Heng Shih left his weapon in its sheath, but bent down beside his leader.
'That,' whispered Conan, gesturing with his bared sword, 'is a fine place for a sentry. Or an ambush.'
Heng Shih nodded to show that he understood, but the Cimmerian was already moving forward. He clung to the shadows at the base of the canyon wall, as silent as smoke on the desert wind. The Khitan followed, slowed by his desire to match Conan's stealth. The red glow of sunset faded abruptly, plunging the canyon into a murky grey twilight.
At the corner the barbarian drew up short, listening. Placing a palm on the cool stone of the canyon wall, he dropped to one knee and peered carefully around the bend. He stared ahead for a moment, then looked back at Heng Shih, who was still advancing with careful steps. When the big Khitan was finally at his side, he sheathed his sword and spoke softly.
'We have found it. Take a look.' With that Conan stood and leapt nimbly across the open bend in the passage. He lit soundlessly in the shadow of an ancient rock fall, crouched, and continued his judicious examination of whatever lay around the canyon's corner.
Heng Shih swallowed heavily, went to his knees, and slowly leaned forward until he could see around the bend. His eyes widened in amazement.
Ahead, the narrow canyon continued for another six or eight paces before lowering slightly and opening out into a broad, extended cul-de-sac. Hemmed by sheer walls, the canyon ended in a wide clearing with a floor as smooth and level as the courtyard of a castle. In the clearing's centre, not twenty paces away, two men lingered about a circular pit. One squatted beside it, holding his hands toward it as if to warm himself. The other leaned upon a spear, regarding his companion and speaking in low tones. Each wore the gleaming mail and fine silk of a Stygian mercenary. Short swords hung at their belts and their heads were protected by caps of steel.
But it was what lay beyond the sentries that captured the attention of the intruders and had them agape in the concealing shadows. Another twenty paces beyond the smouldering firepit rose the rear wall of the box canyon, and it was carved into the likeness of a great palace facade. Twilight had begun to purple the sky above the clearing and the brilliant pinpoints of the first stars were just flickering into life, but there was still enough daylight to see the wonder that was the Palace of Cetriss.
A row of four massive pillars, each as great in girth as the mightiest tree, reached up from their roots in wide bases set into the clearing's floor to support the overhanging lip of the canyon rim high above.
Though obviously cut directly out of the cliff face, each pillar stood independently. An open black doorway was set between the two central pillars, and a broad flight of stairs descended from the ominous portal to the floor of the natural courtyard. Even at a distance and in the dying light, the carvings that surrounded the frame of the doorway appeared elaborate and passing strange. Spread out above the dark opening was a row of three equally dark windows, each bracketed with worn carvings similar to those that adorned the portal. A second row of open windows was arrayed above that, close to the tops of the towering pillars and the carved crest of the canyon rim.
Conan shivered in the cooling breeze. The palace had at least three stories and had been sculpted from living rock, a feat that would have astounded even the pyramid-building Stygians. Crom alone knew how deeply its halls and chambers bored into the desert's stony breast.
Facing them in the deepening twilight, it projected an overpowering aura of unthinkable age and implacable purpose.
The Cimmerian's blue eyes burned upon the open doorway, narrowing in thought. There was no door or gate that he could discern, though he couldn't rule out some sort of sorcerous barrier. Even without any kind of closure, the passage could be held by very few men against a much more formidable force than the Lady Zelandra's little party. His gaze lifted to the open windows arrayed above the door, and then up to the second row of windows. He frowned as the voices of the sentries around the firepit rose in arguement.
'So now we freeze?' demanded the fellow squatting beside the pit. 'Why should we be forbidden fires without as well as within the palace? A late watch without hot mulled wine will be a pain in the arse. Come on, the last embers are almost out. Let me add a stick of firewood. No one will be the wiser.'
'Hush,' said the soldier who stood leaning upon his spear. 'Don't be an idiot. Ath said there are to be no fires. The master obviously wishes to avoid showing our location to intruders.'
'Intruders? Bah! Who would venture into this hellish land? And how would they find us if they did? I tell you, the master's gone soft in the head.'
The spear carrier recoiled at this, shooting a glance at the darkened door of the palace. 'Quiet, you fool! If the master hears you talking like that, you'll feed the lotus.'
The other went silent, staring glumly into the Tire pit. He drew a small, dried branch from beneath his silken cloak and thrust it down into the pit, working it into the ashes there.
'That will keep the coals alive,' he said in sullen tones. 'You'll thank me after I've made the mulled wine.'
'If it starts to smoke, I'll put it out with your blood,' replied the other curtly.
Conan leapt silently back across the canyon floor, landing on all fours beside Heng Shih, who twitched in surprise. He had a tense moment, wondering if the guards had spotted the barbarian, but there was no outcry. Even if they had glanced his way, the Cimmerian had been merely a shadow moving among shadows. He laid a hard hand upon the Khitan's shoulder.
'Come, let us return to camp.'
The return journey along the darkening canyon seemed swifter arid easier to Heng Shih. Conan was able to recall every irregularity in the path and led his companion as surely as though he had traversed its length a dozen times. As they drew close to camp, Heng Shih began to relax and stepped up his pace to walk beside the Cimmerian. He had been doing this for only a moment when Conan drew to a sudden stop. The Khitan stumbled to a halt, staring at the barbarian without comprehension. Lifting his face and flaring his nostrils, Conan leaned into the gentle breeze, while Heng Shih looked on in amazement. He reached out a hand to tap the Cimmerian's shoulder, but drew back when the barbarian shot a glance at him and spoke.
'They've built a fire.'
Heng Shih's head snapped up, searching the slender slash of cobalt sky that was visible between the canyon's walls. No smoke trail could be seen there. When he lowered his gaze, he saw that Conan had started toward the camp at a dead run. Heng Shih took off in pursuit, wincing as the slap of his sandals on the rocky path was magnified and hurled back at him by the stone walls.
XXX
Ethram-Fal lay asleep and dreaming, and in his dream he knew fear.
In his dream he strode across a floor of black marble through pale and densely swirling mists. In his dream it seemed to him that he had been walking for an eternity without encountering anything save the silent mist that moved and roiled without the benefit of a wind to stir it.
Then there arose in Ethram-Fal the absolute certainty that he was not alone in the limitless fog and that something was lurking ahead of him, just out of sight. Along with this certainty came an overpowering dread. Whatever it was that concealed itself in the mists, the Stygian did not wish to encounter it. Ethram-Fal abruptly changed the direction of his steps, swinging to the right and hastening forward.
Almost immediately he felt the foreboding presence once again and this time a huge and shapeless shadow darkened the fog before him. He came to a fearful stop, his breath going ragged in his throat, then spun around and ran in the opposite direction.
In his dream Ethram-Fal had not taken a dozen steps in wild flight before the dark presence came out of the mist, in front of him yet again, as though his desperate drive to escape had only brought him nearer to that which he wished above all to avoid.
It was the idol of Cetriss's temple. The nameless, faceless sphinx of black stone lounged before him so that he ran full between its outstretched paws before sliding to a frantic ha
lt. It was motionless, a thing of carved stone that appeared rooted to the mist-blanketed floor, yet it menaced the Stygian in a way that nothing in his life had ever done. He fell to his knees, his heart swelling painfully in his breast until crying out was impossible. Above him, the smoothly featureless face of the god blurred, losing its glossy sheen and becoming an even darker space: a black portal opening out upon a measureless void.
Ethram-Fal writhed on the marble floor before the god of Cetriss and found his voice. He begged for mercy in raw, shrill tones.
'Tribute,' came a sourceless whisper, chill as the gulfs between the stars. 'Sacrifice.'
'Yes!' screamed the cowering sorcerer. 'Yes! All that you desire!'
'Tribute,' came the voice again, passionless as the wind. 'Sacrifice.'
Pain lanced through the Stygian's consciousness and suddenly the black sphinx was gone. Somehow there was a knotted rope around his chest and someone was pulling cruelly upon it, tightening it until it dug into his ribs. He clutched at the rope, drawing a cramped breath and wincing at the stabbing sensation it produced. He looked ahead through tear-blinded eyes and saw that the rope's end was held by the Lady Zelandra. As he watched, she jerked brutally upon it, causing the cord to bite even deeper into his flesh. Her face was an expressionless mask. Ethram-Fal tore at the binding rope with both hands and cursed her.
'Release me, damn you! You are my slave! Release me!'
The Stygian sorcerer snapped awake, prone upon the floor of his laboratory. He was unsure if he had cried out loud.
It took him more than a moment to orient himself. He lifted his face from the cool and dusty stone of the floor. One of his arms was outstretched, the grey sleeve of his robe drawn back almost to his shoulder. He sat up stiffly and looked about himself with rheumy eyes.
He was alone in the room. How long had he lain here? What had he been doing? The muscles of his torso seemed to have been strained somehow. A tight belt of pain throbbed intermittently about his chest. That explained the dream, he thought, or part of it anyway. He lifted a hand to rub his brow and noticed with a start that there was a wound on the inside of his left forearm. He studied it in alarmed amazement.
An open gash about two inches long parted the flesh bloodlessly, resembling nothing so much as a cut in a piece of cooked pork.
Ethram-Fal put his right hand over the wound and stood up with careful deliberation. He leaned heavily against the table closest to him, saw what lay upon it, and immediately remembered everything.
Lying open upon the table was his long, ebony box of Emerald Lotus powder. Beside it, shining dully in the yellow radiance of the light-globes, was his irregularly shaped dagger. He could recall it all now. He had slashed the flesh of his arm in order to pour raw lotus powder into his blood. There was no lotus in or around the wound, so he imagined that he had collapsed immediately after cutting himself.
He felt as though he had just recovered from a long and debilitating illness. What in Set's name had he been doing? Though groggy, Ethram-Fal realised that he was thinking clearly for the first time in many days. He could not remember when he had last eaten or slept. All he had consumed was wine leavened with larger and larger portions of Emerald Lotus. Somehow his measured intake of the drug had become a thoughtless binge that only ended when it had endangered his life.
Ethram-Fal bandaged his forearm and thought dark thoughts.
When had his control over the lotus flagged? How long had he gone without taking any steps toward the completion of his grand design? He had done little but immerse himself in his newfound power when he should have been using it productively. He needed systematic harvesting so that he would have enough lotus to snare the wizards of Stygia into his service. He needed to prepare more traps in case the Lady Zelandra had found some way of locating him and came seeking vengeance.
'Thoughtless,' he hissed to himself, jerking the bandage tight around his arm.
That was all over now, he thought. He had known that the lotus was powerful, but he had been incautious and allowed himself to indulge in it without control. It must be used like a tool, he reasoned. He was its master and not the other way around.
Now he must check on the health of the lotus in its chamber and muster his mercenaries. He would discretely ask Ath how long it had been since he had last seen him and warn the soldiers about possible intruders.
Snatching a blue velvet sack full of kaokao leaves from a nearby table, Ethram-Fal started for the door and then came to an uncertain stop. The ring of pain around his breast flickered into being once again, constricting his breathing. What was it? Had he contracted some disease while lying unconscious on the cold stone floor?
A memory came unbidden to the Stygian. It was the memory of Shakar the Keshanian standing wild-eyed in his chambers, making threats that he was too weak and foolish to back up, claiming that his chest was gripped in a vise of fire.
Ethram-Fal turned and looked back upon his ebony box of lotus powder.
He wondered how long he had remained unconscious and if it was possible that his body was already suffering for want of the drug. He squinted at the box, rubbing at his ribs with a cold hand. Surely a little dose would do him no harm. He need not overindulge.
'Milord!' Ath's voice came echoing hollowly down the stone corridor.
'Milord, we have cornered it!'
Footfalls thudded outside the room; then the tall mercenary pushed through the blanket that hung over the doorway and confronted his employer. He hesitated a moment, staring and obviously trying to find his voice. Ethram-Fal became aware of his wrinkled and dusty robes.
'Forgive me for disturbing you,' said Ath finally, 'but we have cornered the intruder in the room of the great statue. It attacked the guards, knocking one senseless and dragging the other into the temple.
He won free, crying out so loudly that he woke us all. Come quickly, I fear that it will try to escape and the men will be forced to slay it.'
'It?' said Ethram-Fal. His captain nodded vigorously, starting to back out the door.
'It is not a man. Come quickly and see for yourself.' The soldier waited in the doorway, holding the blanket to one side, looking to his motionless lord.
'Go,' murmured the sorcerer. 'I'll follow presently.'
'But¦' began Ath.
'Go!' shouted Ethram-Fal, and his mercenary disappeared through the blanket and hurried away.
The Stygian turned and walked purposefully to the table with the ebony box. He used three fingers to scoop a mouthful of deep green power from the box to his lips. Shudders coursed through his thin body and the ring of pain around his chest evaporated. He threw back his head in pleasure, sucking the last of the lotus from his fingertips. A surge of bright energy radiated along every nerve. His mind raced, borne up on a crest of superhuman confidence. He passed through the door and down the corridors of the palace in a haze of ecstasy. He muttered a brief incantation and his feet lifted up and away from the floor so that he floated effortlessly along the hallway as quickly as a man could run. A slack grin spread across his wizened features. The spell of levitation usually took hours of preparation. With sudden, shocking clarity he realised what a fool he was to doubt himself or his lotus. He was in control and there was nothing that he could not do, no spell that he could not conjure, no foe that he could not overcome.
As he drew near to the temple of the great sphinx, he allowed himself to slow somewhat. Passing around a corner, the armoured backs of four of his mercenaries came into view. The men were crowded into one of the doorways of the temple. They held naked swords and were intent upon whatever lay before them.
'Your pardon,' he said with gentle sarcasm, and the little crowd parted in dumbstruck astonishment to let him pass.
Once inside the great chamber, he banished the spell of levitation, allowing himself to settle down to the floor. Each of the huge, circular room's three doors was filled with armed men and each group held aloft a number of brightly glowing light-globes so that the chamber was
well illuminated despite its size. Only the high ceiling remained unlit, arching up into a darkness like that of a starless night.
Standing before the black bulk of the statue was a pale man-like form: It stood fidgeting in front, of the flat altar set between the extended paws of the faceless sphinx. Ethram-Fal walked a little closer, stopped, and marveled.
It was naked and shrunken, shorter even than he, but it had the appearance of animal strength. Tendons were wound like wires around its stark limbs. Hunched like a baboon, its skin was the colour of the desert, hanging on its emaciated frame in reptilian folds. It twisted long, tapering fingers together, and the dirty talons clicked one against the other. Its brow receded sharply in bony furrows above the lambent yellow glow of its eyes. The nose was little more than two small pits above the lipless mouth, which opened and closed in quick, bestial pants, revealing a pointed, serpentine tongue.
'Id Nyarlathotep,' it whined.
'Holy Set!' Ethram-Fal was amazed. 'It speaks!'
The soldiers at the doors stirred, murmuring to one another. The creature flinched at this, drawing back toward the statue that loomed behind it, as if seeking protection. It spoke again, and though it sounded much as though a python or some other great reptile were attempting human speech, Ethram-Fal found that he understood the words.
It was speaking an archaic version of his own tongue. It was speaking in Old Stygian.
'You die for Nyarlathotep.' Needle talons stroked the air and its eyes burned brighter.
Ethram-Fal spoke haltingly in Old Stygian. 'You make sacrifice?' It bobbed its head, bird-like.
'Yes. Yes. Antelope. Scorpion. Man. Man best. You die for Nyarlathotep.'
'Die for that?' The sorcerer gestured at the silent statue. The creature looked back and bobbed its head again, pressing long hands reverently to its ridged and reptilian breast.
The Conan Chronology Page 293