The Greatest Tales of Lost Worlds & Alternative Universes. Филип Дик
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Название: The Greatest Tales of Lost Worlds & Alternative Universes
Автор: Филип Дик
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 9788027248094
isbn:
Through the clamour I heard a booming of the Akka, closer, closer; then through it the bellow of Lugur. I made a mighty effort, swung a hand up, and sunk my fingers in the throat of the soldier striving to kill me. Writhing over him, my fingers touched a poniard; I thrust it deep, staggered to my feet.
The O’Keefe, shielding Lakla, was battling with a long sword against a half dozen of the soldiers. I started toward him, was struck, and under the impact hurled to the ground. Dizzily I raised myself — and leaning upon my elbow, stared and moved no more. For the dwarfs lay dead, and Larry, holding Lakla tightly, was staring even as I, and ranged at the head of the path were the Akka, whose booming advance in obedience to the handmaiden’s call I had heard.
And at what we all stared was Olaf, crimson with his wounds, and Lugur, in blood-red armour, locked in each other’s grip, struggling, smiting, tearing, kicking, and swaying about the little space before the embrasure. I crawled over toward the O’Keefe. He raised his pistol, dropped it.
“Can’t hit him without hitting Olaf,” he whispered. Lakla signalled the frog-men; they advanced toward the two — but Olaf saw them, broke the red dwarf’s hold, sent Lugur reeling a dozen feet away.
“No!” shouted the Norseman, the ice of his pale-blue eyes glinting like frozen flames, blood streaming down his face and dripping from his hands. “No! Lugur is mine! None but me slays him! Ho, you Lugur —” and cursed him and Yolara and the Dweller hideously — I cannot set those curses down here.
They spurred Lugur. Mad now as the Norseman, the red dwarf sprang. Olaf struck a blow that would have killed an ordinary man, but Lugur only grunted, swept in, and seized him about the waist; one mighty arm began to creep up toward Huldricksson’s throat.
“‘Ware, Olaf!” cried O’Keefe; but Olaf did not answer. He waited until the red dwarf’s hand was close to his shoulder; and then, with an incredibly rapid movement — once before had I seen something like it in a wrestling match between Papuans — he had twisted Lugur around; twisted him so that Olaf’s right arm lay across the tremendous breast, the left behind the neck, and Olaf’s left leg held the Voice’s armoured thighs viselike against his right knee while over that knee lay the small of the red dwarf’s back.
For a second or two the Norseman looked down upon his enemy, motionless in that paralyzing grip. And then — slowly — he began to break him!
Lakla gave a little cry; made a motion toward the two. But Larry drew her head down against his breast, hiding her eyes; then fastened his own upon the pair, white-faced, stern.
Slowly, ever so slowly, proceeded Olaf. Twice Lugur moaned. At the end he screamed — horribly. There was a cracking sound, as of a stout stick snapped.
Huldricksson stooped, silently. He picked up the limp body of the Voice, not yet dead, for the eyes rolled, the lips strove to speak; lifted it, walked to the parapet, swung it twice over his head, and cast it down to the red waters!
Chapter XXXIV.
The Coming of the Shining One
The Norseman turned toward us. There was now no madness in his eyes; only a great weariness. And there was peace on the once tortured face.
“Helma,” he whispered, “I go a little before! Soon you will come to me — to me and the Yndling who will await you — Helma, mine liebe!”
Blood gushed from his mouth; he swayed, fell. And thus died Olaf Huldricksson.
We looked down upon him; nor did Lakla, nor Larry, nor I try to hide our tears. And as we stood the Akka brought to us that other mighty fighter, Rador; but in him there was life, and we attended to him there as best we could.
Then Lakla spoke.
“We will bear him into the castle where we may give him greater care,” she said. “For, lo! the hosts of Yolara have been beaten back; and on the bridge comes Nak with tidings.”
We looked over the parapet. It was even as she had said. Neither on ledge nor bridge was there trace of living men of Muria — only heaps of slain that lay everywhere — and thick against the cavern mouth still danced the flashing atoms of those the green ray had destroyed.
“Over!” exclaimed Larry incredulously. “We live then — heart of mine!”
“The Silent Ones recall their veils,” she said, pointing to the dome. Back through the slitted opening the radiance was streaming; withdrawing from sea and island; marching back over the bridge with that same ordered, intelligent motion. Behind it the red light pressed, like skirmishers on the heels of a retreating army.
“And yet —” faltered the handmaiden as we passed into her chamber, and doubtful were the eyes she turned upon the O’Keefe.
“I don’t believe,” he said, “there’s a kick left in them —”
What was that sound beating into the chamber faintly, so faintly? My heart gave a great throb and seemed to stop for an eternity. What was it — coming nearer, ever nearer? Now Lakla and O’Keefe heard it, life ebbing from lips and cheeks.
Nearer, nearer — a music as of myriads of tiny crystal bells, tinkling, tinkling — a storm of pizzicati upon violins of glass! Nearer, nearer — not sweetly now, nor luring; no — raging, wrathful, sinister beyond words; sweeping on; nearer —
The Dweller! The Shining One!
We leaped to the narrow window; peered out, aghast. The bell notes swept through and about us, a hurricane. The crescent strand was once more a ferment. Back, back were the Akka being swept, as though by brooms, tottering on the edge of the ledge, falling into the waters. Swiftly they were finished; and where they had fought was an eddying throng clothed in tatters or naked, swaying, drifting, arms tossing — like marionettes of Satan.
The dead-alive! The slaves of the Dweller!
They swayed and tossed, and then, like water racing through an opened dam, they swept upon the bridge-head. On and on they pushed, like the bore of a mighty tide. The frog-men strove against them, clubbing, spearing, tearing them. But even those worst smitten seemed not to fall. On they pushed, driving forward, irresistible — a battering ram of flesh and bone. They clove the masses of the Akka, pressing them to the sides of the bridge and over. Through the open gates they forced them — for there was no room for the frog-men to stand against that implacable tide.
Then those of the Akka who were left turned their backs and ran. We heard the clang of the golden wings of the portal, and none too soon to keep out the first of the Dweller’s dreadful hordes.
Now upon the cavern ledge and over the whole length of the bridge there were none but the dead-alive, men and women, black-polled ladala, sloe-eyed Malays, slant-eyed Chinese, men of every race that sailed the seas — milling, turning, swaying, like leaves caught in a sluggish current.
The bell notes became sharper, СКАЧАТЬ