The Cimmerian at first made no attempt to fight the current that was
sweeping him through lightless night. He kept himself afloat, gripping
between his teeth the sword, which he had not relinquished, even in his
fall, and did not even seek to guess to what doom he was being borne.
But suddenly a beam of light lanced the darkness ahead of him. He saw
the surging, seething black surface of the water, in turmoil as if
disturbed by some monster of the deep, and he saw the sheer stone walls
of the channel curved up to a vault overhead. On each side ran a narrow
ledge, just below the arching roof, but they were far out of his reach.
At one point this roof had been broken, probably fallen in, and the
light was streaming through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was
utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be
swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again.
Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to
the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead
of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would
have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with
tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with
the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore,
fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and
with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on,
breathless.
A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting
his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but
they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the
wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian
was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed
in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not
give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its
scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce
fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof.
He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and
careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he
had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide
chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen
in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the
vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers
and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He
wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water
directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way
again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just
crawled.
And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had
those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was
there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he
was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded
of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his
death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister,
fraught with crawling menace.
Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought
occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious Bît-Yakin. Was it not
possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long
residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when
they departed? The possibility that he might be following a
will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian.
Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the
palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as
he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below
his feet.
His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its
cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the
mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial
hiding-place.
The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing
of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling
into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent.
He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from
the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a
shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative
problems of antiquity.
He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was,
but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great
throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was
useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard.
He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests
came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the
oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which
he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the
jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest.
Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and
stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was
worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic
secret was locked in that marvelously molded form?
He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short
hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had
first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold,
gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference.
The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the
lips were red--
With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword.
'Crom! She's alive!'
At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up
at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen
speechlessness.
She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare.
He licked his dry lips and found voice.
'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered.
'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new
wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.'
'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he
demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam
was beginning to smolder in his eyes.
She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture.
'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse
of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light.
The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have
lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my
court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man,
if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get
hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her
slender arm lifted and pointed.
Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not
obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful
fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a
bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there
was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her
skirt.
'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the
frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a
princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as
I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela,
Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on
your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you.
Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and
resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously.
All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical
figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such
as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her
voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry
triumph.
'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to
Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A
year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't
forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--'
Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his
massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and
her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria.
'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me
here to act as the oracle!'
'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear
the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?'
'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't
disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these
heathen gods!'
'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an
impostor?' he demanded.
At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a
shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas
for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of
any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient
princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now
her undoing.
'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer
me.'
'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.'
'How many men with him?'
'None. We came alone.'
'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must
have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?'
She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an
impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until
she gasped for breath.
'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the
valley?'
'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told
him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad
pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the
surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked
under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water
swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the
valley is masked by heavy thickets.'
'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?'
'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went
to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted
Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was
not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and
brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais.
He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then
he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been
afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away
from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive,
I thought I could frighten you away.'
'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked.
'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of
them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the
palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened
Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I
was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.'
'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay
hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning
himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle,
of course?'
'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing
about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan.
Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me
with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.'
'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in
his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who
banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about
that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?'
'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads
from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she
renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of
this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding
about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I
have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me
if they discover my deceit.
'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a
caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his
intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as
he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!'
She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful
tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in
disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on
his knee.
'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not
know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.'
She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as
if seeking security from the contact.
'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba
planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the
difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods
that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are
thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur
be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of
Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."'
She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced.
'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!'
'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog.
You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your
shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.'
He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval.
'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt
back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it.
Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By
Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act
the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool
them easily.'
'I'll try,' she shivered.
'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.'
At that she became panicky again.
'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!'
'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing
but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly.
I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the
ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.'
And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela
squeaked wretchedly at his going.
Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and
indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode
like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being
stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No
wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings.
He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand.
Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars
were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there
was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made
out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost
amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it
warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their
shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump
of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush.
There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became
stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the
thickets.
He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the
rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he
halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep
shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim
in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white
blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it
was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper
into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly
toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could
make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard.
And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew,
was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the
Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was
the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground
below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by
undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else,
and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem
of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face
was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that
face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body
there.
Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper
into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and
glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of
its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from
the branch of the tree by its own long black hair.