Page:Weird Tales Volume 12 Issue 05 (1928-11).djvu/89

don't care what becomes of me. Take my soul and thrust me into the deepest pit of Hell, but save her! Oh, God! Give me back my strength! Give—give——"

The feeble voice droned away to silence. Dmitri Helgar, mercenary Czech, captain in the Black Brigade, had finished his first prayer.

The room was darker before there was further movement. The afterglow of sunset was fading and an early star shone, when Dmitri spoke again.

"Strength and a sword!" he exclaimed in a strong voice, far different from the former tone, although he had not stirred. "A sword and an arm to wield it," he said in the tones of one who sleeps yet speaks, and his right arm began to raise itself upon the fingertips like a monstrous insect blindly sprawling, and like an insect the hand crawled toward the well-beloved sword hilt.

The fingers missed by inches, but continued to walk as far as the arm's length would permit, then staggered along erabwise, the thumb creeping ahead, digging into the floor and contracting, thus pulling the hand behind it, and at last touched the cool sword. A great explosive "Ah!" burst from the pale lips, blowing the dust away, as the fingers closed about the hilt.

The touch was like the caress of a lover. From the grip on Gate-Opener came power and returning vigor, and now, as he lay there, his wan cheeks flushed with new health. More even! Whether it was from the prayer or from his desperate desire to go to Ivga's rescue, a strange feeling pulsed through his limbs. In legs that had been numb and lifeless for a year, a prickling sensation came and went and came again. And when it passed, he found that his feet would move!

Then while he marveled, rapt with the wonder of the seeming miracle, he heard voices outside the cottage.

Two men came laughing down the road, talking loudly as they neared the building, then suddenly becoming quiet. Careful footsteps came up to the door and paused. A deep hatred came to Dmitri, as he lay rigid, listening.

"He has not moved. He is dead," whispered one. "You killed him with that last kick, Wesoskas!"

The other laughed evilly. "A good deed then. I owed it to him. No man strikes me, but he pays—sometime. He struck me once; did I ever tell you?"

"I believe you did, now that you speak of it," said the smith, sardonically. "Come. The night falls. If any soldier should hear of this and see us here——"

The idiot giggled. "Soon! Soon! I want to talk to him a bit."

Leaning farther through the doorway, he cried, "Hey in there, listen to this! She is in town, fastened to the stake. Wouldn't you like to see your imp now?

"She won't kill any more men or blind them for looking at her. We have her fast, and at dawn she burns!

"The wood is gathered, the pile is ready, and the pitch is at hand. Ha-ha-ha! Old man! Old man! Can you hear me in Hell, old man? Hey? Why don't you answer me?"

The smith seized him, horrified at this tormenting of a dead man.

"Come, you fool, come away," he urged; "I hear sounds in the wood."

"All right," chuckled the tanner, "I've got to leave you, old man. Remember! At dawn she dies. I'm sorry now I killed you. Really I am. If you could only see it!"

And then his voice was lifted in expostulations against the force his companion was using in dragging him away.

As the complaints became fainter and could no longer be heard, a tenebrous shadow moved with no body to cause it, and squatted, a puddle of blackness, in a corner.