon Ismeddin with a piece of chalk traced on the floor a circle some ten paces in diameter; and at three of the four cardinal points of the compass he inscribed a curious symbol, and several characters in the ancient Kufic script. Then from his knapsack he took a small box whose contents, a fine, reddish powder, he poured evenly in a circle that inclosed the first circle drawn in chalk, except for a yard-long gap precisely in front of the dark stranger’s throne.

  “Saidi Rankin—Abdemon, as tonight you are—take your post,” commanded the darvish. “Just a pace from the inner circumference, and facing that dark mocker on his lofty throne. Will you use my sword, or that of our lord, the Shareef?”

  “Yours will bring me luck, Haaj Ismeddin,” replied Rankin. “Though all swords are alike tonight,” he concluded, as with a final glance at the sleeping loveliness on the porphyry block, he turned to belt Ismeddin’s scimitar to his waist.

  “No scabbards tonight,” directed the darvish. “Take only the blade.” As Rankin took his post, Ismeddin advanced to the foot of the dais. Extending his arms, Ismeddin began his invocation:

  “Father of Mockeries, Master of Deceptions,” he intoned, “the dusty centuries are weary of your dominion. The word of Suleiman seeks its fulfilment, and the servant of Suleiman awaits your awakening. Dark Prince, Black Lord, the circle of your destiny has been drawn, and a doom awaits you with a sword.”

  The darvish advanced a step of the ascent to the dais.

  “I know your hidden name, and I can speak it to your ruin,” continued the darvish; and thus, step by step, he ascended. But on the last step, instead of speaking aloud, he leaned forward and whispered in the ear of the Dark Prince.

  “Harkening and obedience,” growled the Presence. And like a doom that marches down the corridors of the world, he strode down the steps of his dais and entered the circle, facing Rankin.