Conan the Barbarian (11 page)

“I’m coming as fast as I can,” panted Subotai, his quiver and bow case bulking like a hump on his back. And muttering to himself, he added, “This woman climbs like a cat, and spits like one, too.”

Below the climbers, the darkness deepened, but they seldom looked down. Above, the cloud cover was breaking, as fresh winds awoke in the East. The moon glared down at them with its great white eye, as if to expose them for all the world to see. Conan cursed and glanced at the sleeping city stretched below, wearing its lights from bonfire and hearth like a necklace of topaz, gold, and luminescent pearls. He was as high above the empty thoroughfares as any sentinel pacing the towers of the nearby royal palace. The thought made him uneasy, and he quickened his pace.

Soon he came upon a narrow window, whence shone a pulsating light. Within he heard strange, discordant music and a muffled drumbeat. There came to his ears a faint chorus of hissing voices that did not sound like human whisperings, as sickly-sweet incense made its way to his nostrils. Suddenly, an enormous head reared up in the embrasure. Cold, slit-pupiled eyes stared into Conan’s, while a forked tongue flickered out to taste the air. Conan started back, almost losing his grip upon the rope, until he perceived that a pane of glass separated him from the giant reptile.

Resuming his climb, Conan reached the parapet. Here the merlons rose from the rim like the points of a crown, and embedded in the mortar were myriads of bright-hued gems that glimmered like frost under the moon’s magnificence and, in the shifting rays, fractured into a thousand tiny rainbows.

With a sigh, Conan levered himself over the parapet; but as he dropped to the walkway inside the battlement, a huge figure, roughly human in shape but with an apelike length of arm, rushed upon him. The creature—man, demon, or ape, Conan knew not which—dealt him an unexpected blow that hurled him to the pavement.

As the Cimmerian rolled to his feet and snatched out his dagger, he saw that, while his adversary was wrapped in a hooded cloak, its exposed hands were covered with glittering scales. Instead of preparing to finish the intruder off, the creature was bent over the embrasure, fumbling at the grapnel hooks to cast down the rope to which Valeria mutely clung.

Conan sprang on the back of the thing and stabbed repeatedly. The tom fabric parted to reveal a fungoid growth protruding from the base of its neck, between its thick-muscled shoulders. Directly, the puffy growth parted, and a red eye glared forth. In a spasm of horror, Conan struck, extinguishing the orb. Liquid, spurting from the wound, splashed on the barbarian’s chest. As he withdrew his weapon to strike again, the creature whirled about, and huge, scaly hands locked on Conan’s throat.

Conan slammed the obscene head against the parapet and sank his dagger into the monster’s belly. Coughing blood, the creature sagged against the battlements, releasing its stranglehold. As he fought for breath, the Cimmerian beheld a being from the depths of a nightmare. Blind eyes, dripping mucus, rolled in deep pits; a wide, lipless gash of mouth yawned, frog-like, from folds of leprous skin. Crouching like a springing leopard, Conan grasped the inert form and, using all his fighting skills, rose to full height to fling it over the jewel-encrusted parapet. A diminishing wail drifted skyward, followed by a soggy thump.

Close behind him, a woman laughed. As he whirled, Conan saw that Valeria had drawn herself through an embrasure and now leaned with negligent grace against a parapet.

“For a thief, you make a good killer,” she chuckled.

“For a thief, you climb like a mountain man,” he replied, wiping his dagger and sheathing it.

VII

The Gem

“Hoy!” came a hoarse whisper from below the tower’s rim. Conan and Valeria turned to see Subotai, breathing hard as he levered himself up the tower wall.

“I see you’ve been busy,” grunted the Hyrkanian when they had helped him through the embrasure. “What was that tumbling thing that nearly knocked me from my spikes?” “Crom knows,” muttered Conan. “Some hell-spawn fetched hither by the priests. Are you all right?”

“Aye, given a moment to catch my breath.”

Valeria ran her hands over the jewels encrusted in the battlements. “A fortune here!” she breathed. “And ours for the taking!”

Sliding her dagger from its sheath, Valeria tried to pry a large sapphire from its enshrouding mortar. Subotai drew his unstrung bow from its case, placed one end on the rough-hewn pave, and strung it. Then he studied Valeria.

“Leave off picking at those pretty pebbles, my lady,” he said. “They’re worth a pittance compared to what lies below. Besides, you’ll dull your blade, and you may need it soon.”

“Let’s move,” growled Conan, “before some priest or guard stumbles on us.”

Valeria poured her handful of loosened gems into her belt-wallet. “To work, then,” she said, striding to the narrow door that broke the circular line of the roof tiles. She grasped the carved handle and pulled vigorously in expectation of resistance; but the door swung back so easily that it almost overbalanced the girl. Peering through the open doorway, Conan frowned at the dim green glow within but Valeria, walking lithely on the balls of her feet, marched boldly in. Conan followed closely. He had an impression of a floor half-concealed by knee-high swirls of mist, a circle of stone columns supporting the roof, and a frieze along the walls between the columns. A soul-chilling, eerie light, reflected by the tenuous layer of mist, obscured further details.

As the mist, released from the confines of the small rotunda, dispersed through the open door, Conan perceived a circular, well-like opening in the centre of the floorboards, from the depths of which emanated an emerald glow and the muffled sound of rhythmic chanting. Borne on the mists, a putrid odour wafted up. Valeria thrust a hand across her face; Subotai wrinkled his nose.

“What plant or animal could stink like that?” he whispered.

“A three-day-old battlefield,” Conan rumbled. “That’s carrion, or I’m a Hyrkanian.”

“Look at this!” breathed Valeria. She pointed to the rim of the well, whence descended a series of iron rungs, forming a narrow ladder. Nearby an enormous hook protruded; and on it hung a pulley. Through this pulley a stout rope was threaded, the ends of which fell away into obscurity.

Conan studied the contraption. “The beast-thing I killed probably ascended the iron ladder. But if there was need for haste, it might have ridden upward on this rope —assuming there be some counterweight below. We’ll use the rungs, knowing nought of that.”

“I’d trust my own rope more,” whispered Valeria, frowning. “Those rungs look far apart and ill-fixed to the well wall.”

“Come on, girl!” muttered Conan, lowering himself over the edge of the narrow platform. “If the rungs could bear the beast-thing, they’ll support our weight.”

Masking her fear in a proud display of courage, Valeria swung out into the void, sought out a rung with a wary toe, and began the descent. Subotai, clutching his strung bow and a single arrow in one fist, came last.

In silence they made their way into the unknown depths. Polished stones of a darkling hue, set with bright gems, made mockery of the star-tossed firmament beyond the tower’s pinnacle; for in the confines of the well, it seemed the very skies pressed in upon them with ominous intent. As each uncertain step was taken, the distant chanting swelled in volume, and the carrion stench enveloped them.

At last they felt a cut-stone floor beneath their feet and saw the source of the almondine illumination. They stood in a round rock chamber, from which two darkened openings led away. A third aperture, the size of a large door, was blocked by an iron grating of widely-spaced bars; and it was through these bars that the strange light pushed its demoniac way. To Conan’s astonishment, near where they stood, another well-throat gaped into utter darkness.

Through the bars, Conan and his companions, approaching carefully, could see a huge, pillared hall, lit by a pulsing emerald light. The floor of that great chamber glowed in the strange luminescence like the unbroken surface of a silent pond. Valeria whispered, “How could I hey fit this hall into the tower? It’s far too big!”

“We must have descended far below the level of the street,” muttered Conan.

He and Valeria exchanged a glance, an opulent design of curiosity stitched by needles of fear. Then the girl shrugged and slid her slender body between the bars of the grating. Conan followed with more difficulty; he had to turn sidewise and exhale sharply to force his massive shoulders through. Subotai, lithe as an eel despite his armaments, joined them.

Beyond the shadows in which they paused, between two rows of columns, a group of robed figures stood with their backs to the intruders. At the farthest end of the rock-hewn hall, another man occupied some sort of ledge or balcony, his body clearly visible above the heads of the massed and reverent throng. In the bright light that was focused on him, Conan saw that he was a man of gigantic size, and black of skin. A magnificent specimen of virile manhood, the black stood, half naked, hands raised and eyes closed, intoning the sonorous chant which had broken the silence.

Valeria nudged Conan. “That is Yaro, second in the hierarchy,” she whispered. “Only the man called Doom stands higher in the cult.”

For a moment, Conan was riveted to the spot at the mention of that name; but he said nothing. Subotai murmured: “I have heard of such black men from countries far to the south. Is this Yaro, then, a Kushite?”

Valeria shrugged. “They say he is a thousand years old; so Bel and Ishtar alone know whence he hails.”

“Our way is blocked with worshippers,” said Conan softly. “How shall we pass them without raising an alarm?” “Let’s work our way around the side,” whispered Valeria. “I think there is another, lower level, and without doubt a stair to reach it by.”

She glided from pillar to pillar, a silent shadow among the shadows, followed by Conan and Subotai. When they had almost reached the area in which stood the congregation, Valeria pointed to a dungeon-black stairwell. “You two go down,” she breathed, “to see what’s there. I’ll stay here for the time to guard your back.”

The two men, tense with apprehension, descended a narrow, winding stair amid motionless, foetid air, which bore to their nostrils an ever-waxing stench. At length they reached another vaulted chamber, lit but feebly through a round opening in the ceiling. This aperture, Conan realized, connected the room in which they stood with that in which the ceremony they had glimpsed was in progress.

As they felt their way through the foul air, Subotai started and hissed, “Erlik’s blood, Conan! Look at that!” The floor beneath the circular opening was littered with corpses, male and female. Some appeared fresh; others were far gone in decay; still others had been reduced to skeletal remains. As the men edged closer to the mass of putrescence, rats fled squeaking before them, their eyes aglow with hostility when, upon reaching safety, the rodents turned briefly to watch the intruders.

Veiled in the darkness beyond the opening, Conan looked up. He could see Yaro kneeling on his balcony. As the black man rose, the chanting faded to a whisper. Moving as silently as a stalking panther, the Cimmerian skirted the shamble of corpses and positioned himself directly below the leader, whence, unseen, he could observe the faces of the foremost rank of worshippers. The cultists seemed to be young persons of both sexes, although I heir hoods shadowed their rapt faces and their long robes hid their bodies.

As Conan watched, one of the group stepped forward, discarding its hooded robe. Revealed in the emerald light was a beautiful young woman, whose slender body was scarcely shielded by a gauzy wisp of fabric. With resolute step, the maiden mounted a stone corbel that jutted out like a spar from the side of the aperture; and as she moved, the solemn chanting swelled in volume.

Subotai plucked at Conan’s sleeve and pointed to a low archway at the far side of the chamber. Conan tore his gaze away from the girl poised above the pit, and followed the Hyrkanian. Scrambling to get through the waist-high opening, Conan found himself in a rotunda some twenty paces across, with no entry or egress save that through which they had come. A pair of lamps, supported by ornate wall brackets, cast a fitful light across the curvate walls.

The centre of the room was occupied by a truncated pylon or altar, awrithe with carved figures and glyphs.

The Eye of the Serpent!” hissed Subotai, pointing. “Gods, look at that!”

Conan’s glance, obedient to the Hyrkanian’s eager gesture, revealed an enormous ruby-red jewel of tear-drop shape, resting upon the stone pylon. Then a slight movement drew his attention to the altar’s base. Coiled about the stela was a serpent of prodigious size. No snake so large in size had the young Cimmerian ever heard of, or even imagined. The lamplight in the chamber sparkled on the glittering scales that clothed the sinuous length of the monstrous reptile, and added immeasurably to its apparent magnitude.

“The rarest gem on earth, and the largest, by Mitra!” panted Subotai. “We could buy an emirate in Turan with it.”

“Aye, if we could lay hand on it. Do you see what guards it?”

Subotai inhaled a shocked breath, as he contemplated the enormity before them.

Conan took a cautious step forward. “Does it sleep or, wake?” he whispered. “Its eyes are open.”

“You can’t tell with snakes,” said Subotai. “They have no eyelids.”

Conan took two more steps, but still the serpent remained motionless. “Could I but sever its neck with one mighty blow...’’ he muttered.

“Oh, no!” said Subotai. “You little comprehend how long it takes for such vermin to die. In its thrashings, the headless body would crush us to pulp.”

“Well, then,” growled Conan, “we must take the gem without arousing the brute. Here!”

Moving as softly as he could, Conan pulled his baldric over his head and handed his scabbarded weapon to the Hyrkanian. Then he glided toward the pylon and its scaly guardian. When only a hand’s breadth separated his feet from the bulging coils of the creature, Conan stretched out his arm; but the ruby gem remained tantalizingly beyond his reach.