To the Land of the Living by Robert Silverberg Read Free Book Online

tremendous sound of an explosion cut through the shrill cries of the horsemen. Lovecraft laughed. “Got one! Who would ever have imagined –”
    He fired again. In the same moment Gilgamesh brought down one more of the attackers with his bow.
    “They’re backing off!” Lovecraft cried. “By Alhazred, they didn’t expect
this
, I wager!” He laughed again and poked the gun up into a firing position. “I
a
!” he cried, in a voice Howard had never heard out of the shy and scholarly Lovecraft before. “
Shub-Niggurath
!” Lovecraft fired a third time. “
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagljhtagn
!”
    Howard felt sweat rolling down his body. This inaction of his – this paralysis – this shame – what would Conan have made of it? What would Gilgamesh? And Lovecraft, that timid and sheltered man, he who dreaded the fishes of the sea and the cold winds of his New England winters and so many other things, was laughing and bellowing his wondrous gibberish and blazing away like any gangster, having the time of his life –
    Shame! Shame!
    Heedless of the risk Howard scrambled up into the cab of the Land Rover and groped around for the second gun that was lying down there on the floor somewhere. He found it and knelt beside the window. Seven or eight of the Asiatic horsemen lay strewn about, dead or dying, within a hundred-yard radius of the car. The others had withdrawn to a considerable distance and were cantering in uneasy circles. They appeared taken aback by the unexpectedly fierce resistance they had encountered on what they had probably expected to have been an easy bit of jolly slaughter in these untracked frontierlands.
    What were they doing now? Drawing together, a tight little group, horses nose to nose. Conferring. And now two of them were pulling what seemed to be some sort of war-banner from a saddlebag and hoisting it between them on bamboo poles: a long yellow streamer with fluttering blood-red tips, on which bold Oriental characters were painted in shining black. Serious business, obviously. Now they were lining themselves up in a row, facing the Land Rover. Getting ready for a desperate suicide charge – that was the way things appeared.
    Gilgamesh, standing erect in full view, calmly nocked yet another arrow. He took aim and waited for them to come. Lovecraft, looking flushed with excitement, wholly transformed by the alien joys of armed combat, was leaning forward, staring intently, his pistol cocked and ready.
    Howard shivered. Shame rode him with burning spurs. How
could
he cower here while those two bore the brunt of the struggle? Though his hand was shaking, he thrust the pistol out the window and drew a bead on the closest horseman. His finger tightened on the trigger. Would it be possible to score a hit at such a distance? Yes. Yes. Go ahead. You know how to use a gun, all right. High time you put some of that skill to use. Knock that little yellow bastard off his horse with one bark of the Colt .380, yes. Send him straight to the next world – no, he’s in the next world already, send him off to oblivion until it’s his turn to be plucked forth again, yes, that’s it – ready – aim –
    “Wait,” Lovecraft said. “Don’t shoot.”
    What was this? As Howard, with an effort, lowered his gun and let his rigid quivering hand go slack, Lovecraft, shading his eyes against the eerie glare of the swollen red sun, peered closely at the enemy warriors a long silent moment. Then he turned, reached up into the rear of the Land Rover, groped around for amoment, finally pulled out the manila envelope that held their royal commission from King Henry.
    And then – what was he doing?
    Stepping out into plain view, arms raised high, waving the envelope around, walking toward the enemy?
    “They’ll kill you, H.P.! Get down! Get down!”
    Lovecraft, without looking back, gestured brusquely for Howard to be silent. He continued to walk steadily toward the far-off horsemen. They