over his shoulderwarned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan'ssword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlongbackward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing froma ragged gash in his scalp.
Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that thepriest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--butMuriela threw her arms convulsively about him.
'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh,please take me away!'
'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and seewhere they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But youcan go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?'
'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'Iwas so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and thisbig brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--'
'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on!That gem is worth a fortune itself.'
She hesitated, as if loth to return to that cryptic chamber; then, as hegrasped Gwarunga's girdle and dragged him into the alcove, she turnedand entered the oracle room.
Conan dumped the senseless black on the floor, and lifted his sword. TheCimmerian had lived too long in the wild places of the world to have anyillusions about mercy. The only safe enemy was a headless enemy. Butbefore he could strike, a startling scream checked the lifted blade. Itcame from the oracle chamber.
'Conan! Conan! She's come back!' The shriek ended in a gurgle and ascraping shuffle.
With an oath Conan dashed out of the alcove, across the throne dais andinto the oracle chamber, almost before the sound had ceased. There hehalted, glaring bewilderedly. To all appearances Muriela lay placidly onthe dais, eyes closed as in slumber.
'What in thunder are you doing?' he demanded acidly. 'Is this any timeto be playing jokes--'
His voice trailed away. His gaze ran along the ivory thigh molded in theclose-fitting silk skirt. That skirt should gape from girdle to hem. Heknew, because it had been his own hand that tore it as he ruthlesslystripped the garment from the dancer's writhing body. But the skirtshowed no rent. A single stride brought him to the dais and he laid hishand on the ivory body--snatched it away as if it had encountered hotiron instead of the cold immobility of death.
'Crom!' he muttered, his eyes suddenly slits of bale-fire. 'It's notMuriela! It's Yelaya!'
He understood now that frantic scream that had burst from Muriela's lipswhen she entered the chamber. The goddess had returned. The body hadbeen stripped by Zargheba to furnish the accouterments for thepretender. Yet now it was clad in silk and jewels as Conan had firstseen it. A peculiar prickling made itself manifest among the short hairsat the base of Conan's scalp.
'Muriela!' he shouted suddenly. 'Muriela! Where the devil are you?'
The walls threw back his voice mockingly. There was no entrance that hecould see except the golden door, and none could have entered ordeparted through that without his knowledge. This much wasindisputable: Yelaya had been replaced on the dais within the fewminutes that had elapsed since Muriela had first left the chamber to beseized by Gwarunga; his ears were still tingling with the echoes ofMuriela's scream, yet the Corinthian girl had vanished as if into thinair. There was but one explanation that offered itself to the Cimmerian,if he rejected the darker speculation that suggested thesupernatural--somewhere in the chamber there was a secret door. And evenas the thought crossed his mind, he saw it.
In what had seemed a curtain of solid marble, a thin perpendicular crackshowed, and in the crack hung a wisp of silk. In an instant he wasbending over it. That shred was from Muriela's torn skirt. Theimplication was unmistakable. It had been caught in the closing door andtorn off as she was borne through the opening by whatever grim beingswere her captors. The bit of clothing had prevented the door fromfitting perfectly into its frame.
Thrusting his dagger-point into the crack, Conan exerted leverage with acorded forearm. The blade bent, but it was of unbreakable Akbitanansteel. The marble door opened. Conan's sword was lifted as he peeredinto the aperture beyond, but he saw no shape of menace. Light filteringinto the oracle chamber revealed a short flight of steps cut out ofmarble. Pulling the door back to its fullest extent, he drove his daggerinto a crack in the floor, propping it open. Then he went down the stepswithout hesitation. He saw nothing, heard nothing. A dozen steps down,the stair ended in a narrow corridor which ran straight away into gloom.
He halted suddenly, posed like a statue at the foot of the stair,staring at the paintings which frescoed the walls, half visible in thedim light which filtered down from above. The art was unmistakablyPelishtim; he had seen frescoes of identical characteristics on thewalls of Asgalun. But the scenes depicted had no connection withanything Pelishtim, except for one human figure, frequently recurrent: alean, white-bearded old man whose racial characteristics wereunmistakable. They seemed to represent various sections of the palaceabove. Several scenes showed a chamber he recognized as the oraclechamber with the figure of Yelaya stretched upon the ivory dais and hugeblack men kneeling before it. And there were other figures, too--figuresthat moved through the deserted palace, did the bidding of thePelishtim, and dragged unnamable things out of the subterranean river.In the few seconds Conan stood frozen, hitherto unintelligible phrasesin the parchment manuscript blazed in his brain with chilling clarity.The loose bits of the pattern clicked into place. The mystery ofBit-Yakin was a mystery no longer, nor the riddle of Bit-Yakin'sservants.
Conan turned and peered into the darkness, an icy finger crawling alonghis spine. Then he went along the corridor, cat-footed, and withouthesitation, moving deeper and deeper into the darkness as he drewfarther away from the stair. The air hung heavy with the odor he hadscented in the court of the gong.
Now in utter blackness he heard a sound ahead of him--the shuffle ofbare feet, or the swish of loose garments against stone, he could nottell which. But an instant later his outstretched hand encountered abarrier which he identified as a massive door of carven metal. He pushedagainst it fruitlessly, and his sword-point sought vainly for a crack.It fitted into the sill and jambs as if molded there. He exerted all hisstrength, his feet straining against the door, the veins knotting in histemples. It was useless; a charge of elephants would scarcely haveshaken that titanic portal.
As he leaned there he caught a sound on the other side that his earsinstantly identified--it was the creak of rusty iron, like a leverscraping in its slot. Instinctively action followed recognition sospontaneously that sound, impulse and action were practicallysimultaneous. And as his prodigious bound carried him backward, therewas the rush of a great bulk from above, and a thunderous crash filledthe tunnel with deafening vibrations. Bits of flying splinters struckhim--a huge block of stone, he knew from the sound, dropped on the spothe had just quitted. An instant's slower thought or action and it wouldhave crushed him like an ant.
Conan fell back. Somewhere on the other side of that metal door Murielawas a captive, if she still lived. But he could not pass that door, andif he remained in the tunnel another block might fall, and he might notbe so lucky. It would do the girl no good for him to be crushed into apurple pulp. He could not continue his search in that direction. He mustget above ground and look for some other avenue of approach.
He turned and hurried toward the stair, sighing as he emerged intocomparative radiance. And as he set foot on the first step, the lightwas blotted out, and above him the marble door rushed shut with aresounding reverberation.
Something like panic seized the Cimmerian then, trapped in that blacktunnel, and he wheeled on the stair, lifting his sword and glaringmurderously into the darkness behind him, expecting a rush of ghoulishassailants. But there was no sound or movement down the tunnel. Did themen beyond the door--if they were men--believe that he had been disposedof by the fall of the stone from the roof, which had undoubtedly beenreleased by some sort of machinery?
Then why had the door been shut above him?
Abandoning speculation, Conangroped his way up the steps, his skin crawling in anticipation of aknife in his back at every stride, yearning to drown his semi-panic in abarbarous burst of blood-letting.
He thrust against the door at the top, and cursed soulfully to find thatit did not give to his efforts. Then as he lifted his sword with hisright hand to hew at the marble, his groping left encountered a metalbolt that evidently slipped into place at the closing of the door. In aninstant he had drawn this bolt, and then the door gave to his shove. Hebounded into the chamber like a slit-eyed, snarling incarnation of fury,ferociously desirous to come to grips with whatever enemy was houndinghim.
The dagger was gone from the floor. The chamber was empty; and so wasthe dais. Yelaya had again vanished.
'By Crom!' muttered the Cimmerian. 'Is she alive,
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