By ROBERT E. HOWARD
The tale of a silent dead sea of black
stone set in the drifting sands of the desert,
and of a flaming gem clutched in the bony
fingers of a skeleton on an ancient throne.
Robert E. Howard is dead, but his genius lives on in hisfascinating, vivid stories. He had the knack of depicting hischaracters in action so that they stepped out of the printed pageand gripped the sympathies of the readers—Conan the barbarianadventurer—Solomon Kane, the dour Puritan soldier and redresserof wrongs—King Kull, the valiant fighter from the shadowy kingdomsof the world's dawn—heroes all, and doughty men of might. Theposthumous weird tale by Mr. Howard presented here, "The Fire ofAsshurbanipal," is an outre adventure story of much power. Wecommend it to you.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales December 1936.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Yar Ali squinted carefully down the blue barrel of his Lee-Enfield,called devoutly on Allah and sent a bullet through the brain of aflying rider.
"Allaho akbar!"
The big Afghan shouted in glee, waving his weapon above his head, "Godis great! By Allah, sahib, I have sent another one of the dogs toHell!"
His companion peered cautiously over the rim of the sand-pit theyhad scooped with their hands. He was a lean and wiry American, SteveClarney by name.
"Good work, old horse," said this person. "Four left. Look—they'redrawing off."
The white-robed horsemen were indeed reining away, clustering togetherjust out of accurate rifle-range, as if in council. There had beenseven when they had first swooped down on the comrades, but the firefrom the two rifles in the sand-pit had been deadly.
"Look, sahib—they abandon the fray!"
Yar Ali stood up boldly and shouted taunts at the departing riders, oneof whom whirled and sent a bullet that kicked up sand thirty feet infront of the pit.
"They shoot like the sons of dogs," said Yar Ali in complacentself-esteem. "By Allah, did you see that rogue plunge from his saddleas my lead went home? Up, sahib; let us run after them and cut themdown!"
Paying no attention to this outrageous proposal—for he knew it wasbut one of the gestures Afghan nature continually demands—Steverose, dusted off his breeches and gazing after the riders, now whitespecks far out on the desert, said musingly: "Those fellows ride as ifthey had some set purpose in mind—not a bit like men running from alicking."
"Aye," agreed Yar Ali promptly and seeing nothing inconsistent with hispresent attitude and recent bloodthirsty suggestion, "they ride aftermore of their kind—they are hawks who give up their prey not quickly.We had best move our position quickly, Steve sahib. They will comeback—maybe in a few hours, maybe in a few days—it all depends onhow far away lies the oasis of their tribe. But they will be back. Wehave guns and lives—they want both. And behold."
The Afghan levered out the empty shell and slipped a single cartridgeinto the breech of his rifle.
"My last bullet, sahib."
Steve nodded. "I've got three left."
The raiders whom their bullets had knocked from the saddle had beenlooted by their own comrades. No use searching the bodies which lay inthe sand for ammunition. Steve lifted his canteen and shook it. Notmuch water remained. He knew that Yar Ali had only a little more thanhe, though the big Afridi, bred in a barren land, had used and neededless water