understand that this city and that red stone are accursed. We have followed you here against our judgment because you have proved yourself a mighty man and have said you hold a charm against all evil beings. You said you but wished to look on this evil gem, but now we see it is your intention to take it for yourself.
“Beware, my lord! Courage and war-skill overcome not the powers of darkness, and that gleaming jewel is stronger than any charm. Do not offend the djinn!”
“Nay, Nuredin, do not dare the wrath of the djinn!” chorused the other Bedouins; the sheikh’s own hard- bitten scoundrels said nothing. Hardened to crimes and impious deeds, they were less affected by the superstitions of the local Bedouins, to whom the curse on the dead city had been repeated, a dread tale, for centuries. Steve, even while hating Nuredin with unusually concentrated venom, realized the power of the man, the innate leadership that had enabled him to thus far overcome the fears and traditions of ages.
“The curse is laid on infidels who invade the city,” answered Nuredin, “not on the Faithful; see, we have overcome our foes in this chamber. Now behold: unharmed I take the Fire of Asshurbanipal!”
And striding boldly up the marble steps he took up the great gem which gleamed and shimmered like a living flame in his hand. The Arabs held their breath; Yar Ali, conscious at last, groaned dismally, and Steve cursed sickly to himself. Worse than the threat of torture and death, worse than the throbbing of his wounded shoulder was the sight of his enemy seizing the treasure of which he had dreamed — for which he and Yar Ali had striven and bled.
God, what a barbaric scene — the thought came to him, even in his rage and savage disappointment — bound captives on the marble floor, wild warriors clustered about, gripping their weapons, the acrid scent of blood and burnt powder still lingering in the air, corpses strewn in a horrid welter of blood, brains and entrails — and on the dais, upon whose red-stained steps sprawled the body of the Arab that Steve had brained, beside the skull- adorned throne — the hawk-faced sheikh, oblivious to all except the evil crimson glow in his hand.
Nuredin was like one hypnotized, as all the slumbering mysticism and mystery of his Semitic blood were stirred to the deeps of his strange soul.
“The heart of all evil,” murmured the sheikh, holding the magnificent stone up to the light where its gleams almost dazzled the eyes of the awed beholders. “How many princes died for thee in the dawns of the Beginnings of Happenings? What fair bosoms didst thou adorn, and what kings held thee as now I hold thee? Surely, blood went into thy making, the blood of kings surely throbs in thy shining and the heart-flow of queens in thy splendor. The brazen trumpets flared and the standards flamed in the sun; the deserts shook to the chanting of the chariots; sultans roared and revelled. Thou blazed above all. The worm gnawed the root, the sword cleft the bosom, the lizard crawled in the palaces of kings. Thy owners and they that wore thee, princesses and sultans and generals, they are dust and are forgotten, but thou blazest with majesty undimmed, fire of the world. Thou art Life itself, deathless and undying, as thou shalt be when I, thy master now, am as this moldering skull — ”
Nuredin carelessly struck the skull which crumbled at his touch. And instantly he stiffened and reeled, while a hideous scream tore through his bearded lips — a shriek that was answered by a wild medley of yells as his warriors burst toward the door in wild flight. For a blind man could see that Death had set his seal suddenly on the brow of Nuredin el Mekru. Even his Yemen ruffians joined in the general stampede, and while their sheikh writhed and gibbered wordlessly, the band jammed in a battling, screeching mass in the doorway, tore through and raced madly down the wide stairs.
Steve and Yar Ali, watching wild-eyed, saw Nuredin flail the air desperately with his left arm, about which a mottled bracelet seemed to have grown, then with mouth gaping in agony and eyes glaring, the Arab stumbled and pitched headlong from the steps to crash on the marble floor where he lay still.
The adventurers, flesh crawling, saw an evil-eyed adder untwine itself from about the dead man’s wrist and crawl away. The sheikh lay motionless, still gripping the Fire of Asshurbanipal which cast a sinister radiance over his corpse.
“God is God and Muhammad his Prophet!” breathed Yar Ali fearsomely. “The dogs have fled and they will not return.”
Steve, listening closely, heard no sound. Truly, it had seemed to those wild nomads that the ancient curse had fallen on the profaner.
“Lie still, Steve sahib,” said the Afridi, “a little shifting of my body and I can reach thy cords with my teeth.”
An instant later Steve felt Yar Ali’s powerful teeth at work on his bonds and in a comparatively short time his hands were free. Rising to a sitting position then, he freed his ankles, working awkwardly because his left arm was practically useless. Then he freed Yar Ali, and the big Afghan rose stiffly and stretched.
“By the fangs of the devils,” he swore, “may evil descend on them. Thy shoulder, sahib, let me see to it — by Allah, those dogs dealt sorely with us; I can scarcely move, such a beating they gave me.”
“Wait,” Steve stepped suddenly to a window.
“Just like I thought,” he grunted. “I can see into the city from this window. The Arabs have ridden clean out of sight, I reckon. But look, they went in such a confounded hurry they didn’t stop for the horses of the men we killed! There they stand, tied in the shade of that ruined wall. And I can see canteens and food pouches fastened on the saddles!”
“God is great!” exclaimed Yar Ali, preparing to bandage Steve as best he could.
“A fightin’ chance!” Steve felt like whooping and doing a horn pipe in his dizzy flood of exultation. “Horses, water and food — we’ve got a chance to reach the coast! You’re beat to a pulp and I’ve got a slug in my shoulder, but nothin’ can stop us now!”
He stepped toward the fallen sheikh.
“Wait, sahib!” Yar Ali interposed. “Are you mad, that you would touch one on whom the curse has fallen?”
“Bosh; a snake bit the sheikh. As for that old curse — likely the people of Kara-Shehr died of a plague. The taint remained in the houses for years and the Arabs who came here died too.”
Steve stooped and stolidly wrenched the great gem from the dead hand.
“An adder’d crawled inside the skull — the sheikh clapped his hand down on it, the skull crumbled to dust and the snake just naturally sank his fangs into the nearest object.
“A beauty, eh, Ali?” Steve held up the gem admiringly, gloating over its luster and sheen. “We’re rich men. I’m no judge of jewels, but I bet this gem will bring a fabulous price anywhere. A curse — bosh! But you know, Ali,” he ruminated, “I’ll admit — it is kind of strange that an adder should happen to be sleepin’ in that skull just at that particular time.”
The Fire of Asshurbanipal
(Mythos version)
Robert E. Howard
Yar Ali squinted carefully down the blue barrel of his Lee-Enfield, called devoutly on Allah and sent a bullet through the brain of a flying rider.
The big Afghan shouted in glee, waving his weapon above his head, “God is great! By Allah, sahib, I have sent another one of the dogs to Hell!”
His companion peered cautiously over the rim of the sand-pit they had scooped with their hands. He was a lean and wiry American, Steve Clarney by name.
“Good work, old horse,” said this person. “Four left. Look — they’re drawing off.”
The white-robed horsemen were indeed reining away, clustering together just out of accurate rifle-range, as if in council. There had been seven when they had first swooped down on the comrades, but the fire from the two rifles in the sand-pit had been deadly.
“Look,
Yar Ali stood up boldly and shouted taunts at the departing riders, one of whom whirled and sent a bullet that kicked up sand thirty feet in front of the pit.
“They shoot like the sons of dogs,” said Yar Ali in complacent self-esteem. “By Allah, did you see that rogue
