Page:Weird Tales volume 30 number 01.djvu/70



HANGHAIED to a mysterious fortress on the West African coast—the Castle of Gloom—Neil Bryant, young American, together with the lovely Carol Terry and the latter's brother, Bob, are taken to its age-old throneroom, where, amid ranks of guarding black soldiery, two human heads smile on them from bowls of stone—Atma, beauteous princess of old Egypt, and Karamour, last of the Pharaohs!

Here the surprized Terrys learn they are the descendants of the great Queen Hatshepsut, who ruled Egypt thirty-four hundred years ago. In the tale of Karamour they hear how the Queen fled before the rebellious hordes of Thothmes III, of her death in a lonely cave near Cusie, and Atma's own escape from the rebel leader in the capital city of Memphis.

They learn of the wise Sarcus and his Golden Oil of eternal life; how the princess of Egypt and Karamour made ready for the experiment that would render them immune to the centuries; of the separating of their heads from their bodies, and then at the supreme moment, when their lifeless forms were to be plunged into the vats that would strengthen them for the ages, of the arrow that flew into the tower to bury itself in the breast of Sarcus.

Their narrator tells of the flight of his small army from the oncoming Thothmes; of their months of wandering, and the journey's end by the waters of the great sea—they had spanned the Sahara Desert. He tells of the building of the aged fortress, of his long centuries of study that he might unite once more the head of the Princess, as well as his own, each to a walking body in whose veins still flowed the royal blood of Egypt, a form appropriate to their station. Then, at last, of how the required knowledge had become his, to conclude with the words: "And that, oh strangers, is why you have been summoned!"

The story continues:

last of the Pharaohs had told his enthralling story, we three prisoners sat like stone images, fascinated, while we watched the bodiless head of Karamour. The unbelievable antiquity, the glorious history of the talking head, forbade any answering retorts or protests. The ranks of guarding soldiery were quiet and motionless. Doctor Zola alone had seemed alive, and alternately his eyes rested upon us, as though to note the effects of his ruler's words.

"Perhaps, oh Prince," he drawled in his softest tone, "perhaps the stupid islanders are still in some doubt as to your meaning. Allowances must be made for their disgusting ignorance, Son of Ra. Recall you that they were even unaware 68