The Lost World Classics - Ultimate Collection. Жюль Верн
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star-flecked eyes were not upon us; they looked over and beyond — coldly, calculatingly.
“Not enough,” I heard her whisper. “Not enough — for that which I will do.”
We turned, following her gaze. A hundred feet on high, stretching nearly across the gorge, an incredible curtain was flung. Over its folds was movement — arms of spinning globes that thrust forth like paws and down upon which leaped pyramid upon pyramid stiffening as they clung like bristling spikes of hair; great bars of clicking cubes that threw themselves from the shuttering — shook and withdrew. The curtain was a ferment — shifting, mercurial; it throbbed with desire, palpitated with eagerness.
“Not enough!” murmured Norhala.
Her lips parted; from them came another trumpeting — tyrannic, arrogant and clangorous. Under it the curtaining writhed — out from it spurted thin cascades of cubes. They swarmed up into tall pillars that shook and swayed and gyrated.
With blinding flash upon flash the sapphire incandescences struck forth at their feet. A score of flaming columned shapes leaped up and curved in meteor flight over the tumultuous curtain. Streaming with violet fires they shot back to the valley of the City.
“Hai!” shouted Norhala as they flew. “Hai!”
Up darted her arms; the starry galaxies of her eyes danced madly, shot forth visible rays. The mighty curtain of the Metal Things pulsed and throbbed; its units interweaving — block and globe and pyramid of which it was woven, each seeming to strain at leash.
“Come!” cried Norhala — and led the way through the portal.
Close behind her we pressed. I stumbled, nearly fell, over a brown-faced, leather-cuirassed body that lay half over, legs barring the threshold.
Contemptuously Norhala stepped over it. We were within that chamber of the pool. About it lay a fair dozen of the armored men. Ruth’s defense, I thought with a grim delight, had been most excellent — those who had taken her and Ventnor had not done so without paying full toll.
A violet flashing drew my eyes away. Close to the pool wherein we had first seen the white miracle of Norhala’s body, two immense, purple fired stars blazed. Between them, like a suppliant cast from black iron, was Yuruk.
Poised upon their nether tips the stars guarded him. Head touching his knees, eyes hidden within his folded arms, the black eunuch crouched.
“Yuruk!”
There was an unearthly mercilessness in Norhala’s voice.
The eunuch raised his head; slowly, fearfully.
“Goddess!” he whispered. “Goddess! Mercy!”
“I saved him,” she turned to us, “for you to slay. He it was who brought those who took the maid who was mine and the helpless one she loved. Slay him.”
Drake understood — his hand twitched down to his pistol, drew it. He leveled the gun at the black eunuch. Yuruk saw it — shrieked and cowered. Norhala laughed — sweetly, ruthlessly.
“He dies before the stroke falls,” she said. “He dies doubly therefore — and that is well.”
Drake slowly lowered the automatic; turned to me.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t — do it —”
“Masters!” Upon his knees the eunuch writhed toward us. “Masters — I meant no wrong. What I did was for love of the Goddess. Years upon years I have served her. And her mother before her.
“I thought if the maid and the blasted one were gone, that you would follow. Then I would be alone with the Goddess once more. Cherkis will not slay them — and Cherkis will welcome you and give the maid and the blasted one back to you for the arts that you can teach him.
“Mercy, Masters, I meant no harm — bid the Goddess be merciful!”
The ebon pools of eyes were clarified of their ancient shadows by his terror; age was wiped from them by fear, even as it was wiped from his face. The wrinkles were gone. Appallingly youthful, the face of Yuruk prayed to us.
“Why do you wait?” she asked us. “Time presses, and even now we should be on the way. When so many are so soon to die, why tarry over one? Slay him!”
“Norhala,” I answered, “we cannot slay him so. When we kill, we kill in fair fight — hand to hand. The maid we both love has gone, taken with her brother. It will not bring her back if we kill him through whom she was taken. We would punish him — yes, but slay him we cannot. And we would be after the maid and her brother quickly.”
A moment she looked at us, perplexity shading the high and steady anger.
“As you will,” she said at last; then added, half sarcastically, “Perhaps it is because I who am now awake have slept so long that I cannot understand you. But Yuruk has disobeyed ME. That of MINE which I committed to his care he has given to the enemies of me and those who were mine. It matters nothing to me what YOU would do. Matters to me only what I will to do.”
She pointed to the dead.
“Yuruk”— the golden voice was cold —“gather up these carrion and pile them together.”
The eunuch arose, stole out fearfully from between the two stars. He slithered to body after body, dragging them one after the other to the center of the chamber, lifting them and forming of them a heap. One there was who was not dead. His eyes opened as the eunuch seized him, the blackened mouth opened.
“Water!” he begged. “Give me drink. I burn!”
I felt a thrill of pity; lifted my canteen and walked toward him.
“You of the beard,” the merciless chime rang out, “he shall have no water. But drink he shall have, and soon — drink of fire!”
The soldier’s fevered eyes rolled toward her, saw and read aright the ruthlessness in the beautiful face.
“Sorceress!” he groaned. “Cursed spawn of Ahriman!” He spat at her.
The black talons of Yuruk stretched around his throat
“Son of unclean dogs!” he whined. “You dare blaspheme the Goddess!”
He snapped the soldier’s neck as though it had been a rotten twig.
At the callous cruelty I stood for an instant petrified; I heard Drake swear wildly, saw his pistol flash up.
Norhala struck down his arm.
“Your chance has passed,” she said, “and not for THAT shall you slay him.”
And now Yuruk had cast that body upon the others; the pile was complete.
“Mount!” commanded Norhala, and pointed. He cast himself at her feet, writhing, moaning, imploring. She looked at one of the great Shapes; something of command passed from her, something it understood plainly.
The star slipped forward — there was an almost imperceptible movement of its side points. The twitching form of the black seemed to leap up from the floor, to throw itself like a bag upon the mound of the dead.
Norhala threw up her hands. Out of the violet ovals beneath the upper tips of the Things spurted streams of blue flame. They fell upon Yuruk and splashed over him upon the heap of the slain. In the mound was a dreadful movement, a contortion; the bodies stiffened, seemed to try to rise, to push away — dead nerves and muscles responding to the blasting energy passing through them.
Out from the stars rained bolt upon bolt. In the chamber was the sound of thunder, crackling like broken glass. The bodies flamed, crumbled. There was a little smoke — nauseous, feebly protesting, beaten out by the consuming fires almost before it could rise.
Where had been the heap of slain capped by the black eunuch there was but a little whirling cloud of sad gray dust. Caught by a passing draft, it eddied, slipped over the floor, vanished through