Conan stooped and tore the knife from the monster's breast. Then he went
swiftly up the stair. What other shapes of fear the darkness held he
could not guess, but he had no desire to encounter any more. This
touch-and-go sort of battling was too strenuous even for the giant
Cimmerian. The moonlight was fading from the floor, the darkness closing
in, and something like panic pursued him up the stair. He breathed a
gusty sigh of relief when he reached the head, and felt the third key
turn in the lock. He opened the door slightly, and craned his neck to
peer through, half expecting an attack from some human or bestial enemy.
He looked into a bare stone corridor, dimly lighted, and a slender,
supple figure stood before the door.
'Your Majesty!' It was a low, vibrant cry, half in relief and half in
fear. The girl sprang to his side, then hesitated as if abashed.
'You bleed,' she said. 'You have been hurt!'
He brushed aside the implication with an impatient hand.
'Scratches that wouldn't hurt a baby. Your skewer came in handy, though.
But for it Tarascus' monkey would be cracking my shin-bones for the
marrow right now. But what now?'
'Follow me,' she whispered. 'I will lead you outside the city wall. I
have a horse concealed there.'
She turned to lead the way down the corridor, but he laid a heavy hand
on her naked shoulder.
'Walk beside me,' he instructed her softly, passing his massive arm
about her lithe waist. 'You've played me fair so far, and I'm inclined
to believe in you; but I've lived this long only because I've trusted no
one too far, man or woman. So! Now if you play me false you won't live
to enjoy the jest.'
She did not flinch at sight of the reddened poniard or the contact of
his hard muscles about her supple body.
'Cut me down without mercy if I play you false,' she answered. 'The very
feel of your arm about me, even in menace, is as the fulfillment of a
dream.'
The vaulted corridor ended at a door, which she opened. Outside lay
another black man, a giant in turban and silk loin-cloth, with a curved
sword lying on the flags near his hand. He did not move.
'I drugged his wine,' she whispered, swerving to avoid the recumbent
figure. 'He is the last, and outer, guard of the pits. None ever escaped
from them before, and none has ever wished to seek them; so only these
black men guard them. Only these of all the servants knew it was King
Conan that Xaltotun brought a prisoner in his chariot. I was watching,
sleepless, from an upper casement that opened into the court, while the
other girls slept; for I knew that a battle was being fought, or had
been fought, in the west, and I feared for you....
'I saw the blacks carry you up the stair, and I recognized you in the
torchlight. I slipped into this wing of the palace tonight, in time to
see them carry you to the pits. I had not dared come here before
nightfall. You must have lain in drugged senselessness all day in
Xaltotun's chamber.
'Oh, let us be wary! Strange things are afoot in the palace tonight. The
slaves said that Xaltotun slept as he often sleeps, drugged by the lotus
of Stygia, but Tarascus is in the palace. He entered secretly, through
the postern, wrapped in his cloak which was dusty as with long travel,
and attended only by his squire, the lean silent Arideus. I cannot
understand, but I am afraid.'
They came out at the foot of a narrow, winding stair, and mounting it,
passed through a narrow panel which she slid aside. When they had passed
through, she slipped it back in place, and it became merely a portion of
the ornate wall. They were in a more spacious corridor, carpeted and
tapestried, over which hanging lamps shed a golden glow.
Conan listened intently, but he heard no sound throughout the palace. He
did not know in what part of the palace he was, or in which direction
lay the chamber of Xaltotun. The girl was trembling as she drew him
along the corridor, to halt presently beside an alcove masked with satin
tapestry. Drawing this aside, she motioned for him to step into the
niche, and whispered: 'Wait here! Beyond that door at the end of the
corridor we are likely to meet slaves or eunuchs at any time of the day
or night. I will go and see if the way is clear, before we essay it.'
Instantly his hair-trigger suspicions were aroused.
'Are you leading me into a trap?'
Tears sprang into her dark eyes. She sank to her knees and seized his
muscular hand.
'Oh, my king, do not mistrust me now!' Her voice shook with desperate
urgency. 'If you doubt and hesitate, we are lost! Why should I bring you
up out of the pits to betray you now?'
'All right,' he muttered. 'I'll trust you; though, by Crom, the habits
of a lifetime are not easily put aside. Yet I wouldn't harm you now, if
you brought all the swordsmen in Nemedia upon me. But for you Tarascus'
cursed ape would have come upon me in chains and unarmed. Do as you
wish, girl.'
Kissing his hands, she sprang lithely up and ran down the corridor, to
vanish through a heavy double door.
He glanced after her, wondering if he was a fool to trust her; then he
shrugged his mighty shoulders and pulled the satin hangings together,
masking his refuge. It was not strange that a passionate young beauty
should be risking her life to aid him; such things had happened often
enough in his life. Many women had looked on him with favor, in the days
of his wanderings, and in the time of his kingship.
Yet he did not remain motionless in the alcove, waiting for her return.
Following his instincts, he explored the niche for another exit, and
presently found one--the opening of a narrow passage, masked by the
tapestries, that ran to an ornately carved door, barely visible in the
dim light that filtered in from the outer corridor. And as he stared
into it, somewhere beyond that carven door he heard the sound of another
door opening and shutting, and then a low mumble of voices. The familiar
sound of one of those voices caused a sinister expression to cross his
dark face. Without hesitation he glided down the passage, and crouched
like a stalking panther beside the door. It was not locked, and
manipulating it delicately, he pushed it open a crack, with a reckless
disregard for possible consequences that only he could have explained or
defended.
It was masked on the other side by tapestries, but through a thin slit
in the velvet he looked into a chamber lit by a candle on an ebony
table. There were two men in that chamber. One was a scarred,
sinister-looking ruffian in leather breeks and ragged cloak; the other
was Tarascus, king of Nemedia.
Tarascus seemed ill at ease. He was slightly pale, and he kept starting
and glancing about him, as if expecting and fearing to hear some sound
or footstep.
'Go swiftly and at once,' he was saying. 'He is deep in drugged slumber,
but I know not when he may awaken.'
'Strange to hear words of fear issuing from the lips of Tarascus,'
rumbled the other in a harsh, deep voice.
The king frowned.
'I fear no common man, as you well know. But when I saw the cliffs fall
at Valkia I knew that this devil we had resurrected was no charlatan. I
fear his powers, because I do not know the full extent of them. But I
know that somehow they are connected with this accursed thing which I
have stolen from him. It brought him back to life; so it must be the
source of his sorcery.
'He had it hidden well; but following my secret order a slave spied on
him and saw him place it in a golden chest, and saw where he hid the
chest. Even so, I would not have dared steal it had Xaltotun himself not
been sunk in lotus slumber.
'I believe it is the secret of his power. With it Orastes brought him
back to life. With it he will make us all slaves, if we are not wary. So
take it and cast it into the sea as I have bidden you. And be sure you
are so far from land that neither tide nor storm can wash it up on the
beach. You have been paid.'
'So I have,' grunted the ruffian. 'And I owe more than gold to you,
king; I owe you a debt of gratitude. Even thieves can be grateful.'
'Whatever debt you may feel you owe me,' answered Tarascus, 'will be
paid when you have hurled this thing into the sea.'
'I'll ride for Zingara and take ship from Kordava,' promised the other.
'I dare not show my head in Argos, because of the matter of a murder or
so--'
'I care not, so it is done. Here it is; a horse awaits you in the court.
Go, and go swiftly!'
Something passed between them, something that flamed like living fire.
Conan had only a brief glimpse of it; and then the ruffian pulled a
slouch hat over his eyes, drew his cloak about his shoulder, and hurried
from the chamber. And as the door closed behind him, Conan moved with
the devastating fury of unchained blood-lust. He had held himself in
check so long as he could. The sight of his enemy so near him set his
wild blood seething and swept away all caution and restraint.
Tarascus was turning toward an inner door when Conan tore aside the
hangings and leaped like a blood-mad panther into the room. Tarascus
wheeled, but even before he could recognize his attacker, Conan's
poniard ripped into him.
But the blow was not mortal, as Conan knew the instant he struck. His
foot had caught in a fold of the curtains and tripped him as he leaped.
The point fleshed itself in Tarascus' shoulder and plowed down along his
ribs, and the king of Nemedia screamed.
The impact of the blow and Conan's lunging body hurled him back against
the table and it toppled and the candle went out. They were both carried
to the floor by the violence of Conan's rush, and the foot of the
tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was stabbing blindly in
the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of panicky terror. As if fear
lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore free and blundered away in the
darkness, shrieking: 'Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes!'
Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the
broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his blood-thirsty
disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the palace.
The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance, and a wild
outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had escaped him in the
darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had gone. The Cimmerian's
rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there remained only the task
of saving his own hide if he could.
Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove,
glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up
it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.
'Oh, what has happened?' she cried. 'The palace is roused! I swear I
have not betrayed you--'
'No, it was I who stirred up this hornet's nest,' he grunted. 'I tried
to pay off a score. What's the shortest way out of this?'
She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before they
reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose from
behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from the other
side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.
'We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they
will burst it in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through it.'
Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a
rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before him.
'Quick! Into this door!' the girl cried desperately, running across the
corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.
Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them.
They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves,
and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees and
shrubbery.
'You are strong,' she panted. 'If you can tear these bars away, you may
yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are thick, and
you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer wall of the
city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A horse is hidden
for you in a thicket beside the road that runs westward, a few hundred
paces to the south of the fountain of Thrallos. You know where it is?'
'Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me.'
A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.
'Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your
escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They
will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just
said will glorify my life throughout the long years.'
He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to
him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until she
lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind, even
his love-making was violent.
'I'll go,' he muttered. 'But by Crom, I'll come for you some day!'
Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets with
one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down swiftly,
clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground running and
melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rose-bushes and spreading
trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder showed him Zenobia
leaning over the window-sill, her arms stretched after him in mute
farewell and renunciation.
Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the
palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder--tall men in burnished
cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze. The starlight struck
glints from their gleaming armor, among the trees, betraying their every
movement; but the sound of their coming ran far before them. To Conan,
wilderness-bred, their rush through the shrubbery was like the
blundering stampede of cattle. Some of them passed within a few feet of
where he lay flat in a thick cluster of bushes, and never guessed his
presence. With the palace as their goal, they were oblivious to all else
about them. When they had gone shouting on, he rose and fled through the
garden with no more noise than a panther would have made.
So quickly he came to the southern wall, and mounted the steps that led
to the parapet. The wall was made to keep people out, not in. No sentry
patrolling the battlements was in sight. Crouching by an embrasure he
glanced back at the great palace rearing above the cypresses behind him.
Lights blazed from every window, and he could see figures flitting back
and forth across them like puppets on invisible strings. He grinned
hardly, shook his fist in a gesture of farewell and menace, and let
himself over the outer rim of the parapet.
A low tree, a few yards below the parapet, received Conan's weight, as
he dropped noiselessly into the branches. An instant later he was racing
through the shadows with the swinging hillman's stride that eats up long
miles.
Gardens and pleasure villas surrounded the walls of Belverus. Drowsy
slaves, sleeping by their watchman's pikes, did not see the swift and
furtive figure that scaled walls, crossed alleys made by the arching
branches of trees, and threaded a noiseless way through orchards and
vineyards. Watchdogs woke and lifted their deep-booming clamor at a
gliding shadow, half scented, half sensed, and then it was gone.
* * * * *
In a chamber of the palace Tarascus writhed and cursed on a
blood-spattered couch, under the deft, quick fingers of Orastes. The
palace was thronged with wide-eyed, trembling servitors, but the chamber
where the king lay was empty save for himself and the renegade priest.
'Are you sure he still sleeps?' Tarascus demanded again, setting his
teeth against the bite of the herb juices with which Orastes was
bandaging the long, ragged gash in his shoulder and ribs. 'Ishtar, Mitra
and Set! That burns like molten pitch of hell!'
'Which you would be experiencing even now, but for your good fortune,'
remarked Orastes. 'Whoever wielded that knife struck to kill. Yes, I
have told you that Xaltotun still sleeps. Why are you so urgent upon
that point? What has he to do with this?'
'You know nothing of what has passed in the palace tonight?' Tarascus
searched the priest's countenance with burning intensity.
'Nothing. As you know, I have been employed in translating manuscripts
for Xaltotun, for some months now, transcribing esoteric volumes written
in the younger languages into script he can read. He was well versed in
all the tongues and scripts of his day, but he has not yet learned all
the newer languages, and to save time he has me translate these works
for him, to learn if any new knowledge has been discovered since his
time. I did not know that he had returned last night until he sent for
me and told me of the battle. Then I returned to my studies, nor did I
know that you had returned until the clamor in the palace brought me out
of my cell.'
'Then you do not know that Xaltotun brought the king of Aquilonia a
captive to this palace?'
Orastes shook his head, without particular surprise.
'Xaltotun merely said that Conan would oppose us no more. I supposed
that he had fallen, but did not ask the details.'
'Xaltotun saved his life when I would have slain him,' snarled Tarascus.
'I saw his purpose instantly. He would hold Conan captive to use as a
club against us--against Amalric, against Valerius, and against myself.
So long as Conan lives he is a threat, a unifying factor for Aquilonia,
that might be used to compel us into courses we would not otherwise
follow. I mistrust this undead Pythonian. Of late I have begun to fear
him.
'I followed him, some hours after he had departed eastward. I wished to
learn what he intended doing with Conan. I found that he had imprisoned
him in the pits. I intended to see that the barbarian died, in spite of
Xaltotun. And I accomplished----'
A cautious knock sounded at the door.
'That's Arideus,' grunted Tarascus. 'Let him in.'
The saturnine squire entered, his eyes blazing with suppressed
excitement.
'How, Arideus?' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Have you found the man who attacked
me?'
'You did not see him, my lord?' asked Arideus, as one who would assure
himself of a fact he already knows to exist. 'You did not recognize
him?'
'No. It happened so quick, and the candle was out--all I could think of
was that it was some devil loosed on me by Xaltotun's magic----'
'The Pythonian sleeps in his barred and bolted room. But I have been in
the pits.' Arideus twitched his lean shoulders excitedly.
'Well, speak, man!' exclaimed Tarascus impatiently. 'What did you find
there?'
'An empty dungeon,' whispered the squire. 'The corpse of the great ape!'
'_What?_' Tarascus started upright, and blood gushed from his opened
wound.
'Aye! The man-eater is dead--stabbed through the heart--and Conan is
gone!'
Tarascus was gray of face as he mechanically allowed Orastes to force
him prostrate again and the priest renewed work upon his mangled flesh.
'Conan!' he repeated. 'Not a crushed corpse--escaped! Mitra! He is no
man; but a devil himself! I thought Xaltotun was behind this wound. I
see now. Gods and devils! It was Conan who stabbed me! Arideus!'
'Aye, your Majesty!'
'Search every nook in the palace. He may be skulking through the dark
corridors now like a hungry tiger. Let no niche escape your scrutiny,
and beware. It is not a civilized man you hunt, but a blood-mad
barbarian whose strength and ferocity are those of a wild beast. Scour
the palace-grounds and the city. Throw a cordon about the walls. If you
find he has escaped from the city, as he may well do, take a troop of
horsemen and follow him. Once past the walls it will be like hunting a
wolf through the hills. But haste, and you may yet catch him.'
'This is a matter which requires more than ordinary human wits,' said
Orastes. 'Perhaps we should seek Xaltotun's advice.'
'No!' exclaimed Tarascus violently. 'Let the troopers pursue Conan and
slay him. Xaltotun can hold no grudge against us if we kill a prisoner
to prevent his escape.'
'Well,' said Orastes, 'I am no Acheronian, but I am versed in some of
the arts, and the control of certain spirits which have cloaked
themselves in material substance. Perhaps I can aid you in this matter.'
* * * * *
The fountain of Thrallos stood in a clustered ring of oaks beside the
road a mile from the walls of the city. Its musical tinkle reached
Conan's ears through the silence of the starlight. He drank deep of its
icy stream, and then hurried southward toward a small, dense thicket he
saw there. Rounding it, he saw a great white horse tied among the
bushes. Heaving a deep gusty sigh he reached it with one stride--a
mocking laugh brought him about, glaring.
A dully glinting, mail-clad figure moved out of the shadows into the
starlight. This was no plumed and burnished palace guardsman. It was a
tall man in morion and gray chain-mail--one of the Adventurers, a class
of warriors peculiar to Nemedia; men who had not attained to the wealth
and position of knighthood, or had fallen from that estate; hard-bitten
fighters, dedicating their lives to war and adventure. They constituted
a class of their own, sometimes commanding troops, but themselves
accountable to no man but the king. Conan knew that he could have been
discovered by no more dangerous a foeman.
A quick glance among the shadows convinced him that the man was alone,
and he expanded his great chest slightly, digging his toes into the
turf, as his thews coiled tensely.
'I was riding for Belverus on Amalric's business,' said the Adventurer,
advancing warily. The starlight was a long sheen on the great two-handed
sword he bore naked in his hand. 'A horse whinnied to mine from the
thicket. I investigated and thought it strange a steed should be
tethered here. I waited--and lo, I have caught a rare prize!'
The Adventurers lived by their swords.
'I know you,' muttered the Nemedian. 'You are Conan, king of Aquilonia.
I thought I saw you die in the valley of the Valkia, but----'
Conan sprang as a dying tiger springs. Practised fighter though the
Adventurer was, he did not realize the desperate quickness that lurks in
barbaric sinews. He was caught off guard, his heavy sword half lifted.
Before he could either strike or parry, the king's poniard sheathed
itself in his throat, above the gorget, slanting downward into his
heart. With a choked gurgle he reeled and went down, and Conan
ruthlessly tore his blade free as his victim fell. The white horse
snorted violently and shied at the sight and scent of blood on the
sword.
Glaring down at his lifeless enemy, dripping poniard in hand, sweat
glistening on his broad breast, Conan poised like a statue, listening
intently. In the woods about there was no sound, save for the sleepy
cheep of awakened birds. But in the city, a mile away, he heard the
strident blare of a trumpet.
Hastily he bent over the fallen man. A few seconds' search convinced him
that whatever message the man might have borne was intended to be
conveyed by word of mouth. But he did not pause in his task. It was not
many hours until dawn. A few minutes later the white horse was galloping
westward along the white road, and the rider wore the gray mail of a
Nemedian Adventurer.
7