2 The Night Skulkers
It was the stealthy opening of a door which awakened the Cimmerian. Hedid not awake as civilized men do, drowsy and drugged and stupid. Heawoke instantly, with a clear mind, recognizing the sound that hadinterrupted his sleep. Lying there tensely in the dark he saw the outerdoor slowly open. In a widening crack of starlit sky he saw framed agreat black bulk, broad, stooping shoulders and a misshapen head blockedout against the stars.
Conan felt the skin crawl between his shoulders. He had bolted that doorsecurely. How could it be opening now, save by supernatural agency? Andhow could a human being possess a head like that outlined against thestars? All the tales he had heard in the Zuagir tents of devils andgoblins came back to bead his flesh with clammy sweat. Now the monsterslid noiselessly into the room, with a crouching posture and a shamblinggait; and a familiar scent assailed the Cimmerian's nostrils, but didnot reassure him, since Zuagir legendry represented demons as smellinglike that.
Noiselessly Conan coiled his long legs under him; his naked sword was inhis right hand, and when he struck it was as suddenly and murderously asa tiger lunging out of the dark. Not even a demon could have avoidedthat catapulting charge. His sword met and clove through flesh and bone,and something went heavily to the floor with a strangling cry. Conancrouched in the dark above it, sword dripping in his hand. Devil orbeast or man, the thing was dead there on the floor. He sensed death asany wild thing senses it. He glared through the half-open door into thestarlit court beyond. The gate stood open, but the court was empty.
Conan shut the door but did not bolt it. Groping in the darkness hefound the lamp and lighted it. There was enough oil in it to burn for aminute or so. An instant later he was bending over the figure thatsprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.
It was a gigantic black man, naked but for a loin-cloth. One hand stillgrasped a knotty-headed bludgeon. The fellow's kinky wool was built upinto horn-like spindles with twigs and dried mud. This barbaric coiffurehad given the head its misshapen appearance in the starlight. Providedwith a clue to the riddle, Conan pushed back the thick red lips, andgrunted as he stared down at teeth filed to points.
He understood now the mystery of the strangers who had disappeared fromthe house of Aram Baksh; the riddle of the black drum thrumming outthere beyond the palm groves, and of that pit of charred bones--that pitwhere strange meat might be roasted under the stars, while black beastssquatted about to glut a hideous hunger. The man on the floor was acannibal slave from Darfar.
There were many of his kind in the city. Cannibalism was not toleratedopenly in Zamboula. But Conan knew now why people locked themselves inso securely at night, and why even beggars shunned the open alleys anddoorless ruins. He grunted in disgust as he visualized brutish blackshadows skulking up and down the nighted streets, seeking humanprey--and such men as Aram Baksh to open the doors to them. Theinnkeeper was not a demon; he was worse. The slaves from Darfar werenotorious thieves; there was no doubt that some of their pilfered lootfound its way into the hands of Aram Baksh. And in return he sold themhuman flesh.
Conan blew out the light, stepped to the door and opened it, and ran hishand over the ornaments on the outer side. One of them was movable andworked the bolt inside. The room was a trap to catch human prey likerabbits. But this time instead of a rabbit it had caught a saber-toothedtiger.
Conan returned to the other door, lifted the bolt and pressed againstit. It was immovable and he remembered the bolt on the other side. Aramwas taking no chances either with his victims or the men with whom hedealt. Buckling on his sword-belt, the Cimmerian strode out into thecourt, closing the door behind him. He had no intention of delaying thesettlement of his reckoning with Aram Baksh. He wondered how many poordevils had been bludgeoned in their sleep and dragged out of that roomand down the road that ran through the shadowed palm groves to theroasting-pit.
He halted in the court. The drum was still muttering, and he caught thereflection of a leaping red glare through the groves. Cannibalism wasmore than a perverted appetite with the black men of Darfar; it was anintegral element of their ghastly cult. The black vultures were alreadyin conclave. But whatever flesh filled their bellies that night, itwould not be his.
To reach Aram Baksh he must climb one of the walls which separated thesmall enclosure from the main compound. They were high, meant to keepout the man-eaters; but Conan was no swamp-bred black man; his thews hadbeen steeled in boyhood on the sheer cliffs of his native hills. He wasstanding at the foot of the nearer wall when a cry echoed under thetrees.
In an instant Conan was crouching at the gate, glaring down the road.The sound had come from the shadows of the huts across the road. Heheard a frantic choking and gurgling such as might result from adesperate attempt to shriek, with a black hand fastened over thevictim's mouth. A close-knit clump of figures emerged from the shadowsbeyond the huts, and started down the road--three huge black mencarrying a slender, struggling figure between them. Conan caught theglimmer of pale limbs writhing in the starlight, even as, with aconvulsive wrench, the captive slipped from the grasp of the brutalfingers and came flying up the road, a supple young woman, naked as theday she was born. Conan saw her plainly before she ran out of the roadand into the shadows between the huts. The blacks were at her heels, andback in the shadows the figures merged and an intolerable scream ofanguish and horror rang out.
Stirred to red rage by the ghoulishness of the episode, Conan racedacross the road.
Neither victim nor abductors were aware of his presence until the softswish of the dust about his feet brought them about, and then he wasalmost upon them, coming with the gusty fury of a hill wind. Two of theblacks turned to meet him, lifting their bludgeons. But they failed toestimate properly the speed at which he was coming. One of them wasdown, disemboweled, before he could strike, and wheeling cat-like, Conanevaded the stroke of the other's cudgel and lashed in a whistlingcounter-cut. The black's head flew into the air; the headless body tookthree staggering steps, spurting blood and clawing horribly at the airwith groping hands, and then slumped to the dust.
The remaining cannibal gave back with a strangled yell, hurling hiscaptive from him. She tripped and rolled in the dust, and the black fledin blind panic toward the city. Conan was at his heels. Fear winged theblack feet, but before they reached the easternmost hut, he sensed deathat his back, and bellowed like an ox in the slaughter-yards.
'Black dog of hell!' Conan drove his sword between the dusky shoulderswith such vengeful fury that the broad blade stood out half its lengthfrom the black breast. With a choking cry the black stumbled headlong,and Conan braced his feet and dragged out his sword as his victim fell.
Only the breeze disturbed the leaves. Conan shook his head as a lionshakes its mane and growled his unsatiated blood-lust. But no moreshapes slunk from the shadows, and before the huts the starlit roadstretched empty. He whirled at the quick patter of feet behind him, butit was only the girl, rushing to throw herself on him and clasp his neckin a desperate grasp, frantic from terror of the abominable fate she hadjust escaped.
'Easy, girl,' he grunted. 'You're all right. How did they catch you?'
She sobbed something unintelligible. He forgot all about Aram Baksh ashe scrutinized her by the light of the stars. She was white, though avery definite brunette, obviously one of Zamboula's many mixed breeds.She was tall, with a slender, supple form, as he was in a good positionto observe. Admiration burned in his fierce eyes as he looked down onher splendid bosom and her lithe limbs, which still quivered from frightand exertion. He passed an arm around her flexible waist and said,reassuringly: 'Stop shaking, wench; you're safe enough.'
His touch seemed to restore her shaken sanity. She tossed back herthick, glossy locks and cast a fearful glance over her shoulder, whileshe pressed closer to the Cimmerian as if seeking security in thecontact.
'They caught me in the streets,' she muttered, shuddering. 'Lying inwait, beneath a dark arch--black men, like great, hulking apes! Set havemercy on m
e! I shall dream of it!'
'What were you doing out on the streets this time of night?' heinquired, fascinated by the satiny feel of her sleek skin under hisquesting fingers.
She raked back her hair and stared blankly up into his face. She did notseem aware of his caresses.
'My lover,' she said. 'My lover drove me into the streets. He went madand tried to kill me. As I fled from him I was seized by those beasts.'
'Beauty like yours might drive a man mad,' quoth Conan, running hisfingers experimentally through her glossy tresses.
She shook her head, like one emerging from a daze. She no longertrembled, and her voice was steady.
'It was the spite of a priest--of Totrasmek, the high priest of Hanuman,who desires me for himself--the dog!'
'No need to curse him for that,' grinned Conan. 'The old hyena hasbetter taste than I thought.'
She ignored the bluff
Shadows in Zamboula Page 3
