Phalanxes of Atlans
_By F. V. W. Mason_
CONCLUSION
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
[Illustration: _Yes, there came a strange, but welcome sight._]
[Sidenote: Never did an aviator ride a more amazing sky-steed than
Alden on his desperate dash to the great Jarmuthian Ziggurat.]
Victor Nelson and Richard Alden are forced down on a flight over an
unexplored Arctic region. Returning from a hunt for food, Nelson finds
his companion gone; but many footprints and blood splashes establish a
clear trail to a tunnel, passing beneath a range of very high
mountains on the edge of the unexplored area. In following the trail,
Nelson encounters and slays an allosaurus, a terrible, carnivorous
species of dinosaur surviving from the Cretaceous era.
Then he presses on to presently emerge in an almost tropical valley
and encounter a remnant of the long lost Atlantean race, who are ruled
by a dynasty of English-speaking kings--descendants of Sir Henry
Hudson, who had wandered into Atlans after being abandoned by his men.
This valley in the Arctic owes its existence to the thinness of the
earth's crust, which permits the interior heat to warm the surface.
The Atlanteans are on the verge of war with another race, the
Jarmuthians, descended from the Lost Tribes of Israel, when Nelson is
transported to Heliopolis, the Atlantean Capital, for trial. All
strangers must prove their value to the State or be condemned to feed
the war monsters.
Nelson soon discovers that Alden had been captured from the Atlanteans
by the Jarmuthians. He strikes a bargain with Altorius, Emperor of
Atlans. He will undertake to fight any six of the enemy on condition
he and Alden will be released if successful.
Altorius agrees to Nelson's suggestion and makes a proposal to the
Jarmuthians. Heretofore he had been paying them an annual tribute of
six maidens, as price for the safety of Altara, Sacred Virgin of
Atlans, whom Jarmuth had captured in a previous war. With Nelson's
bargain in mind he offers an increase of six maidens to the annual
tribute, if the American fails to defeat six Jarmuthian champions. On
the other hand, if Nelson wins, all tribute will cease, Altara will
not be sacrificed, and Alden is to be returned unharmed.
On a dueling ground between the rival armies Nelson, armed with his
Winchester rifle, sallies out to battle with the enemy, who, on their
side, are armed with retortii--curious weapons hurling live
steam--fungus bombs, swords and lances.
The tricky Jarmuthians, however, mount their men on a diplodocus, a
huge dinosaur some eighty-seven feet in length. All seems lost; but by
blinding the colossal creature, Nelson destroys its usefulness, and
one by one kills the six Jarmuthians.
Stung with rage, the enemy disregard the terms of the contest and
attack with their whole army. They are, however, defeated, and the
conquered Jarmuthians sullenly turn over Alden and the captive
maidens; though Altara still remains in their possession.
After making much of the Americans, Altorius reluctantly allows his
preservers to depart for their plane--unconscious that the priestly
party is planning rebellion against his authority because he did not
insist on Altara's return.
CHAPTER VII
"That's one of the fixed retortiis I was speaking about," remarked
Victor Nelson as he paused to point out a tapering brass tube which
was mounted on a platform above the long staircase up which he and
Alden were toiling. "It's a big brute: see how small the gunners look
beside it? These steam guns are wonderful things."
The younger aviator sighed. "I've had enough of miracles," he said
wiping his flushed features and hitching a small pack higher on his
leather-clad shoulders. "All I want to do is to lay my weary eyes on
the plane again. What with these ghastly allosauri, diplodocuses and
other monsters, I'm damn well fed up with this place."
Nelson settled his Winchester rifle more comfortably into the hollow
of his arm. "Correct. So am I. But we can't say Altorius didn't do
right by our Nell. Good Lord, what a triumph he gave us!" The dark
pilot's smile flashed from beneath his neat, close-clipped black
mustache. "Wait till Cartier gets a peep at those diamonds he gave
us."
Panting, the two halted by mutual consent. "Ever see so many stairs?"
grunted Nelson. "Three more flights and we'll be into the tunnel; ah,
there's the opening. I only hope these blighters haven't hurt the
plane."
Before resuming the climb Nelson shifted his rifle, idly regarding the
armored gunners just above; then suddenly he stiffened his wiry body
with a sharp cry. "Look out, Dick! What the devil? Those damn fools
ahead are swinging the retortii across our--"
* * * * *
The dark haired aviator's words were drowned out in a deafening,
hissing roar that burst from the great retortii's throat, and his
heart gave a great convulsive leap at the sight. Was this an
accident--or treachery? An accident of course. Somehow he could not
bring himself to think that Altorius would break his pledged word.
Projected in a shimmering white arm the scalding death vapor shot
across the staircase, its hot breath licking the faces of the startled
and angry Americans, and quickly forcing them to turn and run
downwards to avoid being scalded.
"What the devil are these idiots trying to do?" gasped Nelson,
anxiously eyeing the red-crested warriors who, peering down through
the blue lenses of their helmets, watched the khaki-clad aviators but
made no effort to realign their retortii. "Hero Giles'll skin those
fools alive if he hears of this. Guess we'd better wait a minute:
they'll soon shut off the steam."
Shielding his face from the steam clouds that obliterated all view of
the staircase above, Alden stood watching the billowing steam clouds
in silent awe.
"Terrible, aren't they, Vic?" he remarked. "I've never seen those big
fellows in action. They make the portable variety look like water
pistols."
* * * * *
As the steam barrier showed no signs of abating, an uneasy gleam crept
into Nelson's dark eye, and with jaw grimly set, he cocked the
Winchester and turned with the intention of lodging a complaint at the
next station below; but, to his utter dismay, he beheld bronze armored
figures on the next platform now training their long-muzzled steam gun
across the stair. Even as he sprang back, the deadly white vapor
hissed forth from the second retortii, completely barring further
retreat down the stair. Like an icy flood the chill of impending doom
invaded Nelson's soul. This was no accidental discharge, for with the
slightest change of direction in the deflection of either retortii,
death would descend upon him and his companion.
Swiftly speech became impossible, as the roar of the huge retortii was
deafening; the two were lost in the heart of an opaque cloud which
completely blotted out the copper-hued Atlantean sky. Hot blood surged
into Nelson's head while he became aware of ghostly and stealthy
figures advancing through the shimmering billows of vapor. Up, up,
they came, like dream men, their eyes weird and unreal. Cursing the
treachery of their late host, Nelson and Alden watched dozens upon
dozens of hoplites come swarming up the stairs in solid,
dully-gleaming ranks. Apparently intent to take them prisoners, the
foremost Atlanteans made a rush, giving the American time to fire just
twice.
Unable to retreat, the helpless aviators stood to meet the engulfing
wave of hoplites. Nelson struck out as hard as he could at those
yelling, red-bearded faces, though he knew the effort was hopeless. He
was dimly conscious that Alden, not far away, also fought with the
vigor of despair.
With a sense of savage satisfaction, the dark haired aviator felt his
fist impact solidly into a yelling, sweating face; then something
struck his head and, amid a miniature sunburst, his senseless form
sank limply on the damp stones of the great staircase.
* * * * *
After an interval, the length of which he did not know, Victor Nelson
opened his eyes slowly, for his head throbbed like a savage's war
drum. Uttering a stifled groan he shut the lids to still an
overpowering sense of nausea which gripped him, but a moment later he
made another attempt to discover in what sort of place he found
himself. Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to a curious orange-red
glare beyond a series of bars. Bars? The idea fixed itself in his
benumbed brain; bars meant prison! Yes, those grim blank walls bore
out the assumption. He lay on the damp stone floor of what must be a
fairly spacious cell. Beneath his leather aviator's jacket he
shuddered. "Jail, eh? What a nice place to wake up in!"
A groan from behind him prompted Nelson to painfully raise his head
and look about. He blinked dazedly, meanwhile trying to focus his
eyes, then he heaved a faint sigh of relief as his gaze encountered
the muscular, well-proportioned figure of Richard Alden, who half sat,
half reclined, against one of the grey stone walls, burying a ghastly
pale face between trembling hands.
"You hurt?" To speak, Nelson drew a slightly deeper breath and at once
became conscious of a horrible, throat-wrenching stench. Dimly, he
recalled having once before encountered such an odor; when was it? Oh,
yes; during the Great War when he'd stumbled into a dugout tenanted by
long unburied corpses. A cold finger stabbed at his brain. Corpses.
"Are you hurt, Dick?" he repeated hoarsely.
* * * * *
The lax figure stirred and Alden's blonde head was raised slowly. "I
don't know." His voice came very thickly. "I--I'm still dizzy. What's
happened?"
"Damned if I know; but those bright boys have evidently heaved us into
a calaboose of some kind!"
Nelson, on peering about, had discovered that one end of the cell was
closed only by a series of massive bronze bars; the two other walls
were solid masonry; while the fourth was also solid but fitted with a
small oval door of bronze.
"Calaboose? The hell you say!" Alden coughed feebly. "My God, but that
steam was terrible stuff. I nearly smothered before I got knocked
out."
Slowly, the younger aviator looked about, and suddenly his eyes
widened in an expression of indescribable horror.
"Look!" Alden's voice had died to a shaken whisper. "My God, Nelson,
we're finished! Look at that allosaurus!"
* * * * *
Following the line indicated by the pilot's shaking forefinger, Nelson
peered out through the series of great bars while a shudder shook his
aching body. Though he had seen these fearful monsters on many
occasions, yet it was never from such a position as that in which he
now found himself. To his ears came a sibilant hissing like that of a
thousand serpents; and, quivering in every nerve, he forced his eyes
open once again, to discover that the cell which he and his companion
occupied was but one of a series of cells surrounding a huge square in
which were imprisoned perhaps twenty or thirty of those horrible,
gargoylesque creatures which were the Atlantean dogs of war. Some
thirty-four feet in length, the enormous, slate-grey monsters hopped
leisurely about, their warty hides and huge luminous eyes betraying
their reptilian origin. In shape the allosauri resembled loathsome and
titanic kangaroos as they lumbered awkwardly to and fro, picking
viciously at what appeared to be fragments of human flesh and bones.
While the two prisoners crouched paralyzed with horror, one of the
nightmarish creatures came hopping over and, pressing a head as big as
a steam scoop against the bars, stared in with huge, pale green eyes.
A long minute the ghastly creature remained looking in, clearly
outlined by the orange glow from outside.
* * * * *
The doomed aviators found something fearfully fascinating about those
narrow vertical irises set in pupils the size of dinner plates.
Uttering a deep growl, the allosaurus shuffled nearer, and impatiently
rubbed its huge, bullet head against the bars; then gripped the
ponderous bronze bars with its ridiculously small front legs to shake
the whole grille-work with a savagery that dislocated bits of plaster
and made the metal reverberate. While Nelson and Alden shrank flat
against the far wall, a scarlet tongue at least four feet long
flicked the air but a few feet from their bloodless, sweating visages.
Becoming irritated at the sturdiness of the barrier, the mountainous
reptile tugged harder and hissed, filling the cell with a foul
exhalation that stank like the reeks of smoldering rags.
Nelson's wavering consciousness reeled, and a mad, dreadful fear, like
that a dreamer suffers in the grip of nightmare, invaded his being. He
felt the hairs rising on the nape of his neck.
But, with a squall of rage, the monster abandoned its futile efforts
and leaped away. Feigning indifference, the allosaurus picked up a
half-gnawed skull with its tiny forelegs; and, while the prisoners
watched, it stuffed the head into a maw twice the size of an
elephant's and crunched the gruesome tidbit as easily as a boy would a
walnut. Presently it shuffled off to rejoin the hideous herd in the
center of the court.
"Nice kind of a jail we've been thrown into. Wish I could understand
what's happened." Alden buried his face in his hands. "It kind of
looks as though Altorius had a change of heart."
* * * * *
Nelson replied nothing, but sat staring fixedly out into the horrible
court.
"Somehow, I don't think Altorius would do such a thing," he said at
last. "Let's think back and see if we can't piece this treachery
together."
"Wish I had your faith in the Emperor--but I haven't." Alden's
handsome face twisted itself into a wry smile.
"Let's see, now," persisted Nelson, fingering a square jaw upon which
sprouted a thick growth of reddish bristles. "There was a deputation
of priests to see Altorius yesterday. They were clamoring for the
return of Altara--the Sacred Virgin--and looked pretty mad when he put
them off."
"Maybe this is the private doing of the priests," admitted Alden.
"Anyway, we're in one devil of a fix. There's certainly no way out of
this calaboose--and those damned brutes out there look hungry."
Nelson frowned, deep in thought. "Wish I could find a reasonable
explanation. I really don't think it's Altorius; still, that's what
you get for mixing in on the politics of these forgotten kingdoms."
"But," reminded the other, "you had no choice, old lad. Remember, you
mixed in to save me."
From across the courtyard rang a loud, penetrating shriek of fear that
made the two aviators spring to their feet and rush to the bars.
Peering across the court, they discovered three naked men shrieking
and clinging frantically to the bars of an exactly similar cell.
"What's wrong with them?" demanded Alden as the agonized screams rang
louder still.
"I don't know," was Alden's breathless reply. "But what's that noise?"
A curious metallic clanking sound filled the poisoned air, and for a
moment Nelson remained utterly puzzled. Then, as the noise grew
louder, the allosauri commenced to betray a strange restlessness. They
ceased basking and feeding, and their hideous heads commenced to dart
quickly this way and that.
* * * * *
While the terrific shrieks of the wretches across the court rang to
the copper-hued sky, the two Americans remained in doubt; then all at
once the chill of death gripped their hearts, as they saw the bars of
that cell directly opposite slowly but surely rising! Uttering
heart-rending cries, the doomed prisoners clung frantically to stay
the vanishing barrier separating them from those appalling man-eaters.
But, disdainful of their pitiful efforts, the bronze bars rose
relentlessly with metallic rattlings and janglings from some unseen
mechanism.
Rooted to the floor, both Americans watched the distant grille vanish
into the upper stone-work and heard the ghastly hissing as the
allosauri herd commenced to move forward. Sick and shaken, Nelson
beheld one of the doomed men cling in desperation to the bars; he was
lifted clear of the floor and borne towards the ceiling, meanwhile
venting his terror with such screams as could otherwise have risen
only from an inquisitor's torture chamber.
The tragedy was swiftly completed. Half a dozen of the nearest
allosauri, taller than any giraffes, suddenly sprang forward, their
long, naked tails rising as their gait increased. Snarling horribly,
the vast slate-colored beasts plunged into the cell, terminating
shrieks of mortal terror. Backs broader than bus tops squirmed and
tugged, then one of the loathsome monsters reappeared carrying in its
dripping jaws a mangled, yet struggling victim much as a cat carries a
mouse. In a trice the other allosauri came rushing eagerly up, seeking
to snatch the prey from the first monster.
Nelson stiffened. "Great God! And that's what'll happen to us!"
* * * * *
Weakened by his head wound, and blind with nausea, he stumbled to the
rear of the cell to collapse upon a pile of foul straw, littered with
equipment which the superstitious captors must have condemned together
with the owners.
Nelson sank upon them, then stiffened, for his outflung hand had
encountered a hard, familiar outline. It was a .45 automatic pistol.
A moment's furious search revealed that the captors had missed or not
understood the use of the weapon in Alden's leather flying coat.
"God, but we're lucky," Nelson panted. "The Atlanteans never saw this
pistol of yours. They're only used to my rifle."
Hope lit Alden's features, then faded. "But what good is a .45
against brutes like those? Might at well have a pop gun!"
"Still we're lucky," grunted Nelson, delighted to find the magazine
yet filled. "Can't tell what's ahead. Yes, we're the luckiest--"
He broke off in quick alarm. From overhead had come a premonitory
clang! Somewhere a tackle whined and, with a sense of suffocation,
both men realised that now the bars of _their_ prison were beginning
to creep up into a long slit in the stone ceiling!
Cold fingers of fear clutched Nelson's heart as the terrible
allosauri, their jaws yet dripping redly, wheeled about at the
familiar sound--to stand listening. Up and up crept the ponderous
grille, while the allosauri commenced to shuffle forward, fixing on
their next victims enormous, unblinking green eyes.
* * * * *
While the whole loathsome cell spun about, Victor Nelson forced stiff
fingers to throw off the safety catch as the nearest allosaurus opened
its cavernous mouth in anticipation, displaying an array of curved
teeth, as long and sharp as bayonets. Standing some fifteen feet high
at the shoulder the horrible creature's body was; it all but blotted
out the light. The bars rose inexorably. Now they were waist high....
Now above Nelson's head.... In a moment would come the rush.
Richard Alden stood up straight and squared his shoulders. "Good-by,
Vic," he said, in clear, unafraid tones. "I don't imagine that .45
will even tickle those ghastly brutes."
Nelson nodded. "All over but the cheering," he replied with that
strange, macabre humor which often comes to solace men about to die.
"See you in church." There was an equally gallant lightness to Alden's
reply.
The dark haired pilot, with a curious, detached sense of unreality,
stepped into the middle of the room, the automatic in his hand seeming
no more potent than a water pistol, for a ponderous, lambent eyed
monster was now hopping forward. While minute particles of dust and
dirt rained down from the disappearing barrier, the foremost
allosaurus opened its enormous jaws, uttered an eery scream and
charged straight at the unbarred cell.
Drawing a deep breath, Nelson raised the .45, sighted, and,
remembering his former experience, fired at the enormous right eye. As
in a dream, he felt the recoil. The monster neither slowed nor swerved
in the least, though its great, saucer-like eye disintegrated
horribly. Immediately Nelson swiftly sighted at the other eye and
fired, just as the allosaurus' shadow filled the threshold.
_Crack!_ A swirl of bitter smoke stung the aviator's staring eyes.
He'd hit; he knew it!
* * * * *
Cyclopean moments followed as the blinded monster dashed forward,
missed the circular door, and, butting his head against the stone wall
to the left, fell completely stunned, effectively blocking the doorway
with its huge body. One enormous hind leg, fully ten feet long, and
equipped with three razor-like claws, projected into the cell and
lashed aimlessly back and forth, forcing the two prisoners to dodge
wildly.
There ensued that indescribable kind of a moment when men go mad.
Outside the cell the ravenous herd pounced upon their fallen mate and
with hideous grunts and snarls promptly commenced to tear it apart.
The shaken prisoners realized that the rending jaws would before long
undoubtedly remove the temporary obstacle; but meanwhile the hideous
hissing and the fetid stench of the allosauri breath made the cell a
mad-house.
Gradually, the gigantic carcass at the door commenced to quiver and
roll violently under the ferocious tugs of the eager feasters. A gap
of light appeared over the huge haunches, and, all at once, another
of those terrible heads slipped over the carcass and into the cell.
Again the .45 thundered, lighting the darkened cell with a brief
orange flame. A noise like the furious trumpeting of a dozen elephants
nearly blew Nelson flat as the wounded monster drew back its head, but
the respite promised to be short, for the other reptiles only
re-doubled their horrid, cannibalistic rending of the carcass. When
the barrier was removed there would be a general rush which the shaken
aviators could not hope to stay.
* * * * *
Suddenly, Alden uttered a low shout and pointed to the small, oval
door which had, up to this point, remained securely bolted and shut.
It was swinging gradually open, rimmed with a strong reddish light.
Wide-eyed, and with black hair streaming lank over his forehead,
Nelson, in the act of reloading, swung about to meet this new menace.
Hell! What point was there in prolonging the pitiful struggle? What
was happening?
Slowly, the door swung back, and a rosy glow lit the opening, a glow
that became as strong as the gleam of a spotlight. Then, slowly, a
glittering, green-crested helmet of highly polished bronze appeared,
and, under it, Hero Giles' familiar features, now distorted by a
terrible fear. The blue eyes seemed enormous. "Quickly!" he called.
"Quick or ye are lost!"
Unbelieving of the reprieve, both the aviators stared an instant at
that martial figure clad in brazen armor liberally studded with
enormous diamonds and emeralds, then leaped forward with the speed of
desperation, for from behind came a fierce squalling from the
allosauri. As he darted towards the door Nelson had a glimpse of the
carcass blocking the door commencing to slip sidewise.
Alden was already out and Nelson sped through the door barely in time
to escape the razor-sharp talons of the foremost allosaurus as it
scrambled into the deserted cell with a resounding bellow of
disappointed fury.
CHAPTER VIII
As the door clanged shut, drowning out the allosauri's furious
screams, both aviators, shaken to the depths of their beings, could do
nothing but stare about them in surprise. Completely surrounding and
protecting the exit stood a double rank of hoplites in bronze armor.
Like unreal automata, they remained utterly motionless, fixed in the
various postures of an ancient Macedonian phalanx, their broad backs
gleaming dully in the light of the neon flares. As in a dream, Nelson
recognized on top of each spearsman's casque the graceful Atlantean
military crest--a metal dolphin from the back of which sprouted a
series of bright blue feathers, arranged like a dorsal fin.
"Thank Poseidon, ye still live!" cried Hero Giles, gripping their
hands eagerly. "I had fear for ye, oh my friends."
Nelson grinned. "You cut the rescue act pretty fine, but of course
we're damned grateful. And now,"--eagerly seizing the Hero's
splendidly muscled arm--"in God's name tell us what's happened. Why we
were arrested and--nearly made into allosaurus fodder?"
Hero Giles turned from snapping an order to a subaltern who was
peering down a great, shadowy hallway with a distinctly uneasy manner.
"Much," he said. "Scarcely had ye two departed from Heliopolis than
the priests, mad with rage over Altara's continued captivity, dared to
seize the person of His Splendor and proclaim a regency. Herakles, the
arch-priest is--"
* * * * *
From far down the gloomy, vaulted corridor came a faint sound, rather
like the distant cheering of a crowd. The hoplites, standing about,
turned their helmeted heads and stared uneasily, their brazen armor
glowing dully with each movement.
"I'll tell ye more later, but now--"--Hero Giles' voice took on a
ringing quality like the clash of steel--"there is work to be done. To
rescue ye, oh Hero Nelson, I slew the guards at the lower gate, for
this prison lies in the hands of a caitiff rogue, Hero Edmund, one who
clings to the priestly party. We had best be off lest we be trapped
and slaughtered like rats in a pit."
Very distinctly to the ears of the aviator now came the dull clash of
equipment and the tread of feet.
"Forward! We must hasten to reach the podokos waiting below," cried
Hero Giles, settling his ponderous helmet more squarely on his leonine
head.
At once the escort of fifteen-odd hoplites commenced to move down the
corridor to the left, their hands tightly gripping the butts of their
retortii pistols. At their head ran Hero Giles, and by his side Alden
and Victor Nelson, who gripped his .45 vowing never again to return to
that ghastly cell.
A long ringing cry from the rear brought home the dread realization
that the enemy had appeared. Looking back, Nelson could see the far
end of the great corridor filled with menacing figures. Then his heart
leaped like a deer in a thicket, for _from ahead_ sounded the clash of
weapons! The rescue party's retreat was cut off!
* * * * *
Hero Giles acted with the speed of a veteran accustomed to
emergencies. "Forward!" he roared, making the bare walls reverberate
and rumble with his voice. "_Halor van! Ula Storr!_"[1]
[Footnote 1: Make ready for your retortii.]
As by magic, there appeared before the retreating force a double rank
of blue-crested hoplites who debouched from a side passage into the
hall and clawed desperately for fungus bombs and retortii. Evidently
they had not expected to come upon the invaders so abruptly.
"_Storr!_" Like a brazen trumpet's call, the voice of Hero Giles rang
out the order to fire--which was instantly drowned out in the furious
hissing of the retortii of his followers.
Ever watchful, Nelson fired at a gigantic officer who, avoiding the
first steam jets, flung back his arms to hurl one of the deadly fungus
bombs among the rescuers. Shattering the bronze helmet, the American's
bullet struck the Atlantean squarely between the eyes, but
nevertheless the stricken officer's grenade rolled forward and burst
among the hindermost of Hero Giles' followers. Instantly, the deadly
green mold flung itself upon the nearest hoplites and in a moment they
crashed to the smooth granite floor, the yellowish growths already
sprouting from nose, mouth and ears.
In the corridor reigned chaos, for Hero Giles' followers were now
turning the full fury of their retortii upon the rank of men barring
further flight. With dreadful ease, the scalding steam struck dead the
opposing warriors, stripping the flesh from their bones as easily as a
boy peels a banana.
Amid the swirling white clouds, Nelson had ghastly visions of yellow
skulls, of steaming accoutrement, of limp heaps of disintegrating
bodies; then silence fell, and, before he quite realized it, he,
together with Alden and three hoplites who had survived the disastrous
fungus grenade, were bounding along after Hero Giles' glittering
figure as he led the way down one passage after another.
* * * * *
Louder than ever rang the fierce cry from the rear. Behind him Nelson
could see dozens upon dozens of yelling pursuers, and knew that if he
were to live he must run as never before.
Into a succession of spacious rooms dashed the fugitives; on through
deserted armories where hundreds of bronze helmets dangled in orderly
rows; and across silent barrack halls.
Closer and closer sounded the pursuing feet, spurring the runners to
an even more headlong gait.
All at once a door loomed to the right; into this darted Hero Giles
and after him pounded the two Americans and three hoplites. In an
instant the six men set their shoulder to the ponderous bronze door
and swung it to, just as the hiss of a retortii on the other side rose
above the mad, blood-hungry clamor of the momentarily baffled rebels.
Gasping and sweat-bathed, the fugitives paused only an instant.
"We've gained a short passage," gasped the Atlantean wrenching off his
helmet and breast plate. The veins stood out in great blue cords on
his forehead, for the weight of the armor could not have been
inconsiderable. "Below wait our podokos."
Nelson stripped off his leather coat, following the example of the
hoplites, who swiftly divested themselves of such cumbersome equipment
as could readily be removed. Then, while the shouts of the thwarted
pursuers swelled like a demonic chorus, and while feathers of steam
crept under the great door, Hero Giles spun about and, with his short
yellow hair gleaming bright, led on down another series of passages.
* * * * *
All at once the fugitives, now reduced by exhaustion to five, found
themselves on a balcony overlooking the great valley of Atlans. Before
them opened an enormous staircase and down this they dashed at top
speed, infinitely relieved to be once more in the open air.
Running like hunted stags, the fugitives had descended but a third of
the great staircase, when, from behind, came a sudden, menacing cry
that warned Nelson that the pursuers had, after going a longer way
around, come once more in sight.
"Ah! Poseidon blast the traitorous Edmund and his varlets! See?"
panted Hero Giles pointing to a huge arch from beneath which was
issuing a glittering column of shouting, swift running warriors at
whose head dashed a splendidly-proportioned figure that must be Hero
Edmund.
With the speed of the hunted, Hero Giles bounded forward, taking three
and four steps at a stride, his jade green cloak snapping out behind.
Down, ever downwards over the endless flight of stairs the aviators
followed him until, spent and panting, the hard pressed five plunged
down a final circular staircase and so gained a courtyard where waited
a detachment of armored lancers whose yellow plumes and pennons shone
bright in the glare of the flame suns. Staring anxiously upwards, the
troopers nevertheless stood to attention in an orderly rank beside
those curious Atlantean mounts called podokos.
During all his sojourn in Atlans, Nelson had never become used to the
hideous and awe-inspiring podokos which closely resembled the
allosauri but were only eighteen feet long. Like the other monsters,
they had tremendously developed hind legs which promised the speed now
so vital for escape and safety. Ready in the tooth-studded jaws of
each podoko was fitted a bronze bit together with a bridle and reins;
and cinched up on each creature's back was one of those curious
Atlantean saddles, which was built up at the cantle to overcome the
downward slope of the podokos' spines.
Need for vital haste was but too obvious and, as he drew near, Hero
Giles gasped the command to be off.
"Quick," he shouted, his scarred visage flushed and sweat-bathed.
"Saddles! Speed! Speed! Cling fast as your beasts arise!"
* * * * *
All five literally hurled themselves into gorgeously caparisoned
saddles. Instantly, the urging squatting podokos leaped to their feet.
It was the work of a moment for Nelson to wrench his reptile around,
for already Alden and the Atlantean cavalrymen were speeding across
the wide paved court, their lance pennons fluttering bravely in the
orange-hued glare.
At top speed the rescuers dashed for a great, oval gateway while the
podokos increased their gait; like aero-planes gathering speed, the
faster the weird creatures traveled, the higher arose their tails.
Then, following the frightened, backward glances of the hard-riding,
red-haired lancers, Nelson suddenly discovered a new and terrible
cause for this headlong flight, for, issuing from an unbarred gateway,
came perhaps a dozen of _the terrible and enormous allosauri_, which,
spying the fleeing cavalry, instantly gave chase.
With a sense of despair, the aviators heard the ferocious bellows
booming from behind and watched the appallingly swift progress of
those uncouth monsters as, leaping high into the air, the allosauri
covered between fifty and sixty feet at a single bound.
"They'll get you," cried an inner voice in Nelson's being. "They'll
catch you sure." But the small and lithe podokos, sensing death
leaping up from the rear, stretched out their slender, snake-like
heads, stood on tiptoe, and, pressing their small forelegs tight
against their chests, commenced to run far faster than any horse could
gallop. Nevertheless, the allosauri came bounding up like colossal
kangaroos, uttering weird, screaming roars that brought a chill of
imminent death to the fugitives.
Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Nelson's blood froze to find
an allosaurus not more than seventy yards behind, and making terrible
exertions to close that slender gap! Nearer and nearer coursed the
incredible monster, body rocking in its terrific stride, dreadful jaws
wide apart--jaws that could, without an effort, cut a horse in half.
* * * * *
A fear such as he had never known racked Nelson's consciousness as he
found he was hindermost of the cavalcade, which was strung out like a
field of racers. The other riders crouched low in their saddles like
jockeys, lances held straight out before them, and furiously goaded
their strange mounts with curious hooks. Nelson was vastly relieved to
get a glimpse of Alden far in the lead, almost beside the Atlantean
Prince. His podoko was evidently better than the average.
Faster and faster pursuers and pursued raced across level meadows,
over straight, white roads and rolling grain fields. Wind whistled
madly in Nelson's ears, filled his eyes with tears, and made his
short, dark hair snap, but two huge allosauri were now not twenty
yards behind and _gaining with appalling speed!_
On the verge of madness, Nelson hammered his heels into the podoko's
scaly side and wished he dared let go the saddle horn to draw his
pistol, but to loose his grip was to risk falling off.
Closer and closer! Two enormous nightmarish heads were actually
snapping at the fleeing podoko's tail. Then fear must have inspired
the reptile Nelson bestrode, for it put on a sudden desperate burst of
speed which carried it past the next two lancers. In passing he
glimpsed the doomed wretches, pale-faced and horrified, as they
frantically goaded their failing podokos.
A moment later, piercing screams from just behind assailed Nelson's
ears, but when he looked to the rear once more it was to find that a
wide gap had opened between him and the great monsters behind.
Evidently, the heavy-built allosauri were unable to long maintain the
terrific pace set by the smaller and more agile podokos whose maximum
speed Nelson judged to be well over sixty miles an hour.
* * * * *
The pilot's eyes narrowed on beholding, in clear relief and not far
away, the majestic, whitish outline of mighty Heliopolis, whose lofty
towers, graceful domes and frowning citadels shone pink under the
leaping, blinding glare on Mount Pelion.
"We certainly picked a nice time to drop in on this God-forsaken
country," grunted Alden as the walls of Heliopolis loomed near. "We
seem to have crashed into the busiest days they've had in centuries.
How many shots you got?"
Nelson, swaying to the steady trot of his podoko, hesitated.
"Only five. Damned if I know what's going to happen next. I suppose it
all depends on Hero Giles. Looks as though the nobles were bent on
restoring Altorius--if he's not dead by now."
Alden tugged powerfully at the strange bridle which controlled his
beast. "The priests wouldn't dare kill him, but it surely looks like
their rebellion has gained a lot of headway."
A moment Alden's clear, blue eyes swept the towering battlements,
gorgeously-sculptured temples and curious stepped pyramids, which now
loomed near at hand and cast their rugged outlines sharp against the
copper-colored heavens.
"Maybe there's some way we can work this revolution trouble to help
us," suggested Nelson, without enthusiasm. "If we could play off one
crowd against the other--"
His remarks were cut short as the foremost lancers slowed before an
enormous bronze gate looming ahead. On the vast main panel was a
beautifully-wrought dolphin curling about a trident--symbol of the
imperial power now so sorely tried. Beyond that gate, breathlessly
mused Nelson, lay Heliopolis and an unknown fate.
CHAPTER IX
It would have taken no trained eye to observe that something very
unusual had happened in Atlans. Some of Heliopolis' many wide streets
were quite deserted save for several small, bright-red cat-like
reptiles that the Atlanteans sheltered as pets, but in other
thoroughfares large throngs of people milled uneasily about, while
listening to the impassioned harangue of black-robed priests.
Everywhere business was at a standstill, shops were closed and markets
tenantless.
Riding at an easy hopping gallop, the aviators urged their green,
scaly mounts to the side of Hero Giles, for here and there some
wandering citizens, spying the Americans, would yell shrill curses and
shake their fists. Reining in, Nelson demanded to know the reason for
this unaccountable hostility.
"'Tis the work of our gentle and holy priests," explained Hero Giles
with a hard laugh. "They have told the populace ye are magicians
seeking to set other gods above Poseidon."
"Nonsense," rapped the American, looking about uneasily. "We've never
given two thin damns about anything except getting back to our plane."
"So I know," was the Atlantean's preoccupied reply; "but this spawn of
Herakles' temples speak loud, and the loutish populace hearkens to
their lies!"
"But what the devil is all this revolt about?" broke in Alden. "Why
were we arrested? You started to tell us at the prison."
* * * * *
Hero Giles frowned as he pulled his podoko into a gracefully carved
gateway of green marble. "There's but little to add, for 'tis all very
simple. The priests have laid impious hands on His Splendor, Altorius,
and imprisoned him in the great temple of Poseidon. We nobles have
defied the arch-priest, for the dog-conceived Jereboam already
marshals his forces for a fresh attack, knowing that Atlans is sore
beset by internal strife. Have patience for now we go to the council
chamber, where ye shall hear everything."
To say that the newcomers found the council of nobles in a furore
would be to put it mildly. Their angry voices carried far down the
beautifully ornamented corridors of the Imperial Palace, which was
used as headquarters.
"Sounds like a dog-fight going on in there," muttered Alden anxiously.
"Don't like the sound of it a bit. I hope they feel kindly towards
us."
Nelson, swinging along with his ragged shirt fluttering like a
scarecrow's, nodded. "Yes, so do I. But I guess they need our help or
Hero Giles wouldn't have risked his life to save us."
Conscious of the value of appearances, the dark-haired aviator
unconsciously straightened his frayed black tie, buttoned the sleeves
of his khaki flannel shirt and otherwise made pathetic attempts at
improving his appearance as the clamor of wrangling voices grew loud
down the corridor.
His wide shoulders swinging to his stride, Hero Giles flung open a
door, beautifully wrought with leaping podokos, and halted on the
threshold.
"Death!" rumbled a voice from inside. "I say death to the Wanderers!
Let us make our peace with the priests, lest they slay His Splendor
forthwith."
"And that's what I call a nice friendly greeting," was Alden's
murmured comment. "Better get your gat handy, Vic. I'll bet they've
got a reception committee of retortii men behind the door."
* * * * *
There was no time for Nelson to reply because now the threshold was at
hand. Inside, seated at a table, he had an impression of perhaps ten
or fifteen scarred and angry-looking veteran nobles whose green cloaks
and bejeweled armor revealed their high rank.
In mid-dispute they halted, eyeing the three figures in the doorway
with curiously conflicting expressions. Some smiled a relieved
welcome, some stared in surprise, but not a few greeted the Americans
with lowering brows and angry, threatening eyes.
"Harken," Hero Giles greeted them. "By Poseidon's grace the Wanderers
were saved from a vile death. Rise Heroes, and bid them welcome!"
"Ah, the Wanderers!" In an instant Hero John was wringing Nelson's
hand. "Oh blessed hour! I had feared for ye both. Welcome, Hero
Alden!"
A faint flush crept over the young man's wan and trouble-lined face.
"'Tis well ye've come," he whispered. "The council was prepared to
change their intent towards ye."
A grizzled, one-eyed prince arose, and leveling an accusing forefinger
at Nelson shouted, "'Tis he hath caused the rebellion. Slay him!"
"Nay!" thundered the Hero Giles, "and forget not, Hero Paul--_I_ am
senior Prince of Atlans!"
* * * * *
In the great white marble council chamber silence fell, while from
wonderfully carved ivory and gold chairs the harassed, yellow-bearded
princes regarded the two uneasy Americans.
"Hearken, Hero Giles!" rasped another dark-browed officer in a plain,
much-dented red breast plate. "I side with Paul. Away with them, I
say! Time is too precious. Do not the dark hordes of Jereboam beat
back our frontiers?"
Hero Giles glowered and sat bolt upright in his chair--a strange
disordered figure among his gorgeously robed and armored peers. "Thou
wert ever a hothead! I prithee pause a moment! Remember how the
dark-haired Wanderer once aided our imprisoned Emperor, whom Poseidon
protect! Perchance, Hero Nelson and his friend once more can aid us in
this, our hour of need."
A chorus of variously opined voices broke out, while Nelson with an
eye to possible violence stood ready.
"Silence! Sirrah!" The fierce old veteran banged a powerful fist on a
golden dolphin head forming his chair arm. "This idle wrangling
accomplishes naught, and a thousand weighty matters await our
attention. Is it true the phalanxes at Tricca have risen for the
priests?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Map of Jarmuth and Atlans_]
Before Hero Giles could reply, a stalwart guard at the door flung it
open to admit a dust and sweat-bathed courier who, darting forward,
flung himself at Hero Giles' no less dusty feet. While the
yellow-haired Prince started back muttering in amazement, the runner
raised a shaking hand.
"Woe, woe to Atlans!" he panted. "Jarmuthian retortii men have crossed
the boiling river. Cierum is fallen! Its garrison is drenched in
clouds of fungus gas. But a handful escaped!"
"Speak on: is that all?" A terribly intent expression crept over the
aquiline faces around the council table.
"Nay, spare thy servant!" begged the green kilted courier, raising
sweaty, imploring hands. "I--I dare not--"
"Speak!" snarled Hero Giles, his blue eyes terribly lit. "Speak!--else
thy carcass shall be flung to the pteranodons."
Wild-eyed, the fellow blinked fearfully about. The grim-lipped nobles
edged closer. Nelson, realizing all that lay at stake, watched
intently, conscious that Alden was now by his side.
"I--I, Her Sacred Holiness, Altara--." The messenger's red face
twitched and he choked as in terror.
"Altara!" The name reechoed weirdly from a dozen dry throats, and
Nelson saw the skin suddenly pale and tighten over Hero John's face.
"What of the divine Altara, fool?" he thundered in a dreadful, shaken
monotone. "Have those foul swine of Jarmuth dared--?"
"Forgive, oh Hero!" cried the groveling courier, his long red hair
sweeping the marble floor. "The dog-sired Jereboam hath made
proclamation in Jezreel that the Sacred Virgin is doomed to perish on
the altar of Beelzebub, their demon god, in two days' time!"
"What?" The great marble-walled chamber was shaken by an unearthly
outcry as horror and rage struggled for mastery in the circle of tense
faces surrounding the momentarily forgotten aviators.
Bedlam broke loose, while Hero Giles sat as though stunned, staring on
the shivering runner at his feet.
Nelson, very much on the alert, could see that the announcement of
Altara's impending death had produced nothing short of a cataclysm in
the plans of the council.
* * * * *
Like men paralyzed by electric shocks, the yellow bearded veterans and
nobles sat stupefied, frozen in their last gesture. Then, in the midst
of their silent despair, came the sound of a curious, high-pitched
horn that had in its note something of the eery wail of a fire siren.
The effect was magical, for the nobles sprang up, hands on sword hilts
and eyes searching the corridor.
"The priests!" gasped a short, broad-shouldered noble at Altorius'
left. "By Poseidon! 'Tis the fanfare of the Herakles himself."
Then indeed did the council glower, for, as Nelson soon learned,
Herakles was the moving spirit and evil genius of that priestly party
which had dared to imprison the Emperor.
Again the horn wailed its warning of the arch-priest's approach,
whereat a stalwart hoplite in green painted armor clanked in, saluted
stiffly and waited for Hero Giles' instructions.
"Bid the old man enter," directed the Prince at last. "Tell the
graybeard he has naught to fear if he comes alone. Otherwise, bid him
return to his kennel in the temples."
A moment after the hoplite had vanished, there appeared in the doorway
a tall, emaciated old man on whose silvery head was set a curious
golden mitre ending in the shape of a wondrously bejewelled trident.
The curious Americans noted that the arch-priest's robes were as black
as his evilly glittering eyes, and were embroidered with curious
cabalistic symbols done in silver thread. In his withered hand
Herakles carried a ceremonial trident--the mark of the Head Priest of
Poseidon.
As though wary of advancing, the arch priest paused in the doorway,
not three feet from where Nelson stood poised for action.
* * * * *
All at once the gaunt figure in black raised thin hands to the dome
far overhead and cried in high-pitched prophetic tones:
"Woe to Atlans! When perishes Altara, virgin of Poseidon the God-head,
then shall a darkness fall on Atlans! Her cities shall be cast down,
there will be a weeping and wailing in the land, for Beelzebub and his
followers shall prevail! Woe to Atlans and woe to ye all, blasphemous
nobles!"
Gripped by a superstitious awe, the generals and nobles fell into an
uneasy silence, fearfully lowering their eyes and then glancing
askance at the plain khaki clad figures standing alert in their
corner.
Nelson, defiantly meeting their eyes, beheld Hero Giles staring
fixedly before him, his powerful shoulders bowed as though bearing an
overwhelming burden.
Deeper grew the silence of disaster while the American furiously
searched his mind for some means of thwarting the death in store for
him and his companion. By chance, a word of Hero Giles recurred, the
"pteranodons." What in the devil was a pteranodon? He turned sidewise
to Alden who stood, hands in the pocket of his leather jacket, also
thinking deeply.
"Dick," he whispered. "You studied paleontology at college. Do you
remember what a pteranodon was?"
"A what?" The younger aviator seemed to make a definite effort to
return to the present. "A pteranodon? I'm not sure, Vic, but I think
it was a kind of flying reptile related to the pterodactyl group."
* * * * *
He could go on no further, for Herakles, the arch-priest, raised his
snowy head suddenly, his eyes blazing. "To save Atlans in her hour of
trial, we demand that ye deliver to us the Wanderers. They shall die
as an offering to Ares, God of War. Perchance he will preserve us."
The arch-priest's deep-set and glittering eyes swept with venomous
hatred the two calm-featured aviators, who looked very plain and
unromantic in their flying jackets and khaki serge. "We, familiars of
the Gods, herewith demand that the blasphemers perish on the War God's
altar! Else shall ye all die unbeloved of the Gods!"
"And we do your bidding, will ye give us back His Splendor?" demanded
Hero Giles.
"Nay--we priests do not bargain like hucksters."
Risking all, Nelson muttered a swift aside to Alden. "How big were
those pteranodons?"
"Some species had a wing spread of twenty-five feet."
The muscular pilot's mouth closed into a firm, colorless line as he
nodded and glanced at the vindictive old man who was by now white with
fury.
Up sprang a good three-quarters of the nobles present and turned on
the grim figure at the head of the board.
"Surrender the Wanderers!" they shouted. "We demand it!"
* * * * *
In another instant the death sentence would have been forced on Hero
Giles, but Victor Nelson leaped forward, pistol menacing the raging
gray-bearded priest.
"Listen, all of you!" he shouted in deep tones that were strangely
authoritative. "Beware, foolish Princes, how you threaten us. Great is
our knowledge and power: you've seen that already. Even now, the other
Wanderer and I can save or ruin Atlans, as we wish! Have ye forgotten
the battle by Lake Copias?"
The Princes, furious at the American's defiance, half rose, hand on
sword hilt, but sank back at a swift, menacing gesture from Nelson's
pistol.
"What sayest thou, mad fellow?" screeched the arch-priest, his black
eyes bright as knife points. "Save Atlans--?" Fierce questioning was
in his sombre, sunken eyes.
"I said," repeated Nelson, "that, if we choose, we can yet save your
Altara and the Emperor from death."
"Impossible! He is mad!" shouted Paul, the one-eyed Hero. "Not the
Gods themselves could rescue Altara from the claws of the demon
Beelzebub!" The nearest nobles flung themselves back in their chairs
and snarled threats of all kinds as they gripped their sword hilts.
Sensing an inescapable climax, the khaki-clad American raised his
pistol, covering Hero Paul, the speaker. "Silence!" he rasped.
"You're a thick-headed idiot not to see the truth. Can this priest
save Altara? No! You know damned well he can't! And yet you'd have us
killed."
"Now, Herakles," he swung on the priest, "about this Altara matter--if
you'll restore Altorius unharmed, guarantee our safety, and punish
those liars who condemned us to death, the other Wanderer and I will
undertake to not only prevent the sacrifice of Altara, but to bring
the Princess back as well!"
* * * * *
To all this Alden listened with increasing and indescribable dismay,
his blue eyes round as marbles. "My God!" he whispered in an
undertone. "What in the devil is Vic doing? _Undertake_ is _right_,
the crazy fool!"
"How will ye accomplish this mad boast?" demanded the arch-priest in
deep suspicion. "Know ye that the Sacred Virgin lies captive in the
dungeons of the great temple of Beelzebub? Know ye that this temple is
in the center of Jezreel, capitol of Jarmuth?"
"I had some idea that was the case."
"Know ye," continued, the graybeard priest, "that Altara is ever
guarded by two thousand picked priests and warriors? Know ye,
moreover, that this vile sacrifice will be made but two days hence?"
The aviator's lean, dark head inclined with a serenity he far from
felt.
At this point the scarred veteran officer who had spoken before broke
in, his face menacing. "Believe not this liar, oh Hero Giles! He
speaks with a tongue made bold by fear. He promises that which he
cannot accomplish!"
Had Victor Nelson had time to reflect upon the weirdness of the plan
he had evolved, he would probably have silently admitted that his
grizzled accuser was more than a little justified, but as it was he
smiled serenely.
From all sides rose a threatening shout. "Let the blasphemers be
sacrificed. Ares will protect us!"
* * * * *
His yellow brows knit, Hero Giles wavered, but as he hesitated there
ran through a great circular window a distant yet menacing shout.
"Down with Altorius, the Unlucky! Down with the sons of Hudson! Give
back to the ancient Gods their Sacred Virgin. Hail to Ares! Death to
the Wanderers! Death! Death!"
Drowning out these ominous cries there came from below the window the
brazen clang of trumpets and the clank of many armored men hurrying
forward. Presently the mob's outcry grew fainter, but still the cries
of "Death" could be heard.
It was a tense moment. Would Hero Giles remain friendly? With poignant
anxiety, Nelson watched that dishevelled martial head sink forward in
perplexity.
"Hero Giles," he warned, in a low voice. "You'd better trust us.
You're risking nothing."
Slowly, the fierce blue eyes of the veteran rose, and, meeting the
level gray ones of the aviator, lingered there as though asking a
question. Suddenly reaching a determination, he rose to his feet and
addressed the triumphantly grinning arch-priest, who tightly clutched
his trident wand with thin, blue-veined fingers.
"Hearken, black crow of a priest, who has dared lay foul hands on His
Splendor, the Emperor. This is my reply: show me how ye will rescue
Altara; otherwise begone! My hand itches for the sword."
* * * * *
A deep silence fell while Herakles glowered helplessly, then shrewdly
avoided the trap. "This is blasphemy!" he croaked and raised a
quivering forefinger in solemn warning. "Woe to thee, Hero Giles. Woe
to the people! Fear the wrath of the Gods!
"Jeer not, ye nobles!" Herakles stormed on. "Be not deceived by lies!
I bid thee deliver these magicians to Ares, God of War!"
A nasty moment; Nelson's heart drummed as he gazed down at the row of
uneasy, war-like faces, but Hero Giles proved the strength of his
heritage. Back went his patrician head; he drew himself up to full
height and stared coldly upon the black robed priest, who, nothing
daunted, gave back look for look.
"Nay! We keep them: they will bear out their promise. I give ye good
day, oh Holiness!"
Quivering with rage Herakles raised his withered hand in anathema.
"Then perish, blind spawn of Hudson! Verily shall ye all die under the
torture. Woe! Woe! Woe!"
Then, amid a strained silence, pregnant of distrust and disaster, the
old man wheeled and stalked out.
As he watched the departure, color drained from the Atlantean prince's
haggard features. "Ah," he observed bitterly, "ever have these black
crows feasted on our land, and ever as birds of ill omen." He turned
and, with a weary sigh, surveyed the group of loyal, but anxious
souls. "I thank ye. Will ye still do my bidding and help to save our
sovereign lord?"
Out flashed the swords of a dozen-odd nobles as they raised the
hoarse, ringing cry of "Altorius! Altorius! Supreme!"
* * * * *
A little later Nelson, before a very mistrustful gathering composed of
Hero Giles, Hero John and two or three other veterans, traced the
barest outline of his plan.
"You understand? I'm to be taken to the border as a prisoner; then, in
plain sight of the enemy lines, the guards must maltreat me and turn
me loose."
The aviator searched one after another of the brutal, war-like faces,
while Hero Giles translated for the benefit of two Atlantean generals
who did not speak the royal language.
"Are you positive," Alden demanded of Hero John, "that this revolution
in Atlans will die out if Altara is returned?"
"Yes! A thousand times yes!" The prince's fine eyes gleamed with
savage enthusiasm. "With the Sacred Virgin restored to Atlans, new
courage will come into the phalanxes! The priests will cease their
outcries against them. Then, with the help of the blue maxima vapor,
we will rend the dog-begotten followers of Jereboam limb from limb!"
"All right." Nelson's wiry khaki-clad body bent far over the table.
"Remember, Hero Giles, that part of the fighting's up to you. When I'm
gone, you'll do exactly what Alden tells you. Now, one thing more:
what part of the border is still unquestionably loyal?"
Hero Giles frowned and shrugged his armor-clad shoulders a little
helplessly beneath the splendid cloak of imperial green. "The gods
alone know; but at the third division of this morning, Mayda and
Thebes still vowed their loyalty. 'Tis there are quartered the
phalanxes of the Imperial guards. They alone can I trust to the
death."
"All right." Bending over a huge parchment map of the valley, Nelson
nodded, and his keen black eyes became very serious. "I want you to
concentrate every man you can muster in each of those cities.
Meanwhile tell the populace,"--he drew a deep breath--"that Altara
will certainly be returned to them."
"Art thou sure?" broke in the scarred veteran in the dented breast
plate; then, his brow dark with doubt, he engaged Hero Giles and the
rest in a heated, low-voiced colloquy.
* * * * *
Alden stepped near, an anxious frown on his unshaven features. "Think
this idea of yours is sure-fire?"
"No," Nelson's lean head shook. "I'm far from sure. It's a wild gamble
at best, but we can't be any worse off than we are now. If the priests
win out, we're sunk and no mistake about it; but there's a fighting
chance my idea could be brought off."
"Now look here," objected the younger pilot tensely. "What's this rot
about your going into Jarmuth alone? How d'you know they won't skin
you alive once you're over the border?"
"I don't," admitted his friend, shrugging slightly. "But I don't see
there's anything but to take the risk. If I don't go over there, sure
as shooting we're going to feed some damn unpleasant kind of beast
here in Atlans.
"Another thing," Nelson said, turning to the Hero who, surrounded by
the others, was bent in deep consultation over a map. "How am I to
know Altara if I see her? Is there a statue, a painting or
something--?"
The Hero's aquiline features lit in a slow smile. "Nay, we have better
than that. Come, thou shalt see the Sacred Virgin as she now is."
The members of the conference followed Hero Giles down a short
corridor, through a couple of doors and into a chamber where a huge
disc of crystal stood on edge fixed upon an axis above a bewildering
array of wires, pipes and gauges.
* * * * *
Hero John, who seemed familiar with the mechanism, turned a lever,
whereupon the disc commenced to spin like a pie plate on a dance
floor. Faster and faster it spun, silently gathering speed each second
while a low humming sound filled the chamber. Gradually the outline of
the whirling disk commenced to brighten, tinting the scar-seamed,
craggy features of the Atlantean generals and picking glorious,
glowing lights from the jewels on Hero Giles' wonderfully engraved
breastplate.
"Ah." Hero John turned a small dial. "The crystal warms. Look, oh
Wanderers!"
Nelson rubbed his eyes incredulously, for in the heart of the
shimmering circle had materialized the outline of a room with walls of
yellow marble.
"Well, I'm damned!" gasped Alden. "See how it flickers!"
As the revolving disc of crystal gained top speed, the flickering
subsided and a picture, clearer than most photographs, could be seen
in the center. A wondrously slender, yellow-haired young girl clad in
Grecian robes of pale blue sat in deep despond upon a plain wooden
couch, with a black haired servant kneeling before her, apparently
lacing sandals on her tiny, pink-hued feet.
"Bring closer the face," snapped Hero Giles gruffly.
Gradually the focus changed, like the close-up of a movie camera,
until in the center of the madly whirling disc could be seen in minute
detail and living color the face of an indescribably lovely girl.
"Whew," muttered Nelson, staring in silent amazement. "No wonder they
want her back! She makes Ziegfeld's little girls look like Armenian
refugees." He cast a sidewise glance, but Alden had apparently not
heard him; the younger American stood gazing with rapturous joy at the
girl.
"Aye! Aye!" The two veteran generals uttered stifled groans and one of
them drew a hand across his eyes. "Poseidon save her! Aye! Preserve
the fair Altara."
"Wouldst thou not doubly save her, now?" demanded Hero John in a low
voice that bespoke his anguish. He seemed suddenly older than the
grim, helmeted veterans to either side.
"You bet! I guess a man sees a face like that only once is a lifetime.
And now," Nelson continued with an effort to return to the practical,
"there's no time to be lost--so I'd just like to take a look at those
pteranodons of yours."
* * * * *
A few minutes later, the two aviators found themselves nearing a lofty
structure which adjoined the imperial palace. It was constructed along
the lines of an immense aviary. Between beautiful, glistening Ionic
columns of white marble, gleamed bronze bars, set at regular intervals
to prevent the escape of the most appalling creatures which could ever
have skimmed the air.
"What in the devil is your idea?" demanded Alden, taken aback. "God,
look at the loathsome brutes!"
Some of these huge, flying reptiles were hopping awkwardly over the
ground picking at bones and refuse littering the floor with long
pelican-like bills, which were, however, very much thicker than those
of pelicans, and set with sharp teeth at least six inches long.
"Not very pretty are they? Kind of look like huge bats," commented
Nelson thoughtfully. "Wonder if they could be handled?"
"Yes, their wings are leathery. Look at 'em up yonder." Alden pointed
to the roof of that immense aviary where, hanging head downwards like
gigantic bats, must have been hundreds upon hundreds of the
pteranodons. One of them, whistling oddly, fluttered up to the bars,
affording the Wanderers an excellent view of a loathsome head, the
back of which ended in a curious sort of horn, that, projecting
backwards, jutted far above its rear. Fierce, vermillion eyes with
green irises glared at the Americans through the bars, and great wings
of greasy-looking leather fanned a disgusting stench from the interior
of the aviary.
* * * * *
"Sweet little things," was Alden's comment. "God! Imagine having one
of those great things swooping down on you. Hey, Alden, look at that
big devil over there! He must have a wing spread of thirty feet. Big
as a Moth plane, isn't he?"
For answer the pteranodon clattered its vast beak savagely. One of the
generals stooped and, catching up a huge slab of meat from a basket
nearby, hurled it through the bars into the gaping jaws.
"What would ye with these creature?" demanded Hero Giles with
undisguised curiosity.
"You'd be surprised." Nelson was not deliberately rude, but his mind
was wrapped up in the daring project he had evolved. "I want a couple
of the biggest of these caught and set aside in a courtyard where
there will be no one looking on. If your people can train and handle
podokos and allosauri--I guess a couple of Yanks ought to be able to
manage these flying nightmares. So don't you worry about us."
Hero Giles uttered grim, significant laugh. "Thou hadst best manage
them. I note yonder pteranodon is in need of nourishment."
CHAPTER X
With sharp anxiety, Victor Nelson kept watching the towers of Jezreel
rise ever clearer above the great, warm plain of Jarmuth, but, for all
that, he noted how distinctly Jezreel differed from Heliopolis. The
Jarmuthian capital was predominantly amber-yellow instead of white in
color; its towers were flat-topped, angular, hideous structures that
compared not at all favorably with the graceful Grecian architecture
of Atlantean public buildings.
The populace, he decided, as he strode along in the midst of half a
dozen silent guards, were as harsh and graceless as their
architecture. Whereas the Atlanteans had been white skinned and
uniformly red haired--save for those of Hudsonian blood--the
inhabitants of Jarmuth almost without exception were black haired and
had dark, olive-hued skins.
"They're the lost tribes of Israel, all right," Nelson decided after a
brief sojourn in that savage land lying beyond Apidanus--the great
boiling river, whose bubbling and scalding currents had for centuries
served as a natural boundary between the two realms. But now the
Jarmuthian armies had crossed it and were steadily pushing back the
demoralized and despairing Atlanteans with savage energy that heaped
the dead in hillocks.
"Their armor," mused the ragged, barefoot prisoner, studying his
silent guards, "looks a lot like a Roman legionnaire's, but that six
pointed star on their helmets is pure Semitic. Yes, this sure is an
Asiatic outfit."
His eyes wandered from one fierce, big-nosed infantryman to another
and noted the splendid physical structure of the majority. Evidently
hardier, much less refined and luxury-loving than the Atlanteans,
these swart warriors disdained robes and other garments. Save for
helmet, armor and brief black kilts, they were quite naked. Like the
Atlantean hoplites the infantrymen carried spears, steam retortii and
quantities of grenades.
The country side through which the prisoner passed had a holiday air,
for garlands of flowers hung in every doorway, and naked, pot-bellied
children squatted by the roadside, industriously weaving crowns and
streamers of gay blossoms.
"Look, Atlantean dog!" commanded the black-bearded leader of the
escort. "Let thine infidel eyes gaze upon the mightiest city of the
world. Seest thou yonder Ziggurat which o'er towers all others?"
Nelson raised eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness and deep anxiety--for
the crafty Jarmuthians had proved unexpectedly unwilling to credit him
as the Atlantean outcast and would-be renegade he had pretended to be.
"Yes," he said in reply to the English-speaking
_jehar's_--captain's--question. "What's it for?"
"'Tis the temple of the almighty Beelzebub, Steam God of Jarmuth.
Without his hot breath no wheel would turn, our armies would be
powerless and this land would perish under the ice of the outer
world." The dark eyed officer's eye fell speculatively upon his bound
and dust-covered prisoner. "Perchance, dog of a spy, thou wilt die
during to-day's fourth division[2] together with Altara, pale daughter
of the feeble, false god Poseidon."
[Footnote 2: The Atlantean day was divided into six divisions of four
hours each; due to the flame suns there was no sunrise or sunset.]
* * * * *
This afternoon?
Nelson could not realize that the time had flown so quickly. Four
short hours separated him from the crisis of his life. A thousand
doubts assailed him. What if Alden or Hero Giles failed in their share
of the great scheme for rescue? Narrowly, the aviator's eye searched
the great, rich plain, then swept the amber-hued sky where, far above
the plain, Jilboa, the nearest flame sun, beat off the Arctic chill
and darkness.
The great, black-bearded jehar eased the straps from which was
suspended the brass coil of his retortii. "Aye," he chuckled, his
thick lips parted in a crafty smile. "Ere long will the fair flesh of
Altara grace the ceremonial board of His Exaltation, the King, and his
priests and princes."
Nelson gasped in horror. The divinely beautiful Altara--butchered for
meat like a calf? Grotesque! Ghastly! "What! You eat your prisoners?"
He felt sick, nauseated.
For answer, the swart Jarmuthian raised an enormous hand and dealt the
captive American a stinging cuff which made his teeth rattle.
"Peace!" he snarled. "Else I slit thy spying throat ere we pass yonder
walls."
Fingering a short blue-black beard that was frizzed into tight curls
in the Assyrian manner, the jehar lengthened his stride as the little
detachment clanked into the shadow of a great wall surrounding
Jezreel, and through a huge gate guarded by two hideous, jackal-headed
effigies.
Hurrying into the city were throngs of eager men, women and children,
interspersed with muscular, black bearded soldiers who cast
threatening, baleful eyes on the pale-skinned prisoner.
* * * * *
At first the great metropolis of Jezreel seemed boundless, for
everywhere arose tall, massive monuments of yellow marble whose
facades were engraved with Sanskrit characters, thus bearing out
Nelson's surmise that this was indeed a race of Semitic origin.
Here and there hurried grey-bearded, vulture-eyed priests oddly garbed
in corrupt Occhive and Tyrian regalia. Nelson found it odd to see the
Tablet of the Laws, which Jarmuth so openly ignored, swaying on their
yellow robed breasts; and none cried out more menacingly nor more
loudly against the limping, wan-faced captive, than these same
ecclesiastics, who must have long since forgotten all worship of
Jehovah in the foul service of a bestial golden effigy.
A stone sailed through the air, narrowly missing the American; then
another, which struck his shoulder.
"God, what a rough looking crowd," thought Nelson, as the guards,
cursing, held back the screaming mob. "At this rate I won't live to
even reach the temple!"
Every second his life stood in great danger. Unkempt, sloe-eyed women
hurled themselves, shrieking with fury, against the armored chests of
the guards, who were hard pressed to beat them off with their spear
hafts.
Nelson's one small ray of comfort in this evil hour was the fact that
his .45 pistol remained untouched in a food wallet. At the border the
jehar had cast one contemptuous glance at the weapon, but, no doubt
deeming it some strange culinary tool, he had made no effort to remove
it.
It was a continual struggle for the guards to win their way up a long
flight of stairs, for ever the great stream of humanity grew denser
and more menacing.
* * * * *
Nelson felt a violent sense of revolt grip his being. "I must win
free," he thought. "If I fail, Alden dies, and--and--" For the first
time he realised how much he wanted to actually see Altara. Like a
clear cameo, an image of her had remained fresh in his memory. Except
for her Grecian garments she might have been a lovely, carefree
English or American girl.
"And these decadent swine would sacrifice her!" The thought was
sickening. Yet how could he prevent the pitiful tragedy?
Fortunately, a detachment of troops--tall, sinewy fellows with conical
helmets, crested with six-pointed stars--reenforced the guards just as
clawing hands began to snatch and tug at the prisoner's ragged
Atlantean chiton of blue cotton.
Almost before he realized it, Nelson was dragged inside a great gloomy
building and into a circular chamber where four eagle-featured elders
sat in council beneath the six-pointed star of Sem. On approaching,
the jehar in command sank on one knee and in humble salute raised both
hands to the tribunal.
"A tough looking desk sergeant they've got," muttered the prisoner to
himself as his eye met the chilling regard of a lean, yellow-faced
priest. "Wonder what I'm booked for?" Idiotically, he recalled being
summoned before a traffic court, years back. "Guess I don't get off
with vagrancy; it'll probably be everything from speeding to mayhem,
with maybe arson and well-poisoning thrown in."
The deliberations of this ominous court proved to be appallingly
short. The dour-faced elders merely put their heads together, muttered
a few sentences, then straightened up almost immediately. The chief
priest--he with the yellow face--thrust out his fist and made the
immemorial signal of death by jerking his thumb at the black marble
floor.
* * * * *
Before the outraged and astounded aviator could utter a word of
protest, powerful guards seized and hauled him off down a dark, narrow
passageway in which the fetid prison smell was very strong. Too wise
to struggle against overwhelming odds, yet appalled at the thought of
his impending doom, Nelson was dragged into a room where four or five
furtive, enslaved Atlanteans, made dumb by the removal of their
tongues, were engaged in a curious occupation.
On a bare stone bench, five other Atlantean captives were sitting in
miserable silence. They made a grotesque array, for their heads were
crowned with gay yellow and blue flowers, and the upper half of their
perfectly formed bodies gleamed with an application of a
sweet-smelling oil. About their wrists and waists were twined fragrant
garlands of yellow roses which hid the leather straps confining their
hands.
Struggling, Nelson was forced on to the bench, whereupon slaves,
skipping to avoid the lash of a scarred, olive-hued slave driver,
hurried to wash the newly arrived prisoner's limbs, face and hands. A
weary-looking old slave with sunken, rheumy eyes listlessly pulled the
blue chiton from Nelson's broad shoulders, and would have removed the
food pouch had not the prisoner winked vigorously. The ministering
slave glanced swiftly sidewise and, discovering the slave driver's
attention directed to another corner, pulled the upper folds of the
chiton over the food pouch and its precious contents, then set a crown
of yellow roses more or less askew on the American's head. For all the
peril of the situation Nelson could not suppress a fleeting smile as
the phrase, "For I'm to be Queen of the May, Mother," leaped
nonsensically into his brain.
* * * * *
"Yes, I guess they are getting us all dolled up for a sacrifice of
some kind." Nelson's heart began to pound at the thought. Then he
fought for self control. It must be a hideously realistic nightmare!
He, Victor Nelson, American citizen, a quiet birdman, member of the
Caterpillar Club and ex-flight commander of the A. E. F. was about to
be offered as a sacrifice to some hideous, pagan god? Nonsense! He'd
wake up in a minute and hear the drone of a ship on the line.
He blinked, staring fixedly at a single ray of light that came
streaming in through a small, barred window, then glanced sidewise at
his fellow victims, who with Spartan indifference sat waiting for the
end of all things. It was no dream!
From the tiny window came the shrill discordant braying of many
trumpets, and a roar like that of a football crowd arose surprisingly
near. In response, the slave driver lashed the gaudily bedecked
sacrificial victims to their feet with vicious cuts of his pliant
whip, and herded them like a drove of calves down a very long passage,
lit at intervals by those strange column lamps of incandescent gas. In
their red glare the doomed six seemed as though already bathed in
blood.
"Must be some crowd of people outside," muttered Nelson as a great
gale of sound deafened him. Yonder the amber glare of the flame suns
glimmered, and now it was his turn to step into the open!
* * * * *
On a sort of spiral roadway he paused, breathless, awed, bewildered,
for there, eddying restlessly about the bases of towers and other huge
structures, was a great sea of up-turned faces. To his surprise he
found the passage he had followed opened perhaps halfway up what must
be the great Ziggurat of Beelzebub. He judged the tower's height must
be immense, for already the crowd was a good hundred feet below.
"_Zarotoa! Zarotoa! u Wlanka!_"[3]
Nelson shivered. How terrible was the wild, bloodthirsty clamor of
that vast throng, when they beheld the six flower-decked prisoners
appear upon the circular winding road which led to the lofty and
wind-swept summit of the great conical pyramid of the people of
Jezreel.
[Footnote 3: Death to the victims!]
Behind the victims marched perhaps eighteen or twenty spearmen
gorgeously uniformed in yellow and black painted armor. Their
retortii were plated with gold, and in the center of a star forming
the crest of each helmet was set a diamond large as a hickory nut.
Preceding the despairing prisoners marched a squad of tall,
clean-shaven priests with great gold hoops in their ears. They blew
mightily upon long, curved horns, and were followed by perhaps a dozen
lithe, posturing girls, half clothed in diaphanous yellow robes. These
priestesses swung golden censers which flung bluish clouds of aromatic
smoke high into the humid air above.
* * * * *
Up and up, around and around the great tower temple, Nelson was
dragged, while the vast city of Jezreel, palaces, towers, courts,
dwellings and all, lay like a great panorama below. Up and up, and the
wind grew stronger while Nelson marvelled at the great height of the
structure he was mounting. Immediately in front of him swayed the
naked shoulders of the three captive Atlanteans; he could see rose
petals from their crowns fluttering in the strong warm breeze sweeping
that man-made pinnacle for the worship of a heathen god.
Despairingly, the American's eyes searched the horizon, to discover
nothing but a few great birds wheeling lazily in the bronze-hued sky.
Very clearly he could discern three of the flame suns, casting flame
high from their peaks.
"Alden!" he groaned. "Oh God, Alden, don't fail me!"
Chilled by the fate in store, he scanned the dark and hostile faces
below, but found no friendly visage.
Up and up. The procession was now nearing the summit.
There were hosts of poignant problems before him, each vital if Altara
and the Empire of Atlans were to be saved; but one primary question
immediately confronted him. How could he get his hands free? He
ventured a few words in English to the stolid Atlantean at his side,
whereat the fellow only stared dully and shook his red, flower-crowned
head.
He next tried to cautiously work loose his hands, but to no avail. The
rope of plaited skin binding his aching wrists together was tough as
any rawhide. Cursing, he abandoned the effort, and, as his eyes once
more swept the great bloodthirsty throng below, he felt himself doomed
indeed.
CHAPTER XI
Standing at last on the summit of the great Ziggurat, Nelson found
himself staring up at the fearsome golden image of the dread demon
Beelzebub. The god stood some twelve feet in height and had a hideous
human face, but, in place of hair and beard, countless golden tubes
writhed in all directions. From the end of one, the puzzled prisoner
beheld several tiny feathers of steam creeping forth, indicating that
these hairs were a species of steam vent.
When, with the other captives, he was made to halt near its base, he
further discovered that the idol sat upon a throne of yellow marble,
the sides of which were carved with Sanskrit characters, necessarily
quite meaningless to the doomed aviator.
In a grim and silent rank before Beelzebub's feet, stood some six or
eight priest-executioners bending their black-robed bodies against the
strong wind which swept that ghastly pinnacle.
Just below the base of the image, Nelson noted several great, copper
coils, no doubt conducting steam from the interior of the Ziggurat.
Between the knees of Beelzebub rested a huge, shallow bowl, the use of
which puzzled the American not a little, for he saw that the base of
this ornate receptacle was also wrapped with a number of steam coils.
Two great hands, ending in cruel-looking claws, were stretched
horizontally above the demon's knees, seeming to plead for victims.
* * * * *
Suddenly a deep toned brazen gong sounded somewhere below; the
trumpeters blew an ear-piercing note; and, at a gesture from the high
priest, four of the brawny executioner-priests leaped forward, seized
one of the Atlantean victims, hurled him to the stone platform and, in
an unbelievably short interval, strapped the shrieking wretch by
wrists, elbows, knees and ankles to a long, brass rod. Slung like a
dead deer from a rail, they lifted the helpless Atlantean, and, while
five hundred thousand voices roared in acclaim the priests fitted the
pole ends into notches above the hands of the idol with the effect
that the idol actually seemed to be clutching its victim.
Then, from all the pipes composing the hair and beard of Beelzebub,
sprang forth hissing spouts of snowy steam which, whipped by the
rising wind, went whirling madly down the lee of the Ziggurat. At the
same time, from the half open mouth of the demon issued a fearful,
screaming howl, a thousand times louder than the whistle of a speeding
locomotive. Deafening and barbaric, it was reechoed from a hundred
towers and battlements.
A dreadful, exultant well burst from the multitude below as the
red-robed priest drew from beneath his garments a sickle-shaped knife
that glittered evilly in the light of the flaming suns. Still
chanting, he stooped and quickly made a deep incision over the heart
of the victim. While a piercing, agonized shriek burst from the ashen
lips of the doomed Atlantean, his bright life-blood began to splash
into the golden bowl below where, due to the presence of the steam
coils, it swiftly commenced to hiss and bubble. Very quickly the last
scarlet drops had fallen.
Then while Nelson, sick and horrified, stood watching, the dead body
on its pole was taken down, unstrapped, and hurled, limp and
red-spattered, to the next lower platform where other priests waited
to dismember it for the ceremonial cannibalism soon to follow.
* * * * *
In rapid succession two more victims were slaughtered amid the
blood-hungry cheers of the Jarmuthian populace. Now the great bowl
hissed and bubbled with a generous supply of the dark red fluid, from
which rose clouds of evil-smelling steam that fanned the hideous
features above.
From below suddenly arose an excited shout far mightier than any which
had preceded it, when the executioners, sweating from their exertions,
now turned and, spying Nelson, hurried forward. Coincidently, the
American's bound hands disappeared beneath the chiton. Squaring his
shoulders, he gripped the pistol, prepared to make a good end.
"They'll get me, but before I die I'll send at least two or three of
these devils to hell," he thought. "Come on--"
But, for an inexplicable reason, the arch-priest beckoned back his
satellites, while roar upon roar of terrific excitement swelled from
the swarming mob below, and a shout which at last became
distinguishable bid fair to split the heavens. "Altara! Altara!
Altara!"
Slowly, the temporarily reprieved victim's muscles stiffened. He
understood. The next victim was to be the fair Altara, sister of
Altorius and Sacred Virgin of Atlans.
"Altara! Altara!" A rising hurricane of impassioned human voices
thundered the name.
Suddenly, the desire to live burned doubly strong in the American's
breast. He must somehow prevent this inhuman catastrophe. But how?
How?
Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, Nelson stifled a groan. The
southern horizon remained clear, and put an end to hope. No help! He
must fight it out to the end alone.
* * * * *
A rank of exultant, black-bearded priests now appeared at the head of
the stairway, then a quartet of olive skinned, semi-naked priestesses
joyfully clashing brass cymbals.
There came an interval--and Nelson's heart stood still as there
appeared the lovely head and shoulders of her whom he had first seen
in the heart of the revolving crystal. Even more fiercely, mad revolt
at fate gripped him.
Through hot, strained eyes the American saw that the stately Altara
was beautiful beyond all possible comparison, and that she seemed
utterly unafraid in the hour of her dreadful death. The Atlantean
maiden's large, clear blue eyes were fixed with calm resignation on
the distant flame sun of Jilboa. On her curling golden hair had been
set a circlet of ceremonial yellow roses, while her white, slender
body was thinly covered with a scanty robe of yellow silk.
Slowly, and moving her small bare feet in a regal stride, Altara
climbed the last few steps and stood straight and unafraid before the
hideous demon god of Jarmuth.
Thousands of frantic inner voices assailed the aviator's
consciousness. "Save her! You must save her! She's too young, too
beautiful to die!"
Like a vast maelstrom of sound, so swelled the lustful cry of the dark
multitude at the base of the Ziggurat, while the arch-priest chanted
his litany in a sort of triumphant exultation. Then, all at once, one
of the executioners roughly tripped the golden haired girl, sprawling
her helpless on the bloody stones; and, before Nelson could quite
realize it, the slender, silver hued form lay limp and helpless
between Beelzebub's bloody claws.
* * * * *
Like a dynamo furiously gathering speed, so buzzed Nelson's brain. He
was going to save her--if only for a brief interval! One man against a
nation. Through a raging mist of fury he saw the red-robed priest
raise his lean arms; then the American's bound hands darted beneath
the blue chiton to reappear immediately. No one saw the pistol, for
every eye was rivetted upon the gleaming, sickle-knife of the red
priest. Like a voice from hell, that eery scream burst again from
Beelzebub's throat as his priest stepped near, the knife raised.
Amid a deafening roar the sickle-knife flashed higher; but it never
fell, for the red priest suddenly reeled, clutched his chest and,
staring wildly, staggered sidewise, while the assembled priests stared
thunderstruck. The deafening roar of Beelzebub, the clamor of horns
and cymbals had drowned out the report. In superstitious awe the
Jarmuthians leaped back, panic-stricken, from the convulsively
writhing body of the red priest, which rolled crazily down the steps
before the idol; but a high shout of terror rang out as he toppled off
the summit and, like a discarded puppet, plunged down the precipitous
side of the cone-like tower.
Again Nelson's pistol spat, and two of the executioners collapsed in
kicking agony. Like an avenging fury, the American raged about the
summit, the pistol in his bound bands dealing death right and left
until panic seized the remaining priests, who, with one accord,
abandoned their weapons to rush headlong down the dizzy, winding
roadway. In a trice, none but Altara, Nelson, the two Atlanteans and
the fallen priests remained on the summit.
* * * * *
It was the work of a moment for the Atlanteans to cast loose Nelson's
bound wrists, and he theirs; time was precious, for, from below, a
furious cohort of spearmen were charging up the stairs, their dark
features terrible in their wrath.
"Only four more shots!" The sickening realization dashed into Nelson's
brain. "That'll never stop them." Then in the midst of his despair he
saw an answer. Stepping back he fired twice full into the great steam
coil circling the base of the idol.
_Spang! Spang!_ His bullets smacked through the copper coil to
puncture neat, round holes. As he fervently hoped, jets of live steam
rushed through these vents with terrible force and bathed the head of
the stairs with a scalding, blinding vapor. Howling like mad beasts,
the agonized Jarmuthian hoplites fell back, while overhead Beelzebub
bellowed incessantly, shaking the sky with his hideous voice.
"That's better." But Nelson knew his triumph to be brief. "_Where in
hell is Alden?_" he raged as with shaking hands be released the
bewildered girl from the death bar after the two Atlanteans had lifted
it and its fair burden from the claws of Beelzebub.
Picking up the swords and other weapons of the fallen priests the two
Atlanteans uttered their deep-toned war cry of _Halor van!_ and
joyously prepared to die fighting, as furious roar on roar of wrath
arose from the populace, infuriated at being cheated of their prey.
But the black-armored temple guards dared not charge those twin steam
jets barring their approach. Accordingly they tried other means.
* * * * *
Nelson's heart stopped as a small, dark object sailed up from below
and clattered on the platform. It was a grenade. With the speed of
thought, the American kicked it to the landing below, where it
exploded, annihilating a detachment of Jarmuthians by drenching them
with the terrible fungus gas. Heart bounding with savage joy, Nelson
watched the deadly green fog leap from the broken grenade and of its
own accord settle on the nearest soldiers. With the usual astonishing
speed there formed on the stricken soldiery that poisonous yellow
mould, whose fungus-like shoots sprouted through nostrils and mouths.
On the dense crowd below the bomb's effect was appalling, and no more
grenades were hurled....
During the respite Nelson's anguished eyes once more swept the skies.
He started. Was it true or was it a mirage? Far to the southward a
small, black speck materialized in the orange-hued heavens. Good old
Alden! Hope wavered in the American's breast. Could he and his two
fellows beat off the infuriated Jarmuthians long enough? He doubted
it.
A shower of spears sailed up, but because of the angle, their
trajectory was too great, and like rays of death the lances flashed
harmlessly overhead to plunge over the summit and wreak death among
those on the other side.
Nearer and nearer came the black speck while from the populace a low
shout of amazement arose. Coincidently Nelson's heart stopped; aghast,
he saw that the steam was no longer hissing from the holes at the
idol's feet! Evidently, the steam current had been shut off from below
to allow the raging priests to lead their followers in a desperate
charge up the stairs.
Marshalling an Atlantean to either side, Nelson sprang to the head of
the stair and fired full in the face of gorgeously robed priests who
staggered back screaming. But the others wavered only an instant.
"_Halor van!_" Both Atlanteans hurled spears retrieved from the
abandoned weapons--and each struck down his man.
* * * * *
The American's eye flickered up. Yes, there came a strange, but
welcome sight: a great creature with enormous, leathery pinions was
circling down towards the tower top! A clashing of weapons brought
Nelson's eyes earthwards. He joined in a furious melee at the stair
top, like the Atlanteans, using a captured bronze sword. There came a
deep groan as the right-hand Atlantean collapsed with a bloodied
bronze spear point standing far out from between his naked shoulder
blades.
A swooping shadow fell across the slowly advancing attackers.
Beholding that awesome creature the Jarmuthians cowered, hesitated;
then in headlong panic they darted below, uttering howls of fear and
pursued by the surviving Atlantean, who, gone berserk, must have
shortly paid for his folly.
The pteranodon was now quite recognizable, and seated on a double
saddle was Alden, skillfully guiding the ungainly monster by means of
a curious bridle, by shifting his weight and by pressing certain nerve
centers between the great reptile's leathery shoulders.
Down, down circled Alden until the great wings skimmed just above
Beelzebub's ugly golden head.
Her courage strained beyond endurance, Altara screamed shrilly in fear
as Alden guided the huge reptile to the summit and forced it to light.
"Quick!" shouted Alden. "They're coming back up!"
"All right!" Catching up the fainting girl, Nelson hurdled two or
three fallen bodies, and, while Alden showered fungus bombs upon the
returning Jarmuthians, he laid his precious burden across the saddle
and secured her with straps specially designed for the purpose.
"All right, Dick," he snapped. "Get going!"
"But you?" Alden's brown face was terribly intent.
"I'm not going! This creature could never carry the three of us. It
can't, I tell you! Hurry, those devils are coming!"
Alden folded his arms. "If you don't go, I don't."
"All right then," snarled Nelson, vaulting into the saddle after
casting loose the inert, yellow-robed girl. "Be a damned fool! We'll
all die now."
* * * * *
It was a near thing, for the pteranodon, scenting the fresh blood, was
very loath to obey its master, and scuffed awkwardly around the tower
top two or three times, while Nelson, clutching Altara to him,
expended his last shot in driving back the enemy.
At last, the pteranodon spread its huge brown pinions and took off.
Then Nelson gasped in alarm, for, unaccustomed to the heavy weight it
now bore, the pteranodon scaled earthwards with the speed of a meteor,
wildly flapping its bat-like-wings. Down! Down! Nelson had an
impression of people scattering like frightened ants.
Alden cursed, tugged furiously on the bridle, and set his weight back
in the saddle, but to no avail. Down! Ever down! The pteranodon now
struggled among the tall buildings.
A sickening sense of defeat gripped Nelson as a long jet of steam shot
out from a huge brass retortii mounted on the roof of an arsenal. The
scalding fingers of steam just missed its target, but fortunately
served to sting the descending pteranodon. With a convulsive shudder
and a whistling scream, the hideous reptile commenced to flap its
gigantic wings faster, and, slowly but surely, began to rise over the
yellow temples and towers of the barbarous city of Jezreel.
* * * * *
What followed is now a matter of Atlantean history. On its pages is
set forth in full detail how the giant pteranodon barely crossed the
boiling river to sink exhausted in the outskirts of Tricca.
There, also, is described the series of tremendous battles in which
the Atlanteans, led by Altorius and inspired by the return of their
Sacred Virgin, employed the terrible fungus gas to overwhelm the
Jarmuthian invaders, driving them back with great slaughter to the
steaming plains of their own land.
At even greater length is described the great triumph Altorius
accorded the victorious aviators on the occasion of Victor Nelson's
marriage to Altara.
"Doth it not seem strange," she whispered as they stood looking out
over the great, sleeping city of Heliopolis, "that thou of the New
World and I of the Lost World, should stand man and wife?"
The American's tanned face softened. "My darling," he whispered,
"there are lots of strange things in the new Atlantis--but this isn't
one of them."
_(The End.)_
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