Late as it was, there was much stirring abroad. Armed Hyrkanians strode past. In the great square between the two palaces, Conan heard the jingle of reins on restive horses and saw a squadron of Kushite troopers sitting their steeds under the torchlight. There was reason for their alertness. Far away he heard tom-toms drumming sullenly among the quarters. The wind brought snatches of wild song and distant yells. With his soldierly swagger, Conan passed unnoticed among the mailed figures. When he plucked the sleeve of a Hyrkanian to ask the way to Zeriti’s house, the man readily gave him the information. Conan, like everyone else in Asgalun, knew that however much the Stygian regarded Akhirom as her personal property, she by no means considered herself his exclusive posession in return. There were mercenary captains as familiar with her chambers as was the king of Pelishtia.
Zeriti’s house adjoined a court of the East Palace, to whose gardens it was connected so that Zeriti, in the days of her favor, could pass from her house to the palace without violating the king’s order for the seclusion of women.
Zeriti, the daughter of a free chieftain, had been Akhirom’s mistress but not his slave.
Conan did not expect difficulty in gaining entrance to her house. She pulled hidden strings of intrigue and politics, and men of all races and conditions were admitted to her audience chamber, where dancing girls and the fumes of the black lotus offered entertainment That night there were no dancing girls or guests, but a villainous-looking Zuagir opened the arched door under a burning cresset and admitted Conan without question. He showed Conan across a small court, up an outer stair, down a corridor, and into a broad chamber bordered by fretted arches hung with curtains of crimson velvet.
The softly lit room was empty, but somewhere sounded the scream of a woman in pain. Then came a peal of musical laughter, also feminine, indescribably vindictive and malicious.
Conan jerked his head to catch the direction of the sounds. Then he began examining the drapes behind the arches to see which of them concealed doors.
Zeriti straightened up from her task and dropped the heavy whip. The naked figure bound to the divan was crossed by red weals from neck to ankles. This, however, was but a prelude to a more ghastly fate.
The witch took from a cabinet a piece of charcoal, with which she drew a complex figure on the floor, adding words in the mysterious glyphs of the serpent-folk who ruled Stygia before the Cataclysm. She set a small golden lamp at each of the five corners of the figure and tossed into the flame of each a pinch of the pollen of the purple lotus, which grows in the swamps of southern Stygia, A strange smell, sickeningly sweet, pervaded the chamber. Then she began to incant in a language that was old before purple-towered Python rose in the lost empire of Acheron, over three thousand years before.
Slowly a dark something took form. To Rufia, half dead with pain and fright, it seemed like a pillar of cloud. High up in the amorphous mass appeared a pair of glowing points that might have been eyes. Rufia felt an all-pervading cold, as if the thing were drawing all the heat out of her body by its mere presence. The cloud gave the impression of being black without much density. Rufia could see the wall behind it through the shapeless mass, which slowly thickened.
Zeriti bent and snuffed out the lamps.one, two, three, four. The room, lit by the remaining lamp, was now dim. The pillar of smoke was hardly discernible except for the glowing eyes.
A sound made Zeriti turn: a distant, muffled roar, faint and far-off but of vast volume. It was the bestial howling of many men.
Zeriti resumed her incantation, but there came another interruption: angry words and the voice of the Zuagir, a cry, the crunch of a savage blow, and the thud of a body. Imbalayo burst in, a wild-looking figure with his eyeballs and teeth gleaming in the light of the single lamp and blood dripping from his scimitar.
“Dog!” exclaimed the Stygian, drawing herself up like a serpent from its coil. “What do you here?”
The woman you took from me!” roared Imbalayo. The city has risen and all Hell is loose! Give me the woman before I kill you!”
Zeriti glanced at her rival and drew a jeweled dagger, crying: “Hotep! Khafra! Help me!”
With a roar, the black general lunged. The Stygian’s supple quickness was futile; the broad blade plunged through her body, standing out a foot between her shoulders. With a choking cry she stumbled, and the Kushite wrenched his scimitar free as she fell. At that instant Conan appeared at the door, sword in hand.
Evidently taking the Cimmerian for one of the witch’s servants, the Kushite bounded across the floor, his saber whistling in a fearful slash. Conan leaped back; the sword missed his throat by a finger’s breadth and nicked the doorframe. As he leaped, Conan struck backhanded in return. It was incredible that the black giant should recover from his missed cut in time to parry, but Imbalayo somehow twisted his body, arm, and blade all at once to catch a blow that would have felled a lesser man by sheer impact.
Back and forth they surged, swords clanging. Then recognition dawned in Imbalayo’s features. He fell back with a cry of “Amra!”
Now Conan knew that he must kill this man. Though he did not remember ever seeing him before, the Kushite had recognized him as the leader of a crew of black corsairs who, under the name of Amra, the Lion, had plundered the coasts of Kush and Stygia and Shem. If Imbalayo revealed Conan’s identity to the Pelishtim, the vengeful Shemites would tear Conan apart with their bare hands if need be. Bitterly though the Shemites fought among themselves, they would unite to destroy the red-handed barbarian who had raided their coast.
Conan lunged and drove Imbalayo back a step, feinted, and struck at the Kushite’s head. The force of the blow beat down Imbalayo’s scimitar and came down stunningly on the bronze helmet and Conan’s sword, weakened by deep notches in the blade, broke off short.
For the space of two heartbeats, the two barbarian warriors confronted each other. Imbalayo’s bloodshot eyes sought a vulnerable spot on Conan’s form; his muscles tensed for a final, fatal spring and slash.
Conan hurled his hilt at Imbalayo’s head. As the Kushite ducked the missile, Conan whirled his cloak around his left forearm and snatched out his poniard with his right hand. He had no illusions about his chances with Imbalayo in this Zingaran-style fighting. The Kushite, now stalking forward on the balls of his feet like a cat, was no slow-moving mountain of muscle like Keluka, but a superbly-thewed fighting machine almost as lightning-fast as Conan himself. The scimitar whipped up …
And a shapeless mass of cloudy something, hitherto unnoticed in the gloom, swept forward and fastened itself on Imbalayo’s back. Imbalayo screamed like a man being roasted alive. He kicked and squirmed and tried to reach back with his sword. But the luminous eyes glowed over his shoulder and the smoky substance lapped around him, drawing him slowly backwards.
Conan reeled back from the sight, his barbarian’s fears of the supernatural rising like a choking lump in his throat,
Imbalayo’s shrieks ceased. The black body slid to the ground with a soft, squashy sound. The cloudy thing was gone.
Conan advanced cautiously. Imbalayo’s body had a curiously pallid, collapsed appearance, as if the demon had extracted all the bones and blood, leaving only a man-shaped bag of skin with a few organs inside it. The Cimmerian shuddered.
A sob from the divan called his attention to Rufia. With two strides he reached her and cut her bonds. She sat up, weeping silently, when a voice shouted:
“Imbalayo! In the name of all the fiends, where are you? It’s time to mount and ride! I saw you run in here!”
A mailed and helmeted figure dashed into the chamber. Mazdak recoiled at the sight of the bodies and cried: “Oh, you cursed savage, why must you slay Imbalayo at this time? The city has risen. The Anakim are fighting the Kushites, who had their hands full already. I ride with my men to aid the Kushites. As for you.I still owe you my life, but there’s a limit to all things! Get out of this city and never let me see you again!”
Conan grinned. “It wasn’t I wh
o killed him, but one of Zeriti’s demons after he slew the witch. Look at his body if you don’t believe me.” As Mazdak bent to see, Conan added: “And have you no greeting for your old friend Rufia?”
Rufia had been cowering behind Conan. Mazdak plucked at his mustache. “Good. I’ll take her back to my house; we have.”
The distant roaring of the mob became louder.
“No,” said Mazdak distractedly. “I must go to put down the sedition. But how can I leave her to wander the streets naked?”
Conan said: “Why not throw in your lot with the Anakim, who will be as glad to get rid of this mad king as are the Asgalunim? With Imbalayo and Othbaal dead, you’re the only general alive in Asgalun. Become leader of the revolt, put down the crazy Akhirom, and set some feeble cousin or nephew in his place. Then you’ll be the real ruler of Pelishtia!”
Mazdak, listening like a man in a dream, gave a sudden shout of laughter. “Done!” he cried. “To horse! Take Rufia to my house, then join the Hyrkanians in battle. Tomorrow I shall rule Pelishtia, and you may ask of me what you will. Farewell for now!”
Off went the Hyrkanian with a swirl of his cloak. Conan turned to Rufia. “Get some clothes, wench.”
“Who are you? I heard Imbalayo call you Amra …”
“Don’t say that name in Shem! I am Conan, a Cimmerian.”
“Conan? I heard you spoken of when I was intimate with the king. Do not take me to Mazdak’s house!”
“Why not? He’ll be the real ruler of Pelishtia.”
“I know that cold snake too well. Take me with you instead! Let’s loot this house and flee the city. With all this uproar, nobody will stop us.”
Conan grinned. “You tempt me, Rufia, but if s worth too much to me right now to keep on Mazdak’s good side. Besides, I told him I would deliver you, and I like to keep my word. Now get into a garment or I’ll drag you as you are.”
“Well,” said Rufia in a temporizing tone, but then stopped.
A gurgling sound came from the sprawled body of Zeriti. As Conan watched with his hair standing up in horror, the witch slowly rose to a sitting position, despite a wound that any fighter would have said would be instantly fatal. She struggled to her feet and stood, swaying, regarding Conan and Rufia. A little blood ran down from the wounds in her back and chest. When she spoke, it was in a voice choked with blood.
“It takes …more than …a sword-thrust …to kill …a daughter of Set.” She reeled towards the door. In the doorway she turned back to gasp: “The Asgalunim …will be interested to know …that Amra and his woman …are in their city,”
Conan stood irresolutely, knowing that for his own safety he ought to rush upon the witch and hew her in pieces, but restrained by his rude barbarian’s chivalry from attacking a woman. “Why bother us?” he burst out. “You can have your mad king back!”
Zeriti shook her head. “I know …what Mazdak plans. And ere I quit this body …for good …I will …have …my revenge …on this drab.”
“Then.” growled Conan, snatching up Imbalayo’s scimitar and starting towards the witch. But Zeriti made a gesture and spoke a word. A line of flame appeared across the floor between Conan and the doorway, extending from wall to wall. Conan recoiled, throwing up a hand to shade his face from the fierce heat. Then Zeriti was gone.
“After her!” cried Rufia. “The fire is but one of her illusions.”
“But if she can’t be killed.”
“Nevertheless, heads do not tell secrets when sundered from their bodies.”
Grimly, Conan rushed for the exit, leaping across the line of flame. There was an instant of heat, and then the flames vanished as he passed through them.
“Wait here!” he barked at Rufia, and ran after Zeriti.
But when he reached the street, there was no witch to be seen. He ran to the nearest alley and looked up it, then to the alley in the opposite direction. Still there was no sign of her.
In seconds he was back in Zeriti’s house. “You were right the first time,” he grunted at Rufia. “Let’s grab what we can and go.”
In the great Square of Adonis, the tossing torches blazed on a swirl of straining figures, screaming horses, and lashing blades. Men fought hand-to-hand: Kushites and Shemites, gasping, cursing, and dying. Like madmen the Asgalunim grappled the black warriors, dragging them from their saddles, slashing the girths of the frenzied horses. Rusty pikes clanged against lances. Fire burst out here and there, mounting into the skies until the shepherds on the Libnun Hills gaped in wonder. From the suburbs poured a torrent of figures converging on the great square. Hundreds of still shapes, in mail or striped robes, lay under the trampling hooves, and over them the living screamed and hacked.
The square lay in the Kushite quarter, into which the Anakim had come ravening while the bulk of the Negroes had been fighting the mob elsewhere. Now withdrawn in haste to their own quarter, the ebony swordsmen were overwhelming the Anakian infantry by sheer numbers, while the mob threatened to engulf both bodies. Under their captain, Bombaata, the Kushites retained a semblance of order that gave them an advantage over the unorganized Anakim and the leaderless mob. Their squadrons clattered back and forth across the square, charging to keep a space clear in the midst of he swarming thousands, so that they could use their horses to advantage.
Meanwhile the maddened Asgalunim were smashing and plundering the houses of the blacks, dragging forth howling women. The blaze of burning buildings made the square swim in an ocean of fire, while the shrieks of their women and children as they were torn to pieces by the Shemites made the Negroes fight with even more than their usual ferocity.
Somewhere arose the whir of Hyrkanian kettledrums above the throb of many hooves.
“The Hyrkanians at last!” panted Bombaata. “They’ve loitered long enough. And where in Derketa’s name is Imbalayo?”
Into the square raced a frantic, horse, foam flying from its bit rings. The rider, reeling in the saddle, screamed: “Bombaata! Bombaata!” as he clung to the mane with bloody hands.
“Here, fool!” roared the Kushite, catching the other’s bridle.
“Imbalayo is dead!” shrieked the man above the roar of the flames and the rising thunder of the kettledrums.
“The Hyrkanians have turned against us! They have slain our brothers in the palaces! Here they come!”
With a deafening thunder of hooves and drums, the squadrons of mailed lancers burst upon the square, riding down friend and foe. Bombaata saw the lean, exultant face of Mazdak beneath the blazing arc of his scimitar, and then a sword fell and the Kushite with it.
On the rocky spurs of Libnun the herdsmen watched and shivered, and the clangor of swords was heard miles up the river, where pallid nobles trembled in their gardens. Hemmed in by mailed Hyrkanians, furious Anakim, and shrieking Asgalunim, the Kushites died fighting to a man.
It was the mob that first turned its attention to Akhirom. They rushed through the unguarded gates into the inner city, and through the great bronze doors of the East Palace. Ragged hordes streamed yelling down the corridors through the Golden Gates into the great Golden Hall, tearing aside the curtain of cloth-of-gold to reveal an empty throne. Silken tapestries were ripped from the walls by grimed and bloody fingers. Sardonyx tables were overthrown with a clatter of golden vessels. Eunuchs in crimson robes fled squeaking, and slave-girls shrieked in the hands of ravishers.
In the Great Emerald Hall, King Akhirom stood like a statue on a fur-strewn dais, his white hands twitching. At the entrance to the hall clustered a handful of his faithful servants, beating back the mob with swords. A band of Anakim plowed through the throng and burst the barrier of black slaves. As the wedge of swarthy Shemitish soldiers clattered forward, Akhirom seemed to come to himself. He dashed to an exit in the rear. Anakim and Pelishtim, mingling as they ran, chased the fleeing king. After them came a band of Hyrkanians with the blood-splashed Mazdak at their head.
Akhirom ran down a corridor, then turned aside to dash up a winding stair. Th
e stair curled up and up until it came out on the roof of the pakce. But it did not stop there; it continued on up into the slender spire that rose from the roof, from which Akhirom’s father, King Azumelek, had observed the stars.
Up went Akhirom, and after him came the pursuers, until the stair became so narrow that only one man could negotiate it, and the pursuit slowed for lack of breath.
King Akhirom came out on the small circular platform at the top of the tower, “unrounded by a low wall. He slammed down the stone trapdoor and bolted it. Then he leaned over the wall. Men swarmed on the roof, and below them others gazed up from the main courtyard.
“Sinful mortals!” screeched Akhirom. ‘Tou do not believe I am a god! I will show you! I am not bound to the surface of the earth as worms like you are, but can soar through the heavens like a bird! You shall see, and then you will bow down and worship me as you ought! Here I go!”
Akhirom climbed to the top of the wall, balanced an instant, and dove off, spreading his arms like wings. His body described a long, steep parabola downward, missing the edge of the roof and plunging on down, the wind whistling in his garments, until he struck the stones of the courtyard below with the sound of a melon hit by a sledgehammer.
Not even the extermination of the Kushites and the death of Akhirom brought peace to troubled Asgalun. Other mobs roamed the city, incited by a mysterious rumor that Amra, the pirate chief of the black corsairs, was there, and that the Ophirean woman Rufia was with him. The rumors grew and changed with each retelling until men said that Amra had sent Rufia to Asgalun as a spy for the pirates, and that a pirate navy was waiting off the coast for word from Amra to march overland against the city. But, though they combed the whole town over, no sign did the searchers find of Amra and his doxy.
North from Asgalon, through the meadowlands of western Shem, ran the long road to Koth, Along this road, as the sun rose, Conan and Rufia rode at a canter. Conan bestrode his own horse; the Ophirean woman, a riderless horse which Conan had caught on the streets of Asgalun that night. She wore clothes from the chests of Zeriti. tight for her full figure, but adequate.
The Other Tales of Conan Page 25