Wary as a stalking leopard, he stepped into it. At once he heard a startled yelp from Tubal, to whose view it seemed that he had melted into solid rock. Conan emerged head and shoulders to exhort his follower to silence and then continued his investigation.
The tunnel was short; moonlight poured into it from the other end, where it opened into a cleft. The cleft ran straight for a hundred feet and made an abrupt bend, like a knife-cut through solid rock. The door through which he had entered was an irregular slab of rock hung on heavy, oiled bronze hinges. It fitted perfectly into its aperture, its irregular shape making the cracks appear to be merely natural seams in the cliff.
A rope ladder of heavy rawhide was coiled just inside the tunnel mouth.
Conan returned to the ledge outside with this, made it fast to the bronze ring, and let it down. While Tubal swung up in a frenzy of impatience, Conan drew up his own rope and coiled it around his waist again.
Tubal swore strange Shemitic oaths as he grasped the mystery of the vanishing trail. He asked: 'But why was not the door bolted on the inside?'
'Probably men are coming and going constantly, and a man might be in a hurry to get through from the outside without having to shout to be let in. There was little chance of its being discovered; I should not have found it but for the blood marks.'
Tubal was for plunging instantly into the cleft, but Conan had become wary. He had seen no sign of a sentry but did not think a people so ingenious in hiding the entrance to their country would leave it unguarded.
He hauled up the ladder, coiled it back on its shelf, and closed the door, plunging that end of the tunnel into darkness. Commanding the unwilling Tubal to wait for him, he went down the tunnel and into the cleft.
From the bottom of the cleft, an irregular knife-edge of starlit sky was visible, hundreds of feet overhead. Enough moonlight found its way into the cleft to serve Conan's catlike eyes.
He had not reached the bend when a scuff of feet beyond it reached him.
He had scarcely concealed himself behind a broken outcrop of rock, split away from the side wall, when the sentry came. He came in the leisurely manner of one who performs a perfunctory task, confident of his own security. He was a squat Khitan with a face like a copper mask.
He swung along with the wide roll of a horseman, trailing a javelin.
He was passing Conan's hiding place when some instinct brought him about in a flash, teeth bared in a startled snarl, spear whipping up for a cast or a thrust Even as he turned, Conan was upon him with the instant uncoiling of steel-spring muscles. As the javelin leaped to a level, the scimitar lashed down. The Khitan dropped like an ox, his round skull split like a ripe melon.
Conan froze to immobility, glaring along the passage. As he heard no sound to indicate the presence of any other guard, he risked a low whistle which brought Tubal headlong into the cleft The Shemite grunted at the sight of the dead man.
Conan stooped and pushed back the Khitan's upper lip, showing the canine teeth filed to points. 'Another son of Erlik, the Yellow God of Death. There is no telling how many more may be in this defile. We'll drag him behind these rocks.'
Beyond the bend, the long, deep defile ran empty to the next kink. As they advanced without opposition, Conan became sure that the Khitan was the only sentry in the cleft.
The moonlight in the narrow gash above them was paling into dawn when they came into the open at last. Here the defile broke into a chaos of shattered rock. The single gorge became half a dozen, threading between isolated crags and split-off rocks, as a river splits into separate streams at its delta. Crumbling pinnacles and turrets of black stone stood up like gaunt ghosts in the pale predawn light.
Threading their way among these grim sentinels, the adventurers presently looked out upon a level, rock-strewn floor that stretched three hundred paces to the foot of a cliff. The trail they had followed, grooved by many feet in the weathered stone, crossed the level and twisted a tortuous way up the cliff on ramps cut in the rock.
But what lay on top of the cliffs they could not guess. To right and left, the solid wall veered away, flanked by broken pinnacles.
'What now, Conan?' In the grey light, the Shemite looked like a mountain goblin surprised out of his cave by dawn.
'I think we must be close to―listen!'
Over the cliffs rolled the blaring reverberation they had heard the night before, but now much nearer: the strident roar of the giant trumpet.
'Have we been seen?' wondered Tubal, fingering his knife.
Conan shrugged. 'Whether we have or not, we must see ourselves before we try to climb that cliff. Here!'
He indicated a weathered crag, which rose like a tower among its lesser fellows. The comrades went up it swiftly, keeping its bulk between them and the opposite cliffs. The summit was higher than the cliffs. Then they lay behind a spur of rock, staring through the rosy haze of the rising dawn.
'Pteor!' swore Tubal.
From their vantage point, the opposite cliffs assumed their real nature as one side of a gigantic mesalike block, which rose sheer from the surrounding level, four to five hundred feet high. Its vertical sides seemed unscalable, save where the trail had been cut into the stone.
East, north, and west it was girdled by crumbling crags, separated from the plateau by the level canyon floor, which varied in width from three hundred paces to half a mile. On the south, the plateau abutted on a gigantic bare mountain, whose gaunt peaks dominated the surrounding pinnacles.
But the watchers gave but little attention to this topographical formation. Conan had expected, at the end of the bloody trail, to find some sort of rendezvous: a cluster of horsehide tents, a cavern, perhaps even a village of mud and stone nestling on a hillside.
Instead, they were looking at a city, whose domes and towers glistened in the rosy dawn like a magical city of sorcerers stolen from some fabled land and set down in this wilderness.
'The city of the demons!' cried Tubal. 'It is enchantment and sorcery!'
He snapped his fingers to ward off evil spells.
The plateau was oval, about a mile and a half long from north to south and somewhat less than a mile from east to west. The city stood near its southern end, etched against the dark mountain behind it. A large edifice, whose purple dome was shot with gold, gleamed in the dawn. It dominated the flat-topped stone houses and clustering trees.
The Cimmerian blood in Conan's veins responded to the somber aspect of the scene, the contrast of the gloomy black crags with the masses of green and the sheens of colour in the city. The city awoke forebodings of evil. The gleam of its purple, gold-traced dome was somehow sinister. The black, crumbling crags formed a fitting setting for it.
It was like a city of ancient, demonic mystery, rising with an evil glitter amidst ruin and decay.
'This must be the stronghold of the Hidden Ones,' muttered Conan.
'Who'd have thought to find a city like this in an uninhabited country?'
'Not even we can fight a whole city' grunted Tubal.
Conan fell silent while he studied the distant view. The city was not so large as it had looked at first glance. It was compact but unwalled; a parapet around the edge of the plateau furnished its defence. The two and three-storey houses stood among surprising groves and gardens―surprising because the plateau looked like solid rock without soil for growing things. He reached a decision and said:
'Tubal, go back to our camp in the Gorge of Ghosts. Take the horses and ride to Kushaf. Tell Balash I need all his swords, and bring the kozaki and the Kushafis through the cleft and halt them among these defiles until you get a signal from me, or know I'm dead.'
'Pteor devour Balash! What of you?'
'I go into the city.'
'You are mad!'
'Worry not, my friend. It is the only way I can get Nanaia out alive.
Then we can make plans for attacking the city. If I live and am at liberty, I shall meet you here; otherwise, you and Balash follow your own judgement
.'
'What do you want with this nest of fiends?'
Conan's eyes narrowed. 'I want a base for empire. We cannot stay in Iranistan nor yet return to Turan. In my hands, who knows what might not be made of this impregnable place? Now get along.'
'Balash loves me not. He'll spit in my beard, and then I'll kill him and his dogs will slay me.'
'He'll do no such thing.'
'He will not come.'
'He would come through Hell if I sent for him.'
'His men will not come; they fear devils.'
'They'll come when you tell them the devils are but men.'
Tubal tore his beard and voiced his real objection to leaving Conan.
'The swine in that city will flay you alive!'
'Nay, I'll match guile with guile. I shall be a fugitive from the wrath of the king, an outlaw seeking sanctuary.' Tubal abandoned his arguement Grumbling in his beard, the thick-necked Shemite clambered down the crag and vanished into the defile. When he was out of sight; Conan also descended and walked toward the cliffs.
III
The Hidden Ones
Conan reached the foot of the cliffs and began mounting the steep road without having seen any human being. The trail wound interminably up a succession of ramps, with low, massive, cyclopean walls along the outer edges. This was no work of Ilbarsi hillmen; it looked ancient and as strong as the mountain itself.
For the last thirty feet, the ramps gave way to a flight of steep steps cut in the rock. Still no one challenged Conan. He passed through a line of low fortification along the edge of the mesa and came upon seven men squatting over a game.
At the crunch of Conan's boots on the gravel, the seven sprang to their feet, glaring wildly. They were Zuagirs― desert Shemites, lean, hawk-nosed warriors with fluttering kaffias over their heads and the hilts of daggers and scimitars protruding from their sashes. They snatched up the javelins they had laid beside them and poised them to throw.
Conan showed no surprise, halting and eyeing them tranquilly. The Zuagirs, as uncertain as cornered wildcats, merely glared.
'Conan!' exclaimed the tallest of the Zuagirs, his eyes ablaze with fear and suspicion. 'What do you here?'
Conan ran his eyes over them all and replied: 'I seek your master.'
This did not seem to reassure them. They muttered among themselves, moving their javelin arms back and forth as if to try for a cast. The tall Zuagir's voice rose:
'You chatter like crows! This thing is plain: We were gambling and did not see him come. We have failed in our duty. If it is known, there will be punishment. Let us slay him and throw him over the cliff.'
'Aye,' agreed Conan. 'Try it. And when your master asks: 'Where is Conan, who brought me important news?' say Lo, you did not consult with us about his man, so we slew him to teach you a lesson!'
They winced at the irony. One growled: 'Spear him; none will know.'
'Nay! If we fail to bring him down with the first cast, he'll be among us like a wolf among sheep.'
'Seize him and cut his throat!' suggested the youngest of the band. The others scowled so murderously at him that he fell back in confusion.
'Aye, cut my throat,' taunted Conan, hitching the hilt of his scimitar around within easy reach. 'One of you might even live to tell of it!'
'Knives are silent,' muttered the youngster. He was rewarded by a javelin butt driven into his belly, which doubled him up gasping.
Having vented some of their spleen on their tactless comrade, the Zuagirs grew calmer. The tall one asked Conan:
'You are expected?'
'Would I come otherwise? Does the lamb thrust his head unbidden into the lion's maw?'
'Lamb!' The Zuagir cackled. 'More like a grey wolf with blood on his fangs.'
'If there is fresh-spilt blood, it is but that of fools who disobeyed their master. Last night, in the Gorge of Ghosts―'
'By Hanuman! Was it you the Sabatean fools fought?
They said they had slain a Vendhyan merchant and his servants in the gorge.'
So that was why the sentries were careless! For some reason the Sabateans had lied about the outcome of the battle, and the Watchers of the Road were not expecting pursuit.
'None of you was among them?' said Conan.
'Do we limp? Do we bleed? Do we weep from weariness and wounds? Nay, we have not fought Conan!'
'Then be wise and make not their mistake. Will you take me to him who awaits me, or will you cast dung in his beard by scorning his commands?'
'The gods forbid!' said the tall Zuagir. 'No order has been given us concerning you. But if this be a lie, our master shall see to your death, and if be not a lie, then we can have no blame. Give up your weapons and we will take you to him.'
Conan gave up his weapons. Ordinarily he would have fought to the death before letting himself be disarmed, but now he was gambling for large stakes. The leader straightened up the young Zuagir with a kick in the rump, told him to watch the Stair as if his life depended on it; then barked orders at the others.
As they closed around the unarmed Cimmerian, Conan knew their hands itched to thrust a knife into his back. But he had sown the seeds of uncertainty in their primitive minds, so that they dared not strike.
They started along the wide road that led to the city. Conan asked casually: 'The Sabateans passed into the city just before dawn?'
'Aye,' was the terse reply.
They couldn't march fast,' mused Conan. They had wounded men to carry, and the girl, their prisoner, to drag.'
One man began: 'Why, as to the girl―'
The tall leader barked him to silence and turned a baleful gaze on Conan. 'Do not answer him. If he mocks us, retort not. A serpent is less crafty. If we converse with him he'll have us beguiled ere we reach Yanaidar.'
Conan noted the name of the city, confirming the legend Balash had told him. 'Why mistrust me?' he demanded. 'Have I not come with open hands?'
'Aye!' The Zuagir laughed mirthlessly. 'Once I saw you come to the Hyrkanian masters of Khorusun with open hands, but when you closed those hands the streets ran red. Nay, Conan, I know you of old, from the days when you led your outlaws over the steppes of Turan. I cannot match my wits against yours, but I can keep my tongue between my teeth.
You shall not snare and blind me with words. I'll not speak; and if any of my men answer you I will break his head.'
'I thought I knew you,' said Conan. 'You are Antar the son of Adi. You were a stout fighter.'
The Zuagir's scarred face lighted at the praise. Then he recollected himself, scowled, swore at one of his unoffending men, and marched stiffly ahead of the party.
Conan strolled with the air of a man walking amidst an escort of honour, and his bearing affected the warriors. By the time they reached the city they were carrying their javelins on their shoulders instead of poised for a thrust at Conan.
The secret of the plant life became apparent as they neared Yanaidar.
Soil, laboriously brought from distant valleys, had been used to fill the many depressions pitting the surface of the plateau. An elaborate system of deep, narrow irrigation-ditches, originating in some natural water supply near the centre of the city, threaded the gardens.
Sheltered by a ring of peaks, the plateau would present a milder climate than was common in these mountains.
The road ran between large orchards and entered the city proper―lines of flat-roofed stone houses fronting each other across the wide, paved main street, each with an expanse of garden behind it. At the far end of the street began a half-mile of ravine-gashed plain separating the city from the mountain that frowned above and behind it. The plateau was like a great shelf jutting out from the massive slope.
Men working in the gardens or loitering along the street stared at the Zuagirs and their captive. Conan saw Iranistanis, Hyrkanians, Shemites, and even a few Vendhyans and black Kushites. But no Ilbarsis; evidently the mixed population had no connection with the native mountaineers.
The stre
et widened into a suk closed on the south side by a broad wall, which enclosed the palatial building with the gorgeous dome.
There was no guard at the massive, bronze-barred, gold-worked gates, only a gay-clad Negro who bowed deeply as he opened the portals. Conan and his escort came into a broad courtyard paved with coloured tile, in the midst of which a fountain bubbled and pigeons fluttered. East and west, the court was bounded by inner walls, over which peeped the foliage of more gardens. Conan noticed a slim tower, which rose as high as the dome itself, its lacy tile work gleaming in the sunlight.
The Zuagirs marched across the court until they were halted on the pillared portico of the palace by a guard of thirty Hyrkanians, resplendent in plumed helmets of silvered steel, gilded corselets, rhinoceros-hide shields, and gold-chased scimitars. The hawk-faced captain of the guard conversed briefly with Antar the son of Adi. Conan divined from their manner that no love was lost between the two.
Then the captain, who was addressed as Zahak, gestured with his slim yellow hand, and Conan was surrounded by a dozen glittering Hyrkanians and marched up the broad marble steps and through the wide arch whose doors stood open. The Zuagirs, looking unhappy, followed.
They passed through wide, dimly-lit halls, from the vaulted and fretted ceilings of which hung smoking bronze censers, while on either hand velvet-curtained alcoves hinted at inner mysteries. Mystery and intangible menace lurked in those dim, gorgeous halls.
Presently they emerged into a broader hallway and approached a double-valved bronze door, flanked by even more gorgeously-clad guardsmen. These stood impassively as statues while the Hyrkanians strode by with their captive or guest and entered a semi-circular room.
Here dragon-worked tapestries covered the walls, hiding all possible apertures except the one by which they had entered. Golden lamps hung from an arched ceiling fretted with gold and ebony.
Opposite the great doorway stood a marble dais. On the dais stood a great canopied chair, scrolled and carved like a throne, and on the velvet cushions which littered the seat sat a slender figure in a pearl-sewn robe. On the rose-coloured turban glistened a great golden brooch in the shape of a hand gripping a wavy-bladed dagger. The face beneath the turban was oval, light-brown, with a small, pointed black beard. Conan guessed the man to be from farther east, Vendhya or Kosala. The dark eyes stared at a piece of carven crystal on a pedestal in front of the man, a piece the size of Conan's fist, roughly spherical but faceted like a great gem. It glittered with an intensity not accounted for by the lights of the throne room, as if a mystical fire burned in its depths.
The Conan Chronology Page 427