Sajara shivered. “He sounds like a god whose heart is ice and stone, like his mountain. Asusa is a kind god who has done much for our people.”
“He seems content enough to watch you die.” Conan observed rather brusquely.
“We do not blame him for what has come to pass. Asusa cannot help us if we do not heed his wisdom. And the spirits of Ganaks who die—save our warriors—are taken up into an island beyond the skies to be united with the spirits of our ancestors. It is a place of joy, the elders say. Of course,” she added hastily, “I have no wish to go there yet.”
“What becomes of your warriors, then?”
“Muhingo welcomes their spirits into his lands of grey, where they can keep our spirits safe from those of our enemies.”
“The lands of grey,” he repeated. “Your Muhingo is perhaps not so different from our Crom. When death claims a Cimmerian, his soul roams a realm of grey mist, where icy winds blow and clouds forever darken the sky. There we wander for all eternity. It is a wonder that with a cheerless afterlife awaiting them, more of my people do not take to adventuring. I would see what life has to offer before my soul is condemned to such a bleak fate.”
“You are a man with courage, Conan of Cimmeria. To know that such a fate awaits you is a burden to your spirit. Its weight would crush a man without bravery. You make light of it, I think.”
Their conversation lulled as they neared the tower. All the while, the vines became increasingly evident. At first, Conan had merely seen the occasional stalk growing along the ground near the domed buildings or perhaps working its way up their cylindrical sides. But gradually the dark green growths seemed to be everywhere, nearly covering some of the smaller structures.
By Conan’s way of thinking, they had an unwholesome look. He imagined them as thin, leafy serpents who slept amid the ruins.
“These stems have a scent of evil,” Makiela said, looking at them suspiciously. “I do not think that we should touch them.”
“Aye.” Conan’s gaze flickered ahead. The vines thickened, infringing on the stone pathway. “It were prudent to stay in the middle of this path.” He could not shake the sense of dread that had suddenly come over him. He slowed, eyes searching the jumble of vegetation for any signs of movement. Shrugging his brawny shoulders, he continued.
Barefoot, they moved as silently as a wisp of smoke. Had their steps not been so stealthy, Conan would not have heard the faint rustling behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he halted in mid-step, breath whistling between clenched teeth. In a smooth, sweeping motion he drew his sword, eyes widening in dread at what he saw.
Sajara spun about, as did Makiela, both drawing their shell-spikes and gasping in shock. “Avrana, Kanitra—no!” Sajara whispered.
Swiftly as striking cobras, the vines nearest the path lunged at the two, coiling worm-like tendrils around the unsuspecting Ganak women. Leafy bonds encircled their faces, closing over their mouths and nostrils, twining about their necks to choke off their screams. So tightly did the vines grip them that blood welled up everywhere from furrows in their skin. Their spears had been snatched from them; Conan saw those shell-tipped sticks being dragged away by a few of the waving weeds. They struggled violently, tearing some of the things, but others quickly shot out to replace them. Before they could move, Kanitra and Avrana were ensnared in a wriggling web.
Two leafless stalks the thickness of a man’s thumb pushed out from among the small leafy branches. These squirming, serpent-like horrors were a sickly pale green. Clusters of lidless yellow eyes sprouted like leaves from the stalks, bobbing or dangling on slender connective fibres. But that was not what made Conan, Sajara, and Makiela cry out in revulsion.
At the tip of each stalk, puckering pink mouths opened, each extending a milky green tongue covered with noxious red lesions. These arm-length appendages lapped greedily at the blood that oozed from the Ganak women’s vine-gashes. In a smooth, slow motion, the speckled tongues slid under the flesh into the wounds, eliciting muffled screams of agony from Avrana and Kanitra.
Faster than a pouncing lion, Conan sprang toward the sickening stalks, raising his sword in mid-jump. Makiela seized one stalk, wrenching it away while Sajara reached for the other. The stalks writhed defiantly, tongues flailing; mewling hisses issued from their blood-smeared mouths. At the sound, vines that had lain quietly near the path leaped into motion, encroaching upon their victims.
In the blink of an eye, more vines were looping themselves around ankles, calves, legs and arms. Conan was instantly enmeshed in a mass of constricting coils. His sword-stroke, aimed at one of the leech-stalks, instead sheared through a dozen of the grabbing, groping vines that surrounded him.
Sajara and Makiela were faring no better than he, though Sajara had managed to keep her arms free. Makiela, thrown off-balance by a bundle of the things that wrenched at her ankle, went tumbling into a writhing mass of virescent loom. Her defiant screams were cut short as a score of rustling vines smothered her upper body.
Tearing himself free, Conan laid about with his blade, hewing like a demented harvester in a field of hell-'.pawned wheat. Five more of the thick, putrescent stalks were crawling toward him and the others, pink lips parted, slimy tongues sliding out hungrily. Strands swarmed from between buildings and lashed at the struggling defenders from all directions, binding whatever limbs they reached.
Swathed in vines, Conan hacked furiously to keep his legs and arms free. When severed, the tendrils relaxed their grip and ceased their tugging. Panting, he stood unmolested for an instant, realizing that he and the others would be overwhelmed unless they fled. But where to go? Between them and the outer wall, the stone pathway was blocked by a waist-high hedge of wriggling death, and before them lay a crawling carpet of leafy doom. The Cimmerian wondered how far these things could reach; he had yet to see their roots. From what garden of Hell had they sprouted?
Slashing through a half-dozen shoots that had wrapped themselves around Sajara’s arms, he stepped closer to the others and aimed a murderous blow at the stalk that was feasting on Makiela’s wounds. His blade parted it with a rubbery snap, its detached length convulsing. Conan’s flesh crawled when he saw that a crimson flush now tainted its length. Droplets of blood flew from its severed ends. Like a leafy leech, the thing was sucking blood into its unseen roots.
Simultaneously sickened and enraged, Conan chopped and hacked until shredded leaves flew from his steel. This was hack-and-slash fighting, not swordplay; his sweat-drenched chest heaved as his blade rose and fell in countless sweeping motions.
Sajara, recovering from the shock of the ambush, had drawn her shell-knife and was slicing through stems that neared her while frantically tearing with her free hand at other tendrils that clung to Makiela. Avrana and Kanitra lay on the stones nearby, their struggles growing weaker either from lack of air, lack of blood, or both.
Conan heard their gasps for breath over the ceaseless rustling of fronds. The stems encircling their faces and inexplicably loosened. Then a sickening revelation dawned on Conan. Their attackers were deliberately letting the women breathe... they wanted to keep them alive. But try as he might, Conan seemed unable to reach them. Every time he cleared his legs and arms of the things, a fresh wave seemed to wriggle out from nowhere. Together, he and Sajara kept one another free of the constricting plants, but they were tiring. Their opponents seemed to feel neither fatigue nor pain; mindlessly, they continued their assault, though their severed shoots were piled thigh-deep on the stones.
Vines tore and flew from Makiela’s body as she finally broke free. All along, her height—longer legs and arms, bigger targets for the striking stalks—had been a hindrance. Sweeping her knife from her girdle, she spun in a frantic half-circle, slicing at anything in range of her sharp-edged shell-blade. “Run!” she screamed hoarsely at Conan. “If you fall here, our people are doomed!”
“Never!” Conan shouted as he and Sajara battled their way toward her. But even if he had wished to flee, there
was no avenue of escape. They were surrounded. Wearily swinging his steel, Conan fought on. He would cut through them and free those women or die trying!
Makiela’s knife wreaked havoc among the vines as inch by inch, she battled her way to the prone Ganaks. “No! It... cannot... be!” she shrieked between slashes.
“What?” Conan bellowed the question, severing one of the bloodsucking stalks with a vicious downward stroke. But her outburst had drawn his eyes from the vines around him to what she had seen. He watched with dismay as Avrana and Kanitra were dragged slowly onto opposite sides of the stone pathway. Just as their spears had been hauled away, the vines were now pulling their prey toward some unknown destination.
Forced to turn his attention back to the weeds that writhed at his ankles and knees, Conan momentarily lost sight of the women. He looked up again, catching a glimpse of a weakly twitching foot vanishing into the wall of a one of the pillar-buildings. “Crom curse me for a fool,” he groaned. Obviously, not all those cylindrical walls were solid—the doorways of some they had passed had simply been concealed by dense growths of vines! A shiver ran down Conan’s spine as he wondered what manner of menace he might meet inside.
“Avrana!” Makiela screamed, rushing toward one of the buildings. In her haste she became entangled, her hand caught in a lashing limb. She quickly succumbed to the swarming green horde, shell-blade dropping from her hand. Makiela howled in helpless fury as the vines dragged her through a leaf-choked doorway.
“We—cannot—save them—all,” Sajara panted in frustration, breathing shallowly from exertion, nearly slipping on what had become treacherous footing.
Conan could not disagree. Inevitably, he and Sajara would be dragged to a nameless grave if they stood their ground. Nonetheless, he stubbornly refused to retreat.
“Follow me,” he rasped, clearing his legs of vines with a series of well-placed cuts. With all the speed he could muster, he sprinted toward the wall into which Avrana had been pulled.
Sajara sped after him, vines flailing at her legs and grasping at her ankles. Stumbling, she fell and rolled forward, narrowly escaping their clutches. Smoothly regaining her balance, she caught up to Conan with a few leaping strides. The Cimmerian’s blade swept before him as he ran, clearing a path of sorts through the writing vegetation.
Without slowing, Conan jumped toward the now-visible gap in the cylindrical wall, twisting sideways to fit through it. Small holes in its dome dimly lit the interior: a smooth stone floor littered with rocks that had apparently crumbled down from the ceiling. A pit gaped open in the centre. Conan grunted as he fell painfully onto a large chunk of stone, the impact nearly jarring his hilt from his grasp. Sajara landed behind him.
Shaking his head to clear it, the Cimmerian faced the crevice through which they had entered. The vines could approach from only two directions: the pit and the crack in the wall. Grabbing the largest hunk of stone in reach, Conan crammed it into the gap, squashing a half-dozen tendrils in the process. With furious strokes of her shell-knife, Sajara drove back what few weeds rushed at them from the pit.
Slamming a few more lumps of rock into the opening, Conan hammered them with blows of his pommel to jam them together. He stepped back for a moment to see if his hastily built barrier could withstand the weeds’ assault. No more vines were issuing from the pit; Sajara stared at its black mouth expectantly, knife upraised.
Conan’s patch held; they heard no scraping of rocks or rustle of leaves outside.
For the moment, it seemed they were safe.
“Avrana must be down there,” Sajara whispered, walking slowly toward the rim.
Still catching his breath, Conan shuffled across the floor and peered into the dark hole. He picked up a pebble and dropped it in, almost immediately hearing it clatter to a surface below—stone, from the sound. “It is shallow,” he told Sajara, swinging his legs into the darkness and lowering himself slowly. His feet touched naught but air.
Pulling himself up, Conan selected a few lengths of severed vines, tying them together in a makeshift cord. He fashioned one end of it into a loop. “Hold onto this,” he said, handing it to Sajara. Hand over hand he descended, keeping his feet in contact with the wall of the pit until its sides suddenly curved away. He kept going until the soles of his feet eventually touched stone. He tested the footing, which seemed solid.
Conan’s eyes had gradually adjusted to the gloomy blackness, and he could see vague outlines of a corridor around him. He guessed that he was facing in the general direction of the tower at the centre of the ruins above. The corridor stretched before him as far as he could see, which was no great distance, to be sure. He had no shortage of standing room; the Rahaman builders must have been a tall folk indeed. Behind him, some light radiated from regularly spaced openings in the ceiling. He judged that these were pits in other pillar-buildings; the visibility was better, but he did not think that Avrana had been taken there. She had been bleeding, and no stains glistened on the corridor floor behind him.
The trail lay ahead in the darkness.
“Stay here,” he said to Sajara, his voice echoing eerily.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“The hallway to Hell,” he answered grimly. Much was clear to him now, especially the reason why they had encountered no insect or animal in the ruins above. He knew not what waited at the end of the corridor, but if it could not be slain with steel, this tunnel would become his tomb.
Listening for any sounds and watching for any movement ahead, Conan crept toward the dark heart of the ruins.
XVI
Hell’s Hallway
Conan moved forward on his hands and knees, cursing his slow progress. He had to creep along like a dog on a hunt, sniffing the floor. It was his only means of following Avrana, for the sole sign of her passing was the scent of her blood. He knew now the frustration that a sightless man must feel. For some time the tunnel had been utterly devoid of light; he had relied on touch to guide him.
The Cimmerian wondered why had had not encountered more of the vine-beasts. He had passed the last ceiling-pit a while ago, tensing in expectation of an attack from above. Never had his tracking ability been challenged thusly.
The tunnel had not been straight as he originally surmised. He had passed nine intersections so far, each connecting with corridors that apparently led to buildings above. It was little wonder that they had found no doors in those cylindrical structures—the Rahamans had entered from below.
The droplets of blood were fewer and farther between.
His knees were rubbed raw and it was cursed uncomfortable to carry his sword in this position. Further, his ridiculous posture put him at a disadvantage if he should be ambushed.
A pebble lodged itself into his kneecap, and he paused to pick it out. Presently he encountered larger rocks. He stopped, his nostrils twitching. Did he smell Avrana’s blood or only imagine it? His hands felt along each wall to the side, finding openings left and right. He decided to follow his instincts and rose to a crouch, flexing his knees to rid them of stiffness. He forged directly ahead, this time certain of his course.
At first it was only a faint odour of decay, but with his every step the smell worsened. Standing upright and stretching, he realized with a start that there were still openings above him. No light streamed through, rendering them nearly invisible. Perhaps he had not travelled. so far yet. This irksome darkness disturbed his ability to sense the passage of time.
Thump.
The sound echoed, nearly stopping his heart.
Hastening forward as quickly as caution permitted, he felt his stomach churning from the increasing vile stench. He could not name the reek that filled his nostrils. He knew from experience that after prolonged exposure, he could become accustomed to almost any stink, however foul it might be. But this odour worsened until his eyes began to water.
Then he heard the whispering rustle above.
He reached upward, his hand flinching as it touched a vine. But
the vine was taut, unmoving. He ran his fingers across a score of others that clung to the ceiling. He lifted his blade to sever them but stopped, his brow furrowing. They did not seem aware of his presence. Would not his sword-stroke alert them somehow? Hurrying forward, eyes streaming in irritation, he came to another bend in the tunnel.
Light! Around the comer, he could see it, far away but encouraging nonetheless. Its distant glow was enough to illuminate the corridor. Wiping at his face, he blinked and stared upward, grimacing. A wide ribbon of leafy tendrils covered the ceiling, again stretching tightly against the stone. As he stared toward the light, he was overwhelmed by the sheer number of the stalks; they thickened and spread down the walls, nearly reaching the floor.
Concentrating with difficulty, Conan tried to envision where he stood in relation to the ruins above. If the tower itself was the source of this light, then these tunnels would be... strands, radiating from a giant, circular web.
And he was nearing the centre of that web.
The thick clusters of vines set his teeth on edge. Apparently, they had no senses at all except at their tips, or they would have reacted to his presence by now. To his gratification, he had seen none of the repulsive bloodsucking stems with their myriad eyes. But he had formed an unwholesome impression of what he might discover upon reaching the light ahead.
His eyes adjusted to the dim glow, narrowing fiercely when he studied his surroundings.
Earlier the rustling of tiny leaves had been almost unnoticeable, the movements imperceptible. Now, the sheer number of vines created a reverberation in the tunnel, and their slight shifting gave them a rippling quality like waves of water.
When he arrived at the source of the light, his breath was taken away by the bizarre scene before him.
In the centre of the high ceiling, a circle of crystal glittered overhead, catching the rays of sunlight from above. Bright beams shifted in dazzling, shimmering rainbows of colour, shining upon the floor of the chamber. Other corridors, similar to the one in which Conan stood, radiated from this vast, round room. Not strands of a web, he realized, spokes of a chariot’s wheel. For the crystalline circle was also the floor of the chamber above. He was looking up—through a transparent ceiling—at the fountain of the gods.
Conan and the Shaman's Curse Page 17
