Abraham Merritt Premium Collection: 18 Sci-Fi Books in One Edition. Abraham Merritt

within its sparkling mists another and another flew into its embrace, until, at last, the dais was an incredible vision; a mad star’s Witches’ Sabbath; an altar of white faces and bodies gleaming through living flame; transfused with rapture insupportable and horror that was hellish — and ever, radiant plumes and spirals expanding, the core of the Shining One waxed — growing greater — as it consumed, as it drew into and through itself the life-force of these lost ones!

      So they spun, interlaced — and there began to pulse from them life, vitality, as though the very essence of nature was filling us. Dimly I recognized that what I was beholding was vampirism inconceivable! The banked tiers chanted. The mighty sounds pealed forth!

      It was a Saturnalia of demigods!

      Then, whirling, bell-notes storming, the Shining One withdrew slowly from the dais down the ramp, still embracing, still interwoven with those who had thrown themselves into its spirals. They drifted with it as though half-carried in dreadful dance; white faces sealed — forever — into that semblance of those who held within linked God and devil — I covered my eyes!

      I heard a gasp from O’Keefe; opened my eyes and sought his; saw the wildness vanish from them as he strained forward. Olaf had leaned far out, and as he did so the dwarfs beside him caught him, and whether by design or through his own swift, involuntary movement, thrust him half into the Dweller’s path. The Dweller paused in its gyrations — seemed to watch him. The Norseman’s face was crimson, his eyes blazing. He threw himself back and, with one defiant shout, gripped one of the dwarfs about the middle and sent him hurtling through the air, straight at the radiant Thing! A whirling mass of legs and arms, the dwarf flew — then in midflight stopped as though some gigantic invisible hand had caught him, and — was dashed down upon the platform not a yard from the Shining One!

      Like a broken spider he moved — feebly — once, twice. From the Dweller shot a shimmering tentacle — touched him — recoiled. Its crystal tinklings changed into an angry chiming. From all about — jewelled stalls and jet peak — came a sigh of incredulous horror.

      Lugur leaped forward. On the instant Larry was over the low barrier between the pillars, rushing to the Norseman’s side. And even as they ran there was another wild shout from Olaf, and he hurled himself out, straight at the throat of the Dweller!

      But before he could touch the Shining One, now motionless — and never was the thing more horrible than then, with the purely human suggestion of surprise plain in its poise — Larry had struck him aside.

      I tried to follow — and was held by Rador. He was trembling — but not with fear. In his face was incredulous hope, inexplicable eagerness.

      “Wait!” he said. “Wait!”

      The Shining One stretched out a slow spiral, and as it did so I saw the bravest thing man has ever witnessed. Instantly O’Keefe thrust himself between it and Olaf, pistol out. The tentacle touched him, and the dull blue of his robe flashed out into blinding, intense azure light. From the automatic in his gloved hand came three quick bursts of flame straight into the Thing. The Dweller drew back; the bell-sounds swelled.

      Lugur paused, his hand darted up, and in it was one of the silver Keth cones. But before he could flash it upon the Norseman, Larry had unlooped his robe, thrown its fold over Olaf, and, holding him with one hand away from the Shining One, thrust with the other his pistol into the dwarf’s stomach. His lips moved, but I could not hear what he said. But Lugur understood, for his hand dropped.

      Now Yolara was there — all this had taken barely more than five seconds. She thrust herself between the three men and the Dweller. She spoke to it — and the wild buzzing died down; the gay crystal tinklings burst forth again. The Thing murmured to her — began to whirl — faster, faster — passed down the ivory pier, out upon the waters, bearing with it, meshed in its light, the sacrifices — swept on ever more swiftly, triumphantly and turning, turning, with its ghastly crew, vanished through the Veil!

      Abruptly the polychromatic path snapped out. The silver light poured in upon us. From all the amphitheatre arose a clamour, a shouting. Marakinoff, his eyes staring, was leaning out, listening. Unrestrained now by Rador, I vaulted the wall and rushed forward. But not before I had heard the green dwarf murmur:

      “There is something stronger than the Shining One! Two things — yea — a strong heart — and hate!”

      Olaf, panting, eyes glazed, trembling, shrank beneath my hand.

      “The devil that took my Helma!” I heard him whisper. “The Shining Devil!”

      “Both these men,” Lugur was raging, “they shall dance with the Shining one. And this one, too.” He pointed at me malignantly.

      “This man is mine,” said the priestess, and her voice was menacing. She rested her hand on Larry’s shoulder. “He shall not dance. No — nor his friend. I have told you I dare not for this one!” She pointed to Olaf.

      “Neither this man, nor this,” said Larry, “shall be harmed. This is my word, Yolara!”

      “Even so,” she answered quietly, “my lord!”

      I saw Marakinoff stare at O’Keefe with a new and curiously speculative interest. Lugur’s eyes grew hellish; he raised his arms as though to strike her. Larry’s pistol prodded him rudely enough.

      “No rough stuff now, kid!” said O’Keefe in English. The red dwarf quivered, turned — caught a robe from a priest standing by, and threw it over himself. The ladala, shouting, gesticulating, fighting with the soldiers, were jostling down from the tiers of jet.

      “Come!” commanded Yolara — her eyes rested upon Larry. “Your heart is great, indeed — my lord!” she murmured; and her voice was very sweet. “Come!”

      “This man comes with us, Yolara,” said O’Keefe pointing to Olaf.

      “Bring him,” she said. “Bring him — only tell him to look no more upon me as before!” she added fiercely.

      Beside her the three of us passed along the stalls, where sat the fair-haired, now silent, at gaze, as though in the grip of some great doubt. Silently Olaf strode beside me. Rador had disappeared. Down the stairway, through the hall of turquoise mist, over the rushing sea-stream we went and stood beside the wall through which we had entered. The white-robed ones had gone.

      Yolara pressed; the portal opened. We stepped upon the car; she took the lever; we raced through the faintly luminous corridor to the house of the priestess.

      And one thing now I knew sick at heart and soul the truth had come to me — no more need to search for Throckmartin. Behind that Veil, in the lair of the Dweller, dead-alive like those we had just seen swim in its shining train was he, and Edith, Stanton and Thora and Olaf Huldricksson’s wife!

      The car came to rest; the portal opened; Yolara leaped out lightly, beckoned and flitted up the corridor. She paused before an ebon screen. At a touch it vanished, revealing an entrance to a small blue chamber, glowing as though cut from the heart of some gigantic sapphire; bare, save that in its centre, upon a low pedestal, stood a great globe fashioned from milky rock-crystal; upon its surface were faint tracings as of seas and continents, but, if so, either of some other world or of this world in immemorial past, for in no way did they resemble the mapped coastlines of our earth.

      Poised upon the globe, rising from it out into space, locked in each other’s arms, lips to lips, were two figures, a woman and a man, so exquisite, so lifelike, that for the moment I failed to realize that they, too, were carved of the crystal. And before this shrine — for nothing else could it be, I knew — three slender cones raised themselves: one of purest white flame, one of opalescent water, and the third of — moonlight! There was no mistaking them, the height of a tall man each stood — but how water, flame and light were held so evenly, so steadily in their spire-shapes, I could not tell.

      Yolara bowed lowly — once, twice, thrice. She turned to O’Keefe, nor by slightest look or gesture betrayed she knew others were there than he. The blue eyes wide, searching, unfathomable, she drew close; put white