'What are those eyes composed of, boy?'
'Sh!' admonished Lar. 'Here come the priests.'
The walls of the sacred enclosure were pierced by two doors, one on each side beyond the chest and the altar. A staid procession emerged from the left-hand door: a dozen men in silken turbans and brocaded robes, each carrying a staff with a jewel-encrusted knob of gold or silver. In the lead strode one taller than the rest, a man clad in a flowing white garment and a night-black turban, whose bristling black brows, eagle's beak of a nose, and voluminous white beard endowed him with a formidable air.
Rainbow-hued were the vestments of the other priests. One wore a scarlet gown and azure headgear; another a purple robe topped by a saffron turban; and yet another a gown of sapphire blue surmounted by a headdress of pale celadon. Conan recognised the Vicar, Harpagus, by his sable robe and snowy turban.
The twelve priests formed a line before the spider-god. At a gesture from Harpagus, the congregation raised their arms aloft and cried in unison: 'Hail Zath, god of all! Hail Feridun, apostle of Zath!'
Next, led by a young priest whose long, tapering fingers heat rhythmically upon the foetid air, the congregation sang a hymn. Conan comprehended but a few snatches of the paean, but he gathered that the refrain proclaimed Zath's purity, which stretched across Zamora like a vast spider-web.
Four priests then moved majestically forward to surround the eternal flame. Each produced an object from the flowing sleeves of his garment. Conan glimpsed a silver chalice, a dagger with a jewelled hilt, a bronze mirror, and a golden key. The priests performed some complex rite, causing the flame to emit a curling column of smoke; they passed the symbolic objects through the billowing curls of the smoke, chanting incantations in words that Conan could not understand.
Then the priests, with measured tread, formed two lines along the side walls of the sanctum, as through the right-hand door eight dancing girls approached the spider-god. All were naked save for enormous strings of jet-black beads, intricately threaded to resemble the webs of spiders. Jewels flashed in their ebony hair and on their graceful fingers like dew drops in the morning sun.
He who wore the sapphire robe produced a flute and played a haunting melody, to which the girls performed a stately dance around the mammoth idol, their strings jingling and clashing as their slender bodies swayed and undulated. Conan whispered:
'I thought Zath was a god of purity. Those lassies look not at me like a preachment for chastity.'
'Sh, sir! You do not understand,' breathed the boy, his eyes alight with religious fervour. 'This is a sacred dance, ancient and honourable. The virtue of our dancing girls is guarded with the utmost vigilance.'
Conan's devil whispered to him that, if such were the case, to carry off one of the maidens as his domain was a boast-worthy feat. He persisted: 'Which one is your sister?'
'That one - to the left of the centre - now she's gone
behind the statue. She is taller than the others.'
'A handsome filly,' muttered Conan to himself, 'if she be the one I think she is.' The girl was indeed taller and more voluptuously formed than the majority of the small, spare Zamorian women, and Conan felt his blood stir as he watched.
The dance ended with the eight girls prostrating themselves around the idol, one at the tip of each of the spidery legs. Then, rising and holding hands to form a chain, they filed out of the sanctum, while High Priest Feridun strode forward to rest the knuckles of his left hand upon the lid of the ancient chest. Commanding silence with a raised right hand, he launched into a sermon:
'Dearly beloved: We have expounded before on the sad state into which the once-great nation of Zamora hath fallen. We of the priesthood have expatiated - so far in vain, alas -upon the sins and depravity of the people. Corruption spreadeth amongst you, its source being the throne of your kings, and daily transformeth our once-proud nation into a cauldron of crime, intrigue, and other wickedness. All about us theft, murder, bribery, drunkenness, and fornication prevail. The cults of the other gods, which claim to combat this degeneracy, have either failed in their duty or - woe unto Zamora! - have joined in the scramble for illicit wealth and condoned men's wallowing in sensual pleasure.'
The old priest's hortatory tones irritated Conan, arousing in him a perverse desire to cry out that, while the folk of Zamora were surely wicked enough, they were not so much worse than those of other nations. But aware that one man cannot fight hundreds inflamed with religious fanaticism, he held his tongue. High Priest Feridun continued:
'Only the True Faith of Zath hath retained its integrity of motive and of practice. Only the True Faith of Zath can purify the realm and restore Zamora to its ancient greatness. We do assure you, dearly beloved, that the day of cleansing draweth nigh. All of you standing devoutly here shall live to witness it. There shall be a great overturn, a destruction of the wicked, the like of which the world hath never witnessed; but ye shall see it. The flame of the great purification shall sweep across the land, consuming the sinful like insects dropped into a roaring fire! It cometh apace! Hold yourselves ready, dear ones, to serve as soldiers in the holy army of Zath...'
As Feridun continued in this vein, Conan fidgeted with impatience, until at last the High Priest terminated his oratory with a chanted prayer. Then the eight girls, now clad in voluminous, if gauzy, robes of rainbow hues, filed solemnly out and sang a hymn to the wail of the flute in the hands of him who wore the sapphire robe and celadon turban. Meanwhile, acolytes in emerald tunics circulated among the congregation, shaking their offering bowls. The tinkle of coins furnished a cheerful if irregular accompaniment to the high-pitched chorus of maidens.
One acolyte thrust a bowl at Conan. Peering into its depths, the Cimmerian perceived a heap of coins of various denominations. Grumbling, he dug a small copper out of his well-worn purse and dropped it on the heap.
The acolyte sniffed disdainfully. 'You are not over-generous to the god, stranger,' he murmured.
'Let the priests increase the sum they pay me as smith,' growled Conan, 'and I'll give you more.' The acolyte opened his mouth, as for a sharp reply; but Conan's glower persuaded him to bite back his words and pass on to gather the next gratuity.
When the last offerings had been collected, the temple maidens ended their song and disappeared. High Priest Feridun stepped to the chest, ceremoniously unlocked it, and raised the lid. The acolytes paraded past, each emptying his bowl of coins, and the ringing clash of their falling echoed from the temple's gilded dome.
Feridun intoned another prayer, blessing the offerings, and re-locked the replenished coffer. Again the congregation lifted their voices in song; Zath was once more hailed with upraised arms, and the service came to its end.
As Conan and the boy left the temple enclosure, Lar, bubbling with youthful enthusiasm, ventured: 'Isn't High Priest Feridun a wonderful man? Does he not fill your heart with spiritual inspiration?'
Conan paused before answering. 'I have not found priests much different from other men. All work for their own wealth, power, and glory, like the rest of us, however much they mask ambition by pious chatter.'
'Oh, sir!' exclaimed the boy. 'Let not such impious sentiments come to the ears of the priests of Zath! True, they might excuse you as naught but an ignorant foreigner; but you should never speak lightly of the god and his ministers in holy Yezud - not, that is, unless you would fain serve as fodder for the spider-god.'
'Is that the fate of malefactors here?' queried Conan.
'Aye, sir. It is our regular form of execution.'
'How is it done?'
'The acolytes throw the criminal into the tunnels beneath the temple. Then, when immortal Zath takes on his mortal form at night, he descends thither to devour the miscreant.'
'Who has seen Zath thus scuttling about?'
'Only the priests, sir.'
'Has any plain citizen of Yezud witnessed this miracle?'
'N-no sir. None dares enter the haunts of the spider-god, save the highest
ranks of the priesthood. I did hear a tale last year, that one impious Wight secretly entered the tunnels, hoping to find valuables to steal. You know what they say about Zamorian thieves?'
'That they are the most skilful in the world and the most faithful to their trust. What befell this venturesome fellow? Did Zath devour him?'
'Nay; he escaped.' The boy shuddered. 'But he came out raving mad and died a few days thereafter.'
'Hm. No place to tarry for one's health, meseems. Tell me, Lar, of what substance are the eyes of Zath composed?'
'Why, of the same stuff as yours and mine, I suppose; save that when Zath returns to his pedestal and settles into his stony form, his eyes must become some sort of bluish mineral. More I cannot tell.'
Conan walked in silence to Lar's home for the midday meal, his nimble mind already scheming. The eyes of Zath were certainly gems of some kind. If he could manage to steal some of them, he would command enough wealth for a lifetime. Usually Conan trod lightly in the presence of strange gods; but he found it difficult to attribute divinity to any spider, however formidable. Whether or not the statue possessed the power to transform itself into a sentient being, Conan could not bring himself to accord it godhood. He felt sure that the priests of Zath were swindling the credulous Zamorians, and that it would be simple justice for him to deprive them of part of their ill-gotten gains.
After the evening repast, Conan, weary of the sobriety of Yezud, strapped on his sword and strode down the rocky ramp to Bartakes's Inn in Khesron. He was pleased to find few other patrons in the common room, for he wished to be alone to think.
Conan carried his jack of wine from the innkeeper's counter and settled down in a corner. He regretted having spoken so cynically to young Lar about gods and priests because, he realised, his incautious words had given the pious and impressionable boy a hold upon him. If they should ever quarrel, or if Lar did something stupid and Conan cuffed him for it, Lar might run to the priests with an exaggerated tale of the blacksmith's heresies. Of the many hard lessons he was being forced to learn in order to make his way in civilised lands, Conan found guarding his tongue and weighing his words the hardest.
The Cimmerian's dour musings were interrupted by the crackle of sharp words across the dim-lit room, where a man and a woman sat with an empty bottle of wine between them. The woman, clad in a tight dress of red and white checked cotton, cut to display a generous expanse of bosom, Conan recognised as Bartakes's daughter Mandana. The man - Conan tensed, for he should have recognised the bristling red moustache immediately upon entering the common room - was Captain Catigern. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Conan had overlooked the mercenary officer.
Catigern had obviously drunk more than he could handle, and the woman was berating him for his sodden condition. In the midst of her scolding, he made a rude noise, laid his head on his forearms and went to sleep.
The woman pushed back her stool and, glancing boldly around the room, strolled over to Conan's table, saying: 'May I join you, Master Corin?'
'Certainly,' said Conan. 'What's your trouble, lass?'
'You can see for yourself.' She jerked a thumb to ward the somnolent Catigern. 'He promised me a glorious evening, and what does he do but drink himself into a brutish stupor! I am sure that you, at least, would not fall asleep when came the time to pleasure your woman.' She smiled provocatively and settled the bodice of her dress until her bulging breasts almost burst from their scanty covering.
Conan raised his heavy eyebrows. 'Oho!' he murmured in a voice thickening with desire. 'If that be the pleasure you require, I'm your man! Just name the time and place.'
'Shortly, in my chamber upstairs. But let us drink a little! first; and then you must pay my father's tariff for my affections.' With a nod of her head she indicated the counter, behind which Bartakes stood.
Conan's eyes grew wary. 'How much does he demand?'
'Ten coppers. By the bye, you returned not to the inn after your first night here; did you then gain employment with the priests of Yezud?'
'Aye; I'm now the temple's blacksmith,' answered Conan, digging into his purse and counting out coins. 'As peaceful trades go, it is not bad-'
Conan left his sentence hanging. Captain Catigern had awakened, lurched to his feet, and now towered above the table at which Conan and Mandana sat. He roared:
'What are you doing with my girl, you oaf?'
Conan studied the speaker with narrowed eyes, gauging the degree of the captain's insobriety. 'You can go to hell, Captain,' he said evenly. 'The wench sought me out of her own free will, whilst you lay snoring in a stupor.' He picked up his mug and took a lingering sip.
'Insolent puppy!' shouted Catigern, aiming a backhanded blow at Conan's face. The knuckles of the Brythunian's open hand struck Conan's upraised forearm, splashing his wine. With deliberation, Conan set down the mug, rose as lithely as a jungle cat, and shot his left fist into Catigern's face. The captain's head snapped back; he sniggered and fell heavily. The blow would have deprived an ordinary man of consciousness, if it did not do him more substantial damage; but Catigern was an unusually large and powerful man. Hence he was up again in an instant, lugging out his sword.
'I'll carve out your liver and feed it to my dogs!' he snarled, rushing at Conan.
Ignoring a shouted plea from the taverner, Conan met his foe halfway with his drawn Turanian scimitar, and their clanging blades flashed in the yellow lamplight. Several patrons ducked beneath their tables as the two large men circled, slashing and parrying. The ring of steel upon steel, mingled with the shouts of excited spectators, echoed like a demoniac uproar upon the evening air.
After the first whirlwind exchange of cuts and parries, when Captain Catigern had begun to pant for breath, he changed his tactics. His sword, like most of those used in the West, was straight, whereas Conan's scimitar, heavier than most Turanian blades, was curved like a crescent moon, and therefore useless for thrusting. Now the Brythunian instead of trading cuts, began to aim swift, deadly thrusts between his hasty parries.
While Conan had oft-times handled Western swords before coming to Turan, for the past two years all his training and practice had been with the curving sabre, only his panther-like agility, combined with desperate parries, saved him from being spitted on Catigern's fine-honed blade. One thrust, like the strike of a serpent, ripped Conan's tunic and scored a bloody scratch across his shoulder.
The Brythunian, he realised, was an experienced fighter, not easily worsted even when rendered unsteady by drink. Although Conan was taller, stronger, faster, and younger he deemed it fortunate that the skilful mercenary was not quite sober.
Bartakes danced about the combatants in an agony of apprehension, wringing his pudgy hands and crying. 'Outside, I pray, gentlemen! Do not fight within my premises! You will bring ruin upon me!'
The duellists ignored him. Then from a dark corner of the common room, a small, shadowy figure glided toward Catigern's back; and Conan caught the gleam of a dagger it the lamplight.
While Conan would willingly kill his adversary in a fail fight, a stab in the back of a man who faced another foe affronted his code of honour. Yet if Conan cried a warning of the danger, the Brythunian would think it merely a cunning distraction so that his antagonist could sword him with impunity.
All this flashed through Conan's mind in less time than it took him to swing his curved sword. With the lightning speed of a leaping leopard, he bounded backward, at the same time grounding the point of his scimitar.
'Behind you!' he bellowed. 'Treachery!'
Finding himself momentarily beyond Conan's reach, Catigern whirled to glance behind him. As he whipped around, the unknown assassin threw up his dagger arm to drive a long poniard into the Brythunian's body. With a furious curse, Catigern sent a terrific backhand slash into the assassin's side. The blade sank in between the man's ribs and pelvis, almost severing his spine. The impact hurled the slender man against a trestle table, to strike the floor in a welter of blood and entrails
. He moaned briefly and lay still.
'A mighty stroke,' commented Conan, his point still fixed upon the floor. 'Do you want to fight some more?'
'If you two great idiots -' began Bartakes, but his words were lost on the steely-eyed twain.
'Nay, nay,' replied Catigern. He wiped his blade on a corner of the dead man's tunic and started to sheathe it, pausing only to assure himself that Conan was doing likewise. 'I cannot kill a man who has just saved my life, even as he tried to slay me but a moment earlier. As to the girl - why, where the devil is the chit?'
Bartakes said: 'Whilst you two were fighting, she slipped away to her chamber with another patron - one of your men, I believe, Captain.' The inn-keeper turned to shout for his sons to remove the body and scrub the floorboards clean. Then, shaking his head, he muttered: 'Zath save me from another such pair of young fools!'
Catigern gave a wry smile. 'You are right, my friend; we're fools, sure enough, to risk our lives over a public woman.' He yawned. 'As for me-'
'Wait,' growled Conan. 'Let's see who wanted to stick a knife into you. Fetch one of those lamps, innkeeper.'
Turning over the mangled body, Conan saw that the man was a typical Zamorian, small, slight, and dark. Conan asked: 'Know you this man, Bartakes?'
'Surely!' replied the taverner. 'He rode in on a mule only today and took a bed, giving his name as Varathran of Shadizar.'
'Had you ever clapped eyes upon him ere today?'
'Never. But folk from every corner of Zamora come here to do honour to the spider-god.'
Conan ran practised hands over the corpse. Suspended from Varathran's belt he found a wallet, containing handful of silver and copper coinage and a small roll of parchment. Conan unrolled the parchment and frowned over it. At last he said:
'Catigern, do you read Zamorian?'
'Not I! I can scarcely read the writing of my native land. What of you?'
'I once learned a few Zamorian characters, but I've forgotten what little I once knew.'
'Let me see that,' said the innkeeper. Holding the parchment close to the lamp and silently moving his lips, he pored over the spidery script. At last, with a shrug of despair, he returned the roll to Conan.
The Conan Chronology Page 159
