“Of course not!” As a matter of fact Conan was. Though he feared no man or beast, the supernatural filled his barbarian’s mind with atavistic terrors. Still, he did not care to admit the fact. “What have you in mind?”
“Why, only that neither of us can fight Zyras’ whole band alone, but together we can follow them and take the idol from them. What do you say?”
“Aye, I’ll do it. But I’ll kill you like a dog if you try any tricks!”
Sassan laughed. “I know you would, so you can trust me. Come; I have horses waiting.”
The Iranistani led the way through twisting streets overhung with latticed balconies and along stinking alleys until he stopped at the lamplit door of a courtyard. At his knock, a bearded face appeared at the wicket. After some muttered words, the gate opened. Sassan strode in, Conan following suspiciously. But the horses were there, and a word from the keeper of the serai set sleepy servants to saddling them and filling the saddle pouches with food.
Soon Conan and Sassan were riding together out of the west gate, perfunctorily challenged by the sleepy guard. Sassan was portly but muscular, with a broad, shrewd face and dark, alert eyes. He bore a horseman’s lance over his shoulder and handled his weapons with the expertness of practice. Conan did not doubt that in a pinch he would fight with cunning and courage. Conan also did not doubt that he could trust Sassan to play fair just so long as the alliance was to his advantage, and to murder his partner at the first opportunity when it became expedient to do so in order to keep all the treasure himself.
Dawn found them riding through the rugged defiles of the bare, brown, rocky Kezankian Mountains, separating the easternmost marches of Koth and Zamora from the Turanian steppes. Though both Koth and Zamora claimed the region, neither had been able to subdue it, and the town of Arenjun, perched on a steep-sided hill, had successfully withstood two sieges by the Turanian hordes from the east. The road branched and became fainter until Sassan confessed himself at a loss to know where they were.
“I’m still following their tracks,” grunted Conan. “If you cannot see them, I can.”
Hours passed, and signs of the recent passage of horses became clear. Conan said: “We’re closing on them, and they still outnumber us. Let us stay out of sight until they get the idol, then ambush them and take it from them.”
Sassan’s eyes gleamed. “Good! But let’s be wary; this is the country of Keraspa, who robs all he catches.”
Midafternoon found them still following the trace of an ancient, forgotten road. As they rode toward a narrow gorge, Sassan said:
“If that Kezankian got back to Keraspa, the Kezankians will be alert for strangers.”
They reined up as a lean, hawk-faced Kezankian rode out of the gorge with hand upraised. “Halt!” he cried. “By what leave do you ride in the land of Keraspa?”
“Careful,” muttered Conan. “They may be all around us.”
“Keraspa claims toll on travelers,” answered Sassan under his breath. “Maybe that is all this fellow wants.” Fumbling in his girdle, he said to the tribesman: “We are but poor travelers, glad to pay your brave chief’s toll. We ride alone.”
“Then who is that behind you?” demanded the Kezankian, nodding his head in the direction from which they had come.
Sassan half turned his head. Instantly the Kezankian whipped a dagger from his girdle and struck at the Iranistani.
Quick as he was, Conan was quicker. As the dagger darted at Sassan’s throat, Conan’s scimitar flashed and steel rang. The dagger whirled away, and with a snarl the Kezankian caught at his sword. Before he could pull the blade free, Conan struck again, cleaving turban and skull. The Kezankian’s horse neighed and reared, throwing the corpse headlong. Conan wrenched his own steed around.
“Ride for the gorge!” he yelled. “It’s an ambush!”
As the Kezankian tumbled to earth, there came the flat snap of bows and the whistle of arrows. Sassan’s horse leaped as an arrow struck it in the neck and bolted for the mouth of the defile. Conan felt an arrow tug at his sleeve as he struck in the spurs and fled after Sassan, who was unable to control his beast.
As they swept towards the mouth of the gorge, three horsemen rode out swinging broad-bladed tulwars. Sassan, abandoning his effort to check his maddened mount, drove his lance at the nearest. The spear transfixed the man and hurled him out of the saddle.
The next instant Conan was even with a second swordsman, who swung the heavy tulwar. The Cimmerian threw up his scimitar and the blades met with a crash as the horses came together breast to breast. Conan, rising in his stirrups, smote downwards with all his immense strength, beating down the tulwar and splitting the skull of the wielder. Then he was galloping up the gorge with arrows screeching past him. Sassan’s wounded horse stumbled and went down; the Iranistani leaped clear as it fell.
Conan pulled up, snarling: “Get up behind me!” Sassan, lance in hand, leaped up behind the saddle. A touch of the spurs, and the heavily-burdened horse set off down the gorge. Yells behind showed that the tribesmen were scampering to their hidden horses. A turn in the gorge muffled the noises.
“That Kezankian spy must have gotten back to Keraspa,” panted Sassan. “They want blood, not gold. Do you suppose they have wiped out Zyras?”
“He might have passed before they set up their ambush, or they might have been following him when they turned to trap us. I think he’s still ahead of us.”
A mile further on they heard faint sounds of pursuit. Then they came out into a natural bowl walled by sheer cliffs. From the midst of this bowl a slope led up to a bottleneck pass on the other side. As they neared this pass, Conan saw that a low stone wall closed the gut of the pass. Sassan yelled and jumped down from the horse as a flight of arrows screeched past. One struck the horse in the chest.
The beast lurched to a thundering fall, and Conan jumped clear and rolled behind a cluster of rocks, where Sassan had already taken cover. More arrows splintered against boulders or stuck quivering in the earth. The two adventurers looked at each other with sardonic humor.
“We’ve found Zyras!” said Sassan.
“In an instant,” laughed Conan, “they’ll rush us, and Keraspa will come up beehind us to close the trap.”
A taunting voice shouted: “Come out and get shot, curs! Who’s the Zuagir with you, Sassan? I thought I had brained him last night!”
“My name is Conan,” roared the Cimmerian.
After a moment of silence, Zyras shouted: “I might have known! Well, we have you now!”
“You’re in the same fix!” yelled Conan. “You heard the fighting back down the gorge?”
“Aye; we heard it when we stopped to water the horses. Who’s chasing you?”
“Keraspa and a hundred Kezankians! When we are dead, do you think he’ll let you go after you tortured one of his men?”
“You had better let us join you,” added Sassan.
“Is that the truth?” yelled Zyras, his turbaned head appearing over the wall.
“Are you deaf, man?” retorted Conan.
The gorge reverberated with yells and hoofbeats.
“Get in, quickly!” shouted Zyras. “Time enough to divide the idol if we get out of this alive.”
Conan and Sassan leaped up and ran up the slope to the wall, where hairy arms helped them over. Conan looked at his new allies: Zyras, grim and hard-eyed in his Turanian guise; Arshak, still dapper after leagues of riding; and three swarthy Zamorians who bared their teeth in greeting. Zyras and Arshak each wore a shirt of chain mail like those of Conan and Sassan.
The Kezankians, about a score of them, reined up as the bows of the Zamorians and Arshak sent arrows swishing among them. Some of them shot back; others whirled and rode back out of range to dismount, as the wall was too high to be carried by a mounted charge. One saddle was emptied and one wounded horse bolted back down the gorge with its rider.
“They must have been following us,” snarled Zyras. “Conan, you lied! That is no hundred men!
”
“Enough to cut our throats,” said Conan, trying his sword. “And Keraspa can send for reinforcements whenever he likes.”
Zyras growled: “We have a chance behind this wall. I believe it was built by the same race that built the red god’s temple. Save your arrows for the rush.”
Covered by a continuous discharge of arrows from four of their number on the flanks, the rest of the Kezankians ran up the slope in a solid mass, those in front holding up light bucklers. Behind them Conan saw Keraspa’s red beard as the wily chief urged his men on.
“Shoot!” screamed Zyras. Arrows plunged into the mass of men and three writhing figures were left behind on the slope, but the rest came on, eyes glaring and blades glittering in hairy fists.
The defenders shot their last arrows into the mass and then rose up behind the wall, drawing steel. The mountaineers rolled up against the wall. Some tried to boost their fellows up to the top; others pushed small boulders up against the foot of the wall to provide steps. Along the barrier sounded the smash of bone-breaking blows, the rasp and slither of steel, the gasping oaths of dying men. Conan hewed the head from the body of a Kezankian, and beside him saw Sassan thrust his spear into the open mouth of another until the point came out the back of the man’s neck. A wild-eyed tribesman stabbed a long knife into the belly of one of the Zamorians. Into the gap left by the falling body the howling Kezankian lunged, hurling himself up and over the wall before Conan could stop him. The giant Cimmerian took a cut on his left arm and crushed in the man’s shoulder with a return blow.
Leaping over the body, he hewed into the men swarming up over the wall with no time to see how the fight was going on either side. Zyras was cursing in Corinthian and Arshak in Hyrkanian. Somebody screamed in mortal agony. A tribesman got a pair of gorilla-like hands on Conan’s thick neck, but the Cimmerian tensed his neck muscles and stabbed low with his knife again and again until with a moan the Kezankian released him and toppled from the wall.
Gasping for air, Conan looked about him, realizing that the pressure had slackened. The few remaining Kezankians were staggering down the slope, all streaming blood. Corpses lay piled deep at the foot of the wall. All three of the Zamorians were dead or dying, and Conan saw Arshak sitting with his back against the wall, his hands pressed to his body while blood seeped between his fingers. The prince’s lips were blue, but he achieved a ghastly smile.
“Born in a palace,” he whispered, “and dying behind a rock wall! No matter, it is fate. There is a curse on the treasure, all men who rode on the trail of the bloodstained god have died.” And he died.
Zyras, Conan, and Sassan glanced silently at one another: three grim tattered figures, all splashed with blood. All had taken minor wounds on their limbs, but their mail shirts had saved them from the death that had befallen their companions.
“I saw Keraspa sneaking off!” snarled Zyras. “He’ll make for his village and get the whole tribe on our trail. Let us make a race of it: get the idol and drag it out of the mountains before he catches us. There’s enough treasure for all.”
“True,” growled Conan. “But give me back my map before we start.”
Zyras opened his mouth to speak, and then saw that Sassan had picked up one of the Zamorians’ bows and had drawn an arrow on him. “Do as Conan tells you,” said the Iranistani.
Zyras shrugged and handed over a crumpled parchment “Curse you, I still deserve a third of the treasure!”
Conan glanced at the map and thrust it into his girdle. “All right; I’ll not hold a grudge. You’re a swine, but if you play fair with us we’ll do the same, eh, Sassan?”
Sassan nodded and gathered up a quiverful of arrows.
The horses of Zyras’ party were tied in the pass behind the wall. The three men mounted the best beasts and led the three others, up the canyon behind the pass. Night fell, but with Keraspa behind them they pushed recklessly on.
Conan watched his companions like a hawk. The most dangerous time would come when they had secured the golden statue and no longer needed each other’s help. Then Zyras and Sassan might conspire to murder Conan, or one of them might approach him with a plan to slay the third man. Tough and ruthless though the Cimmerian was, his barbaric code of honor would not let him be the first to try treachery.
He also wondered what it was that the maker of the map had tried to tell him just before he died. Death had come upon Ostorio in the midst of a description of the temple, with a gush of blood from his mouth. The Nemedian had been about to warn him of something, he thought, but of what?
Dawn broke as they came out of a narrow gorge into a steep-walled valley. The defile through which they had entered was the only way in. It came out upon a ledge thirty paces wide, with the cliff rising a bowshot above it on one side and falling away to an unmeasurable depth below. There seemed no way down into the mist-veiled depths of the valley far below. The men wasted few glances in this direction, for the sight ahead drove hunger and fatigue from their minds.
There on the ledge stood the temple, gleaming in the rising sun. It was carved out of the sheer rock of the cliff, its great portico facing them. The ledge led to its great bronzen door, green with age.
What race or culture it represented Conan did not try to guess. He unfolded the map and glanced at the notes on the margin, trying to discover a method of opening the door.
But Sassan slipped from his saddle and ran ahead of them, crying out in his greed.
“Fool!” grunted Zyras, swinging down from his horse. “Ostorio left a warning on the margin of the map; something about the god’s taking his toll.”
Sassan was pulling at the various ornaments and projections on the portal. They heard him cry out in triumph as it moved under his hands. Then his cry changed to a scream as the door, a ton of bronze, swayed outward and fell crashing, squashing the Iranistani like an insect. He was completely hidden by the great metal slab, from beneath which oozed streams of crimson.
Zyras shrugged. “I said he was a fool. Ostorio must have found some way to swing the door without releasing it from its hinges.”
One less knife in the back to watch for, thought Conan. “Those hinges are false,” he said, examining the mechanism at close range. “Ho! The door is rising back up again!”
The hinges were, as Conan had said, fakes. The door was actually mounted on a pair of swivels at the lower corners so that it could fall outward like a drawbridge. From each upper corner of the door a chain ran diagonally up, to disappear into a hole near the upper corner of the doorframe. Now, with a distant grinding sound, the chains had tautened and had started to pull the door back up into its former position.
Conan snatched up the lance that Sassan had dropped. Placing the butt in a hollow in the carvings of the inner surface of the door, he wedged the point into the corner of the door frame. The grinding sound ceased and the door stopped moving in a nine-tenths open position.
“That was clever, Conan,” said Zyras. “As the god has now had his toll, the way should be open.”
He stepped up on to the inner surface of the door and strode into the temple. Conan followed. They paused on the threshold and peered into the shadowy interior as they might have peered into a serpent’s lair. Silence held the ancient temple, broken only by the soft scuff of their boots.
They entered cautiously, blinking in the half-gloom. In the dimness, a blaze of crimson like the glow of a sunset smote their eyes. They saw the god, a thing of gold crusted with flaming gems.
The statue, a little bigger than life size, was in the form of a dwarfish man standing upright on great splay feet on a block of basalt. The statue faced the entrance, and on each side of it stood a great carven chair of dense black wood, inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl in a style unlike that of any living nation.
To the left of the statue, a few feet from the base of the pedestal, the floor of the temple was cleft from wall to wall by a chasm some fifteen feet wide. At some time, probably before the temple had been built, an ea
rthquake had split the rock. Into that black abyss, ages ago, screaming victims had doubtless been hurled by hideous priests as sacrifices to the god. The walls were lofty and fantastically carved, the roof dim and shadowy above.
But the attention of the men was fixed on the idol. Though a brutish and repellant monstrosity, it represented wealth that made Conan’s brain swim.
“Crom and Ymir!” breathed Conan. “One could buy a kingdom with those rubies!”
“Too much to share with a lout of a barbarian,” panted Zyras.
These words, spoken half-unconsciously between the Corinthian’s clenched teeth, warned Conan. He ducked just as Zyras’ sword whistled towards his neck; the blade sliced a fold from his headdress. Cursing his own carelessness, Conan leaped back and drew his scimitar.
Zyras came on in a rush and Conan met him. Back and forth they fought before the leering idol, feet scuffing on the rock, blades rasping and ringing. Conan was larger than the Corinthian, but Zyras was strong, agile, and experienced, full of deadly tricks. Again and again Conan dodged death by a hair’s breadth.
Then Conan’s foot slipped on the smooth floor and his blade wavered. Zyras threw all his strength and speed into a lunge that would have driven his saber through Conan. But the Cimmerian was not so off balance as he looked. With the suppleness of a panther, he twisted his powerful body aside so that the long blade passed under his right armpit, plowing through his loose khilat. For an instant, the blade caught in the cloth. Zyras stabbed with the dagger in his left hand. The blade sank into Conan’s right arm, and at the same time the knife in Conan’s left drove through Zyras’ mail shirt, snapping the links, and plunged between Zyras’ ribs. Zyras screamed, gurgled, reeled back, and fell limply.
Conan dropped his weapons and knelt, ripping a strip of cloth from his robe for a bandage, to add to those he already wore. He bound up the wound, tying knots with fingers and teeth, and glanced at the bloodstained god leering down at him. Its gargoyle face seemed to gloat. Conan shivered as the superstitious fears of the barbarian ran down his spine.
The Other Tales of Conan Page 15