`And why did you want it?' she demanded sulkily.
`I understand its powers. It would increase the power of my arts.'
`Well,' she snapped, `you have it now!'
`I have the Star of Khorala? Nay, you err.'
`Why bother to lie?' she retorted bitterly. `He had it on his finger when he drove me into the streets. He did not have it when I found him again. Your servant must have been watching the house, and have taken it from him, after I escaped him. To the devil with it! I want my lover back sane and whole. You have the ring; you have punished us both. Why do you not restore his mind to him? Can you?'
`I could,' he assured her, in evident enjoyment of her distress. He drew a phial from among his robes. `This contains the juice of the golden lotus. If your lover drank it he would be sane again. Yes, I will be merciful. You have both thwarted and flouted me, not once but many times; he has constantly opposed my wishes. But I will be merciful. Come and take the phial from my hand.'
She stared at Totrasmek, trembling with eagerness to seize it, but fearing it was but some cruel jest. She advanced timidly, with a hand extended, and he laughed heartlessly and drew back out of her reach. Even as her lips parted to curse him, some instinct snatched her eyes upward. From the gilded ceiling four jade-hued vessels were falling. She dodged, but they did not strike her. They crashed to the floor about her, forming the four corners of a square. And she screamed, and screamed again. For out of each ruin reared the hooded head of a cobra, and one struck at her bare leg. Her convulsive movement to evade it brought her within reach of the one on the other side and again she had to shift like lightning to avoid the flash of its hideous head.
She was caught in a frightful trap. All four serpents were swaying and striking at foot, ankle, calf, knee, thigh, hip, whatever portion of her voluptuous body chanced to be nearest to them, and she could not spring over them or pass between them to safety. She could only whirl and spring aside and twist her body to avoid the strokes, and each time she moved to dodge one snake, the motion brought her within range of another, so that she had to keep shifting with the speed of light. She could move only a short space in any direction, and the fearful hooded crests were menacing her every second. Only a dancer of Zamboula could have lived in that grisly square.
She became, herself, a blur of bewildering motion. The heads missed her by hair's breadths, but they missed, as she pitted her twinkling feet, flickering limbs and perfect eye against the blinding speed of the scaly demons her enemy had conjured out of thin air.
Somewhere a thin whining music struck up, mingling with the hissing of the serpents, like an evil night-wind blowing through the empty sockets of a skull. Even in the flying speed of her urgent haste she realized that the darting of the serpents was no longer at random. They obeyed the grisly piping of the eery music. They struck with a horrible rhythm, and perforce her swaying, writhing, spinning body attuned itself to their rhythm. Her frantic motions melted into the measures of a dance compared to which the most obscene tarantella of Zamora would have seemed sane and restrained. Sick with shame and terror Zabibi heard the hateful mirth of her merciless tormentor.
`The Dance of the Cobras, my lovely one!' laughed Totrasmek. `So maidens danced in the sacrifice to Hanuman centuries ago -but never with such beauty and suppleness. Dance, girl, dance! How long can you avoid the fangs of the Poison People? Minutes? Hours? You will weary at last. Your swift, sure feet will stumble, your legs falter, your hips slow in their rotations. Then the fangs will begin to sink deep into your ivory flesh-'
Behind him the curtain shook as if struck by a gust of wind, and Totrasmek screamed. His eyes dilated and his hands caught convulsively at the length of bright steel which jutted suddenly from his breast.
The music broke off short. The girl swayed dizzily in her dance, crying out in dreadful anticipation of the flickering fangs - and then only four wisps of harmless blue smoke curled up from the floor about her, as Totrasmek sprawled headlong from the divan.
Conan came from behind the curtain, wiping his broad blade. Looking through the hangings he had seen the girl dancing desperately between four swaying spirals of smoke, but he had guessed that their appearance was very different to her. He knew he had killed Totrasmek.
Zabibi sank down on the floor, panting, but even as Conan started toward her, she staggered up again, though her legs trembled with exhaustion.
`The phial!' she gasped. `The phial!'
Totrasmek still grasped it in his stiffening hand. Ruthlessly she tore it from his locked fingers, and then began frantically to ransack his garments.
`What the devil are you looking for?' Conan demanded.
`A ring - he stole it from Alafdhal. He must have, while my lover walked in madness through the streets. Set's devils!'
She had convinced herself that it was not on the person of Totrasmek. She began to cast about the chamber, tearing up divan-covers and hangings, and upsetting vessels.
She paused and raked a damp lock of hair out of her eyes.
`I forgot Baal-pteor!'
`He's in hell with his neck broken,' Conan assured her.
She expressed vindictive gratification at the news, but an instant later swore expressively.
`We can't stay here. It's not many hours until dawn. Lesser priests are likely to visit the temple at any hour of the night, and if we're discovered here with his corpse, the people will tear us to pieces. The Turanians could not save us.'
She lifted the bolt on the secret door, and a few moments later they were in the streets and hurrying away from the silent square where brooded the age-old shrine of Hanuman.
In a winding street a short distance away Conan halted and checked his companion with a heavy hand on her naked shoulder.
`Don't forget there was a price-'
`I have not forgotten!' She twisted free. `But we must go to to Alafdhal first!'
A few minutes later the black slave let them through the wicket door. The young Turanian lay upon the divan, his arms and legs bound with heavy velvet ropes. His eyes were open, but they were like those of a mad dog, and foam was thick on his lips. Zabibi shuddered.
`Force his jaws open!' she commanded, and Conan's iron fingers accomplished the task.
Zabibi emptied the phial down the maniac's gullet. The effect was like magic. Instantly he became quiet. The glare faded from his eyes; he stared up at the girl in a puzzled way, but with recognition and intelligence. Then he fell into a normal slumber.
`When he awakes he will be quite sane,' she whispered, motioning to the silent slave.
With a deep bow he gave into her hands a small leathern bag, and drew about her shoulders a silken cloak. Her manner had subtly changed when she beckoned Conan to follow her out of the chamber.
In an arch that opened on the street, she turned to him, drawing herself up with a new regality.
`I must now tell you the truth,' she said. `I am not Zabibi. I am Nafertari. And he is not Alafdhal, a poor captain of the guardsmen. He is Jungir Khan, satrap of Zamboula.'
Conan made no comment; his scarred dark countenance was immobile.
`I lied to you because I dared not divulge the truth to anyone,' she said. `We were alone when Jungir Khan went mad. None knew of it but myself. Had it been known that the satrap of Zamboula was a madman, there would have been instant revolt and rioting, even as Totrasmek planned, who plotted our destruction.
`You see now how impossible is the reward for which you hoped. The satrap's mistress is not - cannot be for you. But you shall not go unrewarded. Here is a sack of gold.'
She gave him the bag she had received from the slave.
`Go, now, and when the sun is come up to the palace, I will have Jungir Khan make you captain of his guard. But you will take your orders from me, secretly. Your first duty will be to march a squad to the shrine of Hanuman, ostensibly to search for clues of the priest's slayer; in reality to search for the Star of Khorala. It must be hidden there somewhere. When you find it, bring it to
me. You have my leave to go now.'
He nodded, still silent, and strode away. The girl, watching the swing of his broad shoulders, was piqued to note that there was nothing in his bearing to show that he was in any way chagrined or abashed.
When he had rounded a corner, he glanced back, and then changed his direction and quickened his pace. A few moments later he was in the quarter of the city containing the Horse Market. There he smote on a door until from the window above a bearded head was thrust to demand the reason for the disturbance.
`A horse,' demanded Conan. `The swiftest steed you have.'
`I open no gates at this time of night,' grumbled the horsetrader.
Conan rattled his coins.
`Dog's son knave! Don't you see I'm white, and alone? Come down, before I smash your door!'
Presently, on a bay stallion, Conan was riding toward the house of Aram Baksh.
He turned off the road into the alley that lay between the tavern compound and the datepalm garden, but he did not pause at the gate. He rode on to the northeast corner of the wall, then turned and rode along the north wall, to halt within a few paces of the northwest angle. No trees grew near the wall, but there were some low bushes. To one of these he tied his horse, and was about to climb into the saddle again, when he heard a low muttering of voices beyond the corner of the wall.
Drawing his foot from the stirrup he stole to the angle and peered around it. Three men were moving down the road toward the palm groves, and from their slouching gait he knew they were negroes. They halted at his low call, bunching themselves as he strode toward them, his sword in his hand. Their eyes gleamed whitely in the starlight. Their brutish lust shone in their ebony faces, but they knew their three cudgels could not prevail against his sword, just as he knew it.
`Where are you going?' he challenged.
`To bid our brothers put out the fire in the pit beyond the groves,' was the sullen, guttural reply. 'Aram Baksh promised us a man, but he lied. We found one of our brothers dead in the trap-chamber. We go hungry this night.'
`I think not,' smiled Conan. 'Aram Baksh will give you a man. Do you see that door?'
He pointed to a small, iron-bound portal set in the midst of the western wall.
`Wait there. Aram Baksh will give you a man.'
Backing warily away until he was out of reach of a sudden bludgeon blow, he turned and melted around the northwest angle of the wall. Reaching his horse he paused to ascertain that the blacks were not sneaking after him, and then he climbed into the saddle and stood upright on it, quieting the uneasy steed with a low word. He reached up, grasped the coping of the wall and drew himself up and over. There he studied the grounds for an instant. The tavern was built in the southwest corner of the enclosure, the remaining space of which was occupied by groves and gardens. He saw no one in the grounds. The tavern was dark and silent, and he knew all the doors and windows were barred and bolted.
Conan knew that Aram Baksh slept in a chamber that opened into a cypress-bordered path that led to the door in the western wall. Like a shadow he glided among the trees and a few moments later he rapped lightly on the chamber door.
`What is it?' asked a rumbling voice within.
'Aram Baksh!' hissed Conan. `The blacks are stealing over the wall!'
Almost instantly the door opened, framing the tavern-keeper, naked but for his shirt, with a dagger in his hand.
He craned his neck to stare into the Cimmerian's face.
`What tale is this -you!'
Conan's vengeful fingers strangled the yell in his throat. They went to the floor together and Conan wrenched the dagger from his enemy's hand. The blade glinted in the starlight, and blood spurted. Aram Baksh made hideous noises, gasping and gagging on a mouthful of blood. Conan dragged him to his feet and again the dagger slashed, and most of the curly beard fell to the floor.
Still gripping his captive's throat - for a man can scream incoherently even with his tongue slit - Conan dragged him out of the dark chamber and down the cypress-shadowed path, to the iron-bound door in the outer wall. With one hand he lifted the bolt and threw the door open, disclosing the three shadowy figures which waited like black vultures outside. Into their eager arms Conan thrust the innkeeper.
A horrible, blood-choked scream rose from the Zamboulan's throat, but there was no response from the silent tavern. The people there were used to screams outside the wall. Aram Baksh fought like a wild man, his distended eyes turned frantically on the Cimmerian's face. He found no mercy there. Conan was thinking of the scores of wretches who owed their bloody doom to this man's greed.
In glee the negroes dragged him down the road, mocking his frenzied gibberings. How could they recognize Aram Baksh in this half-naked, bloodstained figure, with the grotesquely shorn beard and unintelligible babblings? The sounds of the struggle came back to Conan, standing beside the gate, even after the clump of figures had vanished among the palms.
Closing the door behind him, Conan returned to his horse, mounted and turned westward, toward the open desert, swinging wide to skirt the sinister belt of palm groves. As he rode, he drew from his belt a ring in which gleamed a jewel that snared the starlight in a shimmering iridescence. He held it up to admire it, turning it this way and that. The compact bag of gold pieces clinked gently at his saddle-bow, like a promise of the greater riches to come.
`I wonder what she'd say if she knew I recognized her as Nafertari and him as Jungir Khan the instant I saw them,' he mused. `I knew the Star of Khorala, too. There'll be a fine scene if she ever guesses that I slipped it off his finger while I was tying him with his sword-belt. But they'll never catch me, with the start I'm getting.'
He glanced back at the shadowy palm groves, among which a red glare was mounting. A chanting rose to the night, vibrating with savage exultation. And another sound mingled with it, a mad, incoherent screaming, a frenzied gibbering in which no words could be distinguished. The noise followed Conan as he rode westward beneath the paling stars.
Conan and the Amazon
One
The town was called Leng. It lay in the hill country of eastern Brythunia, not far from the borders of Corinthia and Nemedia, at the convergence of two passes that allowed access through the mountains to the plains that lay to the east, west, and south. Once, much traffic had traversed the mountains by way of these passes and Leng had prospered. But trade routes had shifted, and for many years the greater part of the town had lain derelict: a place for the occasional caravan to camp within waits to break the wind that blew without cease among the hills. Herdsmen grazed their cattle and sheep on pastures that had once been the sumptuous gardens of the wealthy merchants of Leng.
But now the town was beginning to fill up once more. Along the passes, in ones, twos, small bands and occasionally larger groups, people converged upon the town from four directions. Many were mounted, some on horseback and others on camels. But some were on foot, and among these, some were chained neck-to-neck in slave coffles. Most of the new arrivals were men, but there were women among them as well.
It was late afternoon when a lone figure strode over the crest of a final hill and looked down the winding, dusty road into the town below. The red sun cast long shadows and stained the western side of the taller buildings a lurid crimson. The walls of Leng were low, constructed of rough-hewn stone. Many of the rugged blocks had toppled from the ramparts, leaving sizable gaps. The massive gates had rotted away and left the town wide open to any who wished to enter.
Most of the buildings that yet stood were close to the ground, but here and there rose towers four or five stories high, once the stronghouses of wealthy families. From several spots, plumes of smoke drifted into the clear sky. A few late travelers entered the walls even as the watcher studied the city.
The man who stood atop the last slope was huge, with hard limbs and a scarred torso bared to the cutting breeze. He wore high, fur-topped boots and a breechclout of wolfhide. Over his massive shoulders was draped his only conce
ssion to the weather a short mantle of shaggy goatskin. His wrists and forearms were wrapped in bands of heavy, bronze-studded leather, and he wore a matching belt from which were suspended a long sword and a straight, broad-bladed dirk.
The wind whipped the traveler’s straight, black hair around his face, which was angular, as scarred as his body, and as deeply tanned. Only his burning, blue eyes moved as he looked over the town.
Nothing else about him shifted. Abruptly and decisively, he began to stride toward Leng.
A hundred paces from the town, me black-haired man, who had come from the north, fell in with a small band of men approaching from the east They were well-armed and had a predatory look, but they offered him no challenge.
“Greeting, stranger,” said their leader, a man dressed in tunic and trousers of padded silk. Both garments and wearer had seen better days, but he carried himself with a confident swagger. “I see that yet another hard-pressed adventurer seeks the convivial delights of Leng!” The speaker wore a drooping mustache and his features were slightly eastern in cast, but his hair was brown and his eyes were pale green.
“I heard that a man without tribe or nation might sleep here of a night without facing a dungeon or a hanging in the morning,” the black-haired man said. “Other than that, the place has little else to recommend it that I can see.” He fell in to walk beside the other. “Is it in the east as it has become in the north?”
“So it would seem. I am Kye-Dee, of the Northeast Hyrkanians. Turtle Clan. The new Kagan has decreed an end to banditry and suppressed my clan, which has never sullied itself with degrading labor.
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