Ulfilo resheathed his sword. 'Then lead on, Goma.' Shouldering their packs, they set off down the mountain.
X
The Desert
The eastern slope of the mountain proved to be even steeper than that which they had ascended. Its growth was more dense as well, so that occasionally they had to chop a path with swords. The trees were far larger than those on the western slope and the growth beneath them consisted largely of bamboo, high saw-edged grasses, and thorny cactuslike bushes with flat, fibrous leaves. It made for hard going as the men took turns at the front of the column, their arms rising and falling like metronomes, their blades flashing in the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the canopy above. Their progress upset the local wildlife continually, as startled birds and indignant monkeys scolded them with raucous voices.
A sailor came back from a stint at the front, dashing sweat from his face with a rag. 'What kind of land is this,' he groused, 'where it is harder work going downhill than up?'
'Would you rather fight plants or beast-men?' Wulfrede said. 'Be joyful that the day that began so bloodily has become a
pleasant outing.' His men grumbled but obeyed. Even the prospect of great treasure could not raise their spirits greatly on such a day. They were men of the sea, and this toil in an alien element disheartened them as none of the perils of navigation could.
Conan resumed his scouting activity, roaming ahead and to both sides of the column, this time with a definite mission: he was looking for signs of a bumbana ambush. The beast-men had disappeared, but he knew that they must be somewhere near. He moved through the heavy brush without making a sound, leaving no sign of his passage. As a youth he had been schooled in Pictish woodcraft, and his skills served him as well in this exotic tropical jungle as in the heavy forest of the Pictish Wilderness.
The eastern slope of the mountain was cut up into knife-edged ravines, deeply eroded. The western slope had been rough, but this was far more treacherous. Despite the hard and unyielding look of the land, the soil was loose and crumbly, making footing doubly uncertain. Springs made brief runs along the bottoms of ravines, then swept over ledges to fall hundreds of feet in arcing cascades. At least, he thought, while they were on the mountain there was plenty of clean water.
He found some things more alarming than the likelihood of bumbana ambush. Here and there were traces left by animals unlike those they had encountered thus far. In soft soil he found a huge, handlike print that he could only interpret as the footprint of an ape larger than any gorilla. In another spot he found numerous prints reminiscent of a great bird's talons, along with leathery fragments of an eggshell that might have hatched a chick the size of a baby elephant. He did not know whether these were signs of a bird or a reptile, but either way the thing was a giant and its claws were not those of a grass-eater.
Vultures with wingspans of twenty feet or more spiralled lazily in the mountain updraughts, watching for carrion. It seemed likely that they rarely had long to wait. Even as Conan watched, a score of them settled cautiously onto something beyond a ridge line a hundred yards away and began to feed noisily. In the far
distance he made out thin columns of smoke, perhaps the Bumbana preparing to feast upon the bodies they had carried off. He disliked the thought, but he had no intention of going to explore. The dead were dead and it was imperative now to preserve as many lives as possible. The numbers of his party had dwindled drastically since setting out and they were still far from their destination.
The sudden, sharp sound of a scream sent him sprinting back toward the column. Despite the burst of speed, he made no sound as he ducked, dodged, or sprang over the intervening foliage. He found the others standing on the edge of a ridge, staring into the deep, narrow ravine below.
'What has happened?' he demanded.
Wulfrede pointed to the rocks below. A shattered body lay upon them. 'Bugnar tripped on a vine and fell over the edge. There was nothing we could do.'
Conan studied the crew, and they were more sombre-faced than ever. No more than a dozen were left of the score that had begun the trek. How many more would the mountain and the desert claim, and what lay at the Horns of Shushtu?
'From here on,' Conan announced, 'Goma and I will precede the rest of you by no more than a score of paces, so that you can see us. We will call out to you any dangers ahead of you so that you may watch for them. If you would see the sea again, stay alert! This mountain is a fool-slayer as deadly as any.' With that he turned and strode off, Goma at his side. The others glowered, but none sought to contradict him.
The descent of the mountain took another three days. There were places where they had to lower themselves by ropes, one at a time, from cliff ledge to cliff ledge. At one point they were attacked by man-sized birds for no reason they could fathom. Goma speculated that they might have strayed too near the creatures' nests. Once, on a well-beaten path, they stopped as a dark shape stepped from the jungle curtain onto their road. It was an ape, not so burly as a gorilla but fully nine feet tall. It glared at them with tiny red eyes, bared its teeth, and roared defiance.
They prepared to hurl their spears at the creature but it seemed satisfied that they were nothing to worry about and ambled off into the jungle on the other side of the pass. Greatly relieved, the expedition carried on, the men casting nervous glances into the dimness of the bush as they went.
It was with great joy that they reached the base of the mountain and found themselves on land that was almost level. It was green and grassy with the runoff from the mountain streams, but these quickly sank into the ground, not to reappear again. Half a day's march brought them to the edge of the arid land.
'Here the desert begins,' said Goma, standing by a tiny stream that flowed into a pond that filled a stone basin no more than twenty feet across. 'We must fill our waterskins here and carry as much as we can. It will be some days before we reach water again.'
'How many days?' Ulfilo asked.
Goma shrugged. 'Perhaps three. Perhaps five, or ten or even more. It depends upon how fast the slowest of us marches, and whether the first water hole is dry, or the second. The one that is always plentiful is about ten days from here, unless we are slowed by injured men or other misfortune.'
Ulfilo studied the angle of the sun. 'We rest here until morning. Use the daylight hours remaining to see to your gear and yourselves. Drink as much water as you can hold. We march at first light, with as much water as we can carry.'
Wearily, they pitched camp by the water, a simple process in the absence of tents. Some foraged for firewood, others sat and mended their clothing and harness, cleaned and sharpened weapons and saw to damaged boots. Conan and Goma went hunting for fresh meat and returned before dusk with a pair of gazelles, which the hungry sailors quickly cleaned and spitted over glowing coals. At Ulfilo's urging, each man went to the pond and swallowed water repeatedly until he felt bloated. Waterlogged and full-bellied, they sprawled on the ground and slept like dead men.
Conan went to the fire, where the Aquilonians and the Van
sat conversing about the gruelling journey ahead. Goma stood by himself some way off, leaning on the handle of his axe and wrapped in a brooding silence, staring toward the east as if he saw something in the far distance.
The Cimmerian sat and took a skewer of meat from the fire. As he ate he studied his companions. All were lean and drawn from the hardships of the journey. Malia was more ghostlike than ever, her huge eyes dominating a face that had lost all trace of softness. It had not lessened her beauty. The burly Wulfrede carried less belly than before, his wide belt showing a line of new holes where the shipmaster had bored them to accommodate his lessened girth. Springald was likewise reduced. Ulfilo showed the least change, having been lean and rangy to begin with.
' 'In the pass,' Conan said, 'just before the apemen attacked us, I found a carving on the wall.'
'A carving?' said Springald innocently.
'Aye. Were you not expecting one? Did not Marandos see it
on his first expedition?'
'How could you know that, rogue?' Ulfilo demanded indignantly. He made as if to reach for his sword, but Springald laid a restraining hand upon his wrist.
'What sign did you see, Conan?' asked the scholar.
'Aye, Conan,' said Wulfrede. 'What was it?'
'It was formed thus,' said the Cimmerian. With the skewer he traced the design of the crescent and trident in the dirt before him.
'Ah, most interesting,' Springald said.
'Aye,' Conan retorted. 'The chief back at the coastal village told me that the ship that bore Marandos on his second voyage carried just such a device at its masthead. And I saw its like carved above a certain doorway in Khemi!'
'You followed us, you treacherous dog!' Ulfilo leapt to his feet and this time drew his sword in truth.
Conan eyed him coldly. 'Aye, and wherefore not? I never would have accepted your offer had I known what a secretive, duplicitous lot you were. Never have you told me the whole truth about our mission. What I have learned I have gained in spite 'I your words. If this is what your 'nobleman's honour' means I rejoice that I am a barbarian and a bandit, as you have named me!'
'I'll not be spoken to thus by a baseborn savage! Draw your weapon!'
'Oh, put your sword away,' said Malia disgustedly. 'The man but speaks the truth. Have we played him fair? I do not blame him for following us in Khemi. I would just like to know know he did it!'
'Our Conan is a resourceful man,' Springald commented, his eyes twinkling despite his fatigue.
Slowly, reluctantly, the noble resheathed his sword. 'I am still not satisfied,' he muttered.
'Nor am I,' said Conan. 'Not until I know what there is to know about our destination and our mission, and about who you have thrown in with besides us lowborn adventurers.'
'Aye, that would go well with me also,' said Wulfrede. 'All is satisfactory to me so long as great treasure lies at the end of our journey, but I'd not blunder through the darkness when others know that which is important to me.' All merriment was gone from his face and voice now. The icy north shone in his eyes and his hand rested upon his hilt. The sailors snored in blissful ignorance.
At Ulfilo's stubborn silence Malia broke in sharply. 'This is 'foolish! Brother-in-law, we might as well tell them what we know. We are on the edge of the desert a thousand leagues from home, and these are men we depend upon in a hostile land. Think you they will turn back now? Let us have an end of this! Tell them!'
Reluctantly, Ulfilo nodded. 'Very well. Springald, you are better at this than I.'
'Less miserly of his words, at any rate,' said Wulfrede dryly.
'Where to begin?' said Springald with a sigh.
'Begin with Marandos's visit to Khemi after the disaster of
his first expedition,' Conan suggested. 'Give us the true account of his dealings with the priest of Ma'at.'
'Very well. Somehow, with his reduced crew, Marandos managed to sail as far as Khemi, but they had a stormy passage, the vessel was an old one, and by the time they dropped anchor off the Tortoise, it was clear that it would make no more voyages. He sold the hulk for its timber and went looking for a backer for a second try at the treasure. Within a few days he was contacted by a man who claimed to represent a wealthy merchant of Khemi. He said that his master was interested in profitable ventures in the far south and wanted to hear Maran-dos's proposal. He brought safe conduct to the city proper and a meeting was arranged.
'When his guide took him to his destination he saw the sigil above the door. It was the same he had seen in the pass and elsewhere on his journey. He knew something was amiss but he was alone in a hostile city and he had no choice save to pass within. Thus he met Sethmes, archpriest of Ma'at. The priest was most cordial and received him with great hospitality. He listened to his account with rapt attention. To Marandos's amazement, he seemed to anticipate each step of the journey, as if he, too, were familiar with the account of Captain Belphormis.
'When he reached the place in his recitation where he and his men arrived at the Horns of Shushtu, the priest was quite unsurprised to learn that he had been unable to pass between the Horns to the valley beyond.'
'Unable?' said Conan.
'Exactly. You see, the Pythonians left certain safeguards in place. It seems that they are still potent, and one must know the proper spells in order to pass safely.''
'Spells?' barked Wulfrede. 'You mean that there is wizardry involved here?''
'And how comes it that you did not know this before, with your long study of the matter?' Conan demanded.
'Because certain information had been removed from my books.'
'Removed?' Conan said. 'How is that possible?'
'You recall that I said that, about two hundred years ago, the books I had been studying were sent to Stygia for rebinding?''
'Aye,' said Conan.
'Well, it seems that, at that time, a number of pages were removed from the crucial volume. When we received Maran-dos's letter, I examined the book in question and discovered that it was true. There was no apparent gap in the narrative. As one reads it, it seems merely that Captain Belphormis turned back after reaching the pass between the Horns and gazing into the valley beyond. Remember, he did not know that he was upon the trail of the treasure of Python. He was merely scouting new trade routes and did not recognise the significance of the signs he passed on the way.'
'Then how did you know that the pages were missing?' Conan asked.
'By a bookman's trick. Here, I will show you.' He held up one of the ancient books. 'The bane of all lovers of old books is the bookworm. These voracious if scholarly beasts bore holes through text and binding indiscriminately. A single worm, given the time, can eat his way through an entire shelf of books. In fact, if one wishes, it is possible to arrange the books in one's library as they were originally ordered on an owner's shelf by simply lining up the wormholes on the bindings.'
'The things a man learns from hearing the words of a scholar,' Wulfrede groused.
'Go on,' Conan said patiently.
'Likewise, even if the worm bores at an oblique angle, the holes in several adjacent pages will line up sufficiently for light to show through. I demonstrate.' He opened the volume and held a half-dozen pages tightly together, then held them up to the firelight. The glare of the fire shone through a score of pinprick holes in the pages.
'That is clear enough,' Conan said.
'But,' Springald continued, 'when I reexamined the crucial passage, I noticed a discontinuity. Here is the page where Belphormis's party ascends to the pass between the Horns, and here is the next page, wherein they return the way they came.' He held the two pages together and poised them between the fire and the observers. No light shone through. 'Clearly, at the time this book was rebound, several pages were excised.'
'Why not just keep the book?' Conan asked.
'Perhaps the culprits feared that the loss would be discovered. These were after all volumes from a royal library, esteemed highly enough to send all the way to Stygia for rebinding. And the royal librarians of past generations were probably more conscientious than those of this degenerate age. The removal of a few pages, on the other hand, would almost surely pass undetected.'
'So this Sethmes staked Marandos to a new ship, a crew, and all that was needful for a successful expedition. It is plain that he expected profit, a great deal of it. What was the nature of their bargain, and how did they propose to bypass the safeguards in the pass?'
'True,' Springald said, 'I fear that disinterested kindness has very little to do with the Stygian nature. You see, the priest had in his possession all the necessary spells to pass between the Horns.'
'And how came that to be?' Wulfrede inquired.
'In the days when Python fell, it was the archpriest of Ma'at who was entrusted with the royal treasure. It was the spells of that god with which the treasure was guarded.'
'This makes little sense,' Conan protested. 'If the ancient priests of Ma'at hid th
e treasure, surely the current archpriest knows where it is hidden. Why should he help a stranger to go south and plunder it?''
'This archpriest is something of a . . .a renegade. For many centuries the priesthood of Ma'at has been entrusted with the location and access to the treasure, but a further spell has prevented them from taking it for themselves. It has been held in
I trust, you see, in anticipation of the return of the royal Pythonians and the re-establishment of the kingdom. Sethmes knows hat the kingdom is gone forever. The royal line died out long ago. The priesthood of Ma'at has dwindled until, now, only he is left.'
'Nothing dies out in Stygia,' Conan said.
'But Ma'at was never a part of the Stygian pantheon,' Springald pointed out. 'The cult was tolerated while the pretenders to the throne of Python dwelt at the royal court. Without official support or worshippers, the cult of Ma'at faded into near-oblivion. As the last of his line, Sethmes feels that the treasure is rightfully his, and he wishes to enjoy its possession before he dies.'
'But he needed assistance?' Conan said. 'He had to have someone else to fetch the treasure for him?''
'That is so. He was on the verge of hiring an expedition, even had a ship of his own under construction, when Marandos appeared in Khemi with his story of a journey to the Horns of Shushtu. It seemed to Sethmes fortuitous, as if Ma'at had agreed that it was time for the treasure to be given to those who had guarded its secret for so long. Why not entrust the expedition to one who already knew the waters to be sailed and the land to be crossed? After exacting certain . . . pledges, he agreed to outfit Marandos's second expedition.'
'What sort of pledges?' Wulfrede asked.
'He pledged everything!' Ulfilo said angrily. 'Against the chance of recovering the treasure, he pledged our family lands, our titles, even his wife!'
Conan turned to stare at Malia. 'Is this true?'
The Conan Chronology Page 527