Thus king and high priest with their attendants had set out at dawn and travelled into the sunrise. It behoved Thutmekri to go with them, much as he disliked the notion. The Stygian thought little of these southern gods, but he feared their fanatical priests, who might turn upon him, denouncing him as a foreign interloper. His débâcle in Keshan had honed a fine edge on his fears. And as they rode toward the skull-shaped temple on that distant hill, he wondered whether the whole expedition was a pretext by Lalibeha and his high priest to trap and destroy him.
So they had come to the shrine of the goddess Nebethet. Zaramba had released the hidden catch that enabled his servants to raise the portcullis, and in they went. The king placed Thutmekri and his men in the centre of the solemn procession, in order, the Stygian suspected, to give the royal escort the advantage should a fracas begin.
Eyes gleamed with holy awe; the priest and the courtiers knelt and bowed low to the ground. On the dais before the ivory, skull-faced goddess, the king placed a small, lacquered casket; and as he opened it, jewelled fire spilled out into the pale morning light of the secluded place.
Long black arms rose in homage to the ivory woman, intoned an invocation, while youthful acolytes with shaven heads swung golden censers, spreading clouds of fragrant smoke.
Thutmekri's nerves were on edge. He fancied that he felt (he pressure of unseen eyes. As the priest spoke in an archaic dialect of Puntic, which he could not understand, his restlessness grew. His Stygian ancestry whispered that something was about to happen.
In a bell-like voice, the skull-faced woman spoke: 'Beware, O King, of the wiles of Stygia! Beware, O Lalibeha, of the plots of blasphemers from distant, sinister lands! The man before you is no friend but a smooth-tongued traitor, come slinking out of Keshan to pave the road to your doom!'
Growling and lifting their feather-tufted spears, the Puntian warriors glared suspiciously at Thutmekri and his escort. The Stygian's men clustered together, the spear men forming a circle of shields. Behind them, the Shemites cached back over their shoulders, ready to whip arrows from their quivers. In an instant, the hall might explode into a scene of scarlet carnage.
Thutmekri remained frozen. There was something familiar about that voice. He could have sworn that it was the voice of a much younger woman disguised to sound mature - a young woman whose voice, he was sure, he had heard before.
'Wait, O King!' he cried. 'You are being cozened...'
But the voice from the statue, continuing without pause, commanded the attention of all. 'Choose, instead, as your general Conan the Cimmerian. He has fought from the snows of Vanaheim to the jungles of Kush; from the steppes of Hyrkania to the pirate isles of the Western Ocean. He is beloved of the gods, who have carried him victorious 11 trough all his battles. He alone can lead your legions to victory!'
As the voice ceased, Conan stepped out of the small chamber that opened on the rotunda. With a keen sense of the dramatic, he strode majestically forward, bowing formally to King Lalibeha and again to the high priest.
'The devil!' snarled Thutmekri. His face convulsed with rage, he told his archers: 'Feather me yonder clown!'
As half a dozen Shemites pulled arrows from their quivers and nocked them, Conan's eye caught their action. Ha gathered his legs beneath him to spring behind the nearest pillar; for at that range, he would be an inevitable target for a volley of arrows. The king opened his mouth to shout a command.
At that moment the ivory statue of Nebethet creaked,' groaned, and toppled forward, to crash down the steps off the dais. Where the statue had been now stood a woman on whom all eyes were fixed.
Staring with the rest, Conan saw that it was Muriela -, yet it was not she. Nor was it merely the shimmering ankle-length gown or the few dabs of cosmetics. This woman seemed Muriela transfigured, taller, more majestic, even more beautiful. The air about her seemed to glow with a weird violet light, and the atmosphere of the rotunda was suddenly vibrant with life. The woman's voice was neither Muriela's light soprano nor her imitation of the ringing tones of the goddess she feigned to be. It was a deeper, more resonant voice - a voice which seemed to make the very floor vibrate like the plucked string of a lute.
'O King! Know that I am the true goddess Nebethet, albeit in the body of a mortal woman. Does any mortal contest this?'
Thutmekri, insensate with rage and frustration, growled to one of his Shemites, 'Shoot her!'
As the man bent his bow, aiming over the head of the kneeling spear men before him, the woman smiled slightly and pointed a finger. There was a flash and a sharp crack, and the Shemite fell dead among his comrades.
'Now do you believe?' she asked.
There was no reply. Every man in the chamber - king, Driest, warriors, and the adventurers Conan and Thutmekri
sank to his knees and bowed his head. The goddess continued:
'Know, O King, that these two great rogues, Thutmekri and Conan, desire to gain whatever they can at your expense, as they sought and failed to cozen the priests in Keshan. I he Stygian merits naught less than to be thrown to the crocodiles. The Cimmerian deserves no less a fate, but I would that he be leniently dealt with because he was kind to the woman whose body is my garment. Give him two days to leave the kingdom or become the reptiles' prey.
'I lay upon you one more command. My idol, cracked in its fall, was at best an ugly image. Set your artisans, O King, to carving me a new statue in the likeness of this woman whose form I now inhabit. I shall, in the interval, make my abode in her body. See that it be furnished with lie best of food and drink. Forget not my commands. I grant you now permission to withdraw.'
The purple light faded; the goddess stood motionless
upon the dais. The men, bemused, rose silently to their feet and stood as men transfixed. Stealthily, the Stygian and his retinue moved toward the open portal.
The king's command shattered the silence. 'Take them!' he roared.
A long-bladed javelin soared from the hand of a king's man, to bury itself in the black breast of one of Thutmekri's Kushites. The victim screamed, lurched drunkenly, and sank sprawling on the marble floor, blood gushing from mouth
and nose.
The next instant, the hall was alive with yelling, struggling men. Javelins arched, bowstrings twanged, spears jabbed, lagged-bladed throwing knives whirled through the air, and hardwood clubs thudded on rhinoceros-hide shields and woolly-pated heads. Again and again the men of Punt hurled themselves upon the compact knot of Thutmekri's men. As each wave receded, wounded or dying men clutched at -putting arteries or writhed in their own spilled viscera.
Thutmekri whipped out his glittering scimitar. Thundering oaths and calling on Set and Yig and all the other devil-gods of the Stygian pantheon, he hewed like a madman among his attackers. Shortly, he cleared a space before and around him, the nearest Puntians giving back before his deadly strokes. Through the thinning press, Thutmekri sighted Conan, standing with sword in hand beside the dais.
Eyes glaring, mouth twisted with hate, Thutmekri broke out of the crowd and rushed upon the man he blamed for the collapse of all his schemes.
'This for you, Cimmerian lout!' he screamed, aiming a decapitating slash at Conan's neck.
Conan parried, and the swords met with the clang of a bell. The blades sprang apart, circled, clashed, and ground. Sparks flew from the steel. Breathing heavily, the antagonists circled, thrusting and slashing in a frenzy of action.
After a quick feint, Conan struck home against Thutmekri's flank. With a groan, the Stygian doubled over, dropping his sword and clutching at his cloven side. Blood gushed across his fingers. A second blow sent his head leaping from his shoulders and rolling along the floor, while his body slumped into a swiftly widening pool of its own blood.
When their leader fell, Thutmekri's men - such as were still standing - broke for the exit. In a mass, they crowded through the encircling Puntians, pushing some aside and trampling others. In a trice they were through the portal.
'After them
!' shouted King Lalibeha. 'Slay all!'
King, priests, and warriors streamed out after the fugitives. When Conan reached the portcullis, the grassy slope and the plain beyond were alive with men, some galloping, on horseback and some running afoot, like madmen. Some of the fugitives vanished into the forest that lapped the hill to southward.
Back in the shrine, Conan stepped over the silent dead and the groaning wounded to approach the dais. Muriela still stood motionless where once had stood the ivory statue Conan said:
'Come, Muriela, we must be gone. How did you manage, that purple glow?'
'Muriela?' said the woman, looking full upon his face. The violet radiance returned as she spoke.
A chill remoteness of tone and manner far beyond the rapacity of Muriela's not unskilled acting. 'Do not presume, mortal, unless you wish the fate accorded that unfortunate Sliernite.'
Conan's skin crawled. Awe shone in the blue eyes he I gazed upon the goddess.
'You are truly Nebethet?'
'Aye, so some men call me.'
'But - but what is to become of Muriela? I cannot just abandon her.'
'Your concern does credit to you, Conan. But fear not her. She shall be my garment as long as I wish. When I wish otherwise, I will see that she is well provided for. Now you had best be on your way, unless you prefer to end up in the bellies of Lalibeha's crocodiles.'
Seldom in his turbulent life had Conan deferred to any human being, no matter how exalted. Now, for once, be respectful, almost humble.
'On my way whither?' he said. 'Your Divinity knows that I um out of money. I cannot return to Kassali to take up Nahor's offer, for my welcome either in Punt or in Keshan would be something less than hearty.'
Then bend your steps toward Zembabwei. Nahor of Asgalun has a nephew in the city of New Zembabwei, who may have a post for you as caravan guard. Now go, ere I think me of the blasphemies you plotted in my name!'
Conan bowed, backed away from the dais, turned, and M rode out. As he walked beneath the raised portcullis, a shuffling sound behind made him whirl, hand on hilt.
From the darkness within, a withered, bent, and shrunken creature tottered into the light. It had once been a woman.
The aged priestess of the temple of Nebethet shook a bony fist at Conan. From her toothless jaws came a harsh, grating speech:
'My son! Ye have slain my son! The curse of the goddess upon thee! The curse of the child's father, the demon Jamankh, upon thee! I call upon Jamankh, the hyena-demon, in blast and rend this murderer, this blasphemer! May your eyeballs rot in your head! May your bowels be drawn from
your belly, inch by inch! May ye be staked out over an anthill! Come, Jamankh! Avenge —'
A fit of coughing racked the aged frame. The crone pressed both bony hands to her chest, and her faded eyes widened in their cavernous sockets. Then she fell headlong upon the marble.
Conan stepped forward and touched the ancient body. Dead, he mused; she was so old that any shock would slay her. Perchance her demon lover, who begat the monstrosity on her, will come after me and perchance not. In any case, I must be on my way.
He closed the staring eyes of the corpse, strode out of the temple, and swung down the grassy slope to the place in the forest where he had left the horses.
Conan and the Treasure of Python
John Maddox Roberts
I
The Seafarer
The port of Asgalun sits on a small bay that indents the coast of Shem. It is the only notable port of that pastoral land, the rest being little more than fishing villages. It is a colourful place, as ports tend to be. In the low hills of the upper town stand the fine estates of the wealthy merchants, surrounded by their fine gardens and their well-tended vineyards. In the lower ground of the town proper stand the sturdy stone buildings, the warehouses and inns, the temples and shops that service the inhabitants and the bustling trade of the port.
And then there are the docks. Here are to be found the men who produce the wealth enjoyed by the merchant-princes of the hillside estates and the shopkeepers of the town. These are the polyglot sailors and the hard-bitten skippers who may have lands of origin but whose only country is the sea. Nobody wastes fine architecture on such men. In any case there is no point in erecting splendid buildings on the shore, for any such would be destroyed every few years by the terrifying storms that blow in without warning from the vast reaches of the Western Sea. No, the seaside district of Asgalun is a shantytown of small transshipment warehouses, cheap inns, chandleries, fish markets, and sailor's dives. Since Shem is poor in timber, these low structures are built mainly of wood salvaged from ships wrecked by storms, the nearby rocks, or mere age. This sturdy but pitch-soaked construction material is so combustible that the entire waterfront of Asgalun burns down with some regularity.
Only hard, salty men inhabit such a place. It follows that it is a sensible place to go when one is in search of just such men.
Conan of Cimmeria was bored. A strange peace had settled over the Western Lands. The petty warlords were temporarily drained of cash and energy, hence of ferocity. The lands that were traditional enemies, which was to say all of them, were war-weary and had turned to settling internal problems and re-establishing disrupted trade. Fields trampled by contending armies had to be restored to fertility, plundered cities rebuilt. Professional fighting men were not welcome in lands that had turned from war. Even the chronic civil war in Ophir had shuddered to a halt from sheer exhaustion.
Such dry spells never lasted long. Conan gave this one no more than a year. But a man could starve in much less than a year. For months he had drifted in the central lands—Ophir, Corinthia, and Koth—looking for a good fight. Usually, he travelled by hiring on to a caravan as guard. With so many soldiers out of work, banditry was rife. Conan had turned bandit in the past, but he felt that was beneath him now. He knew, though, that he would turn bandit again rather than starve. His last caravan had discharged its goods in Asgalun, and Conan had ensconced himself at a wharfside tavern called the Albatross to live on his discharge pay and wait for something to turn up. But now his pay had dwindled to almost nothing and there were still no prospects. He knew that, should a pirate craft appear along the coast soon, he would be sorely tempted to join its crew.
In fact, even as he sat at a battered table, staring out through
a porthole-shaped window, he saw a strange ship coming into the little bay. As it rounded the northern cape his practised eye noted the set of its masts and the shape of its sail. Its hull was low, not heavy-laden but built for maximum speed and manoeuvrability. He could discern little else and soon the sails were lowered on their yards and the long sweeps were run out to bring the ship into harbour. That was a fighting man's craft if ever there was one, and Conan decided to have a few words with its skipper when it should dock. But he was to have a welcome distraction before that should happen.
'These taverns all look alike,' said the young woman. She wore a simple gown of blue silk girdled with a golden cord. It passed around her tiny waist five or six times and was tied with an intricate knot, its tasselled ends dangling almost to her knees. Her low boots were likewise worked with golden thread. But it was not her expensive attire that drew the attention of the idlers and ruffians who crowded the narrow streets of the dockside. It was her great and strange beauty. Her skin was utterly white, her eyes huge and so pale as to be almost colourless. Her hair was silver-white and worn long, almost to her waist, and confined only by a golden fillet that circled her temples. In the centre of the fillet, above her brows, was a great, smoky opal in a golden setting. Except for the healthy sheen of her skin and hair and her wide, clear eyes she might almost have been an albino.
Ordinarily, a woman so attractive and so richly dressed could not have walked ten paces in this district without molestation, but the villainous-looking men who were on every hand stood well back and offered her no discourtesy. This was not due to any innate good breeding on their part, but because she was not alon
e. The man who walked to her left intimidated nobody. He was an active, excitable little man who spoke often and quickly, with many gestures. He wore Aquilonian travelling garments of velvet and leather, his sword a short, basket-hilted weapon such as many travellers carried.
The other, who strode behind her, was the one who ensured her safe passage. He was a very tall man, somewhat gaunt but graced with long, powerful limbs. His massive, gold-bearded head was set atop a sinewy neck and his proud, fierce gaze swept his surroundings constantly, alert to any danger. If he wore any armour it was beneath his leather tunic, but at his wide, bronze-studded belt hung the massive sword of an Aquilonian man-at-arms, its blade long and wide, its crossguard a foot in length, its pommel worked in the semblance of a griffon's head. Its grip, long enough for two hands, was of fine sharkskin, once rough of texture and pearl-grey in colour, but worn by age, hard use, and abundant sweat to a smooth near-blackness. The mere appearance of the hilt told any experienced fighting man that this was a man to give wide berth. His springy step and lion gaze told them that it was he and no other who had put such wear on the hilt.
'There it is!' said the little man. 'The Albatross! See? There is the image of the soaring bird, above that door. The creature is native to the lands south of here. It is the most graceful of creatures in flight, and the clumsiest on land. It is a sign of good fortune to any ship it deigns to follow, and in the accounts of ancient Acheron its sudden appearance inland was a sign of—'
The woman smiled. 'Yes, I know that, Springald. But here we do not seek knowledge but a man. And the man we seek should be there on the other side of that door.'
The Conan Chronology Page 512