The colour of the water seemed to be deepening, but the far shore was now just a short distance away. The paddlers went into a water-churning frenzy, leaving froth in their wake as they sought the safety of the shore. Now Conan could see why they were so beset. The tiny, withered figure of Aghla stood at the waterside, dancing and screaming. She was calling the lake creatures to deal with her enemies.
The warriors screamed as something like a bloated octopus hulked up near the boat, all but overturning it. A fat tentacle reached out and pulled a man from where he stood at the gunwale. A circular opening appeared in the thing's body, revealing a snapping, parrotlike beak. As the beak snapped shut on the screaming man, his companions cast spears deep into the gross
carcass. The thing's dripping beak opened and it hissed, vomited blood, and sank beneath the surface.
Khefi grabbed the dead man's paddle and plied it with little skill but great energy. Yet more nightmarish, unstable forms began to appear around them. A sharklike monster broke the surface and completely vaulted the boat, catching another warrior and splashing into the water on the other side with the unfortunate, struggling man clasped in jaws lined with long, needlelike fangs.
The bow of the craft crunched onto the shore and the Cimmerian cleared the stem, landing on dry ground in a single bound. The others were close behind, all but sobbing in terror. Disgusting things flopped out of the lake in pursuit, but out of their element the warriors speared them easily, mutilating the unnatural bodies in a fear-induced frenzy.
Up the slope before them, Conan saw Aghla sprinting her way to safety. Her speed and energy belied her multitudinous years. Conan ran in pursuit, longing to hew the ancient, evil creature asunder. It had been a long, hard two days, with no sleep and much fighting, but Conan had endured far worse in his adventurous life. His iron frame and constitution were proof against exertions that would be the death of a civilised man. Surely, he thought, he could catch a fleeing old woman before she could think to get away from him.
Thus he thought, but events proved him wrong. While he was still twenty strides from the entrance of the fort the ancient hag disappeared through its gateway. The Cimmerian bounded through the portal, his spear raised for a killing cast, but he saw no target in which to wet its needle point and razor edges. The huts stood deserted and the old woman was nowhere to be seen.
A few minutes later, the others caught up with him. The four young warriors were little the worse for their efforts, but Khefi, accustomed to the easy if precarious life of the court, was gasping like a bellows.
'Is she slain?' asked the translator.
'No, Crom curse her, she got away. We must hunt her down
before she works another mischief with her spells. I suspect she has fled to the tower. That is where we will find the others.'
'How do you know that?' Khefi asked.
'Trust me. I have no time to talk.'
The warriors said something to Khefi. 'They want to know if there will be men to fight this time.'
'There will be men for them to slay,' Conan assured them. The warriors grinned at his words. Away from the things of the lake their courage returned. They feared nothing that walked.
The Cimmerian led them toward the tower, over which reigned an ominous silence. Its doorway gaped open, unguarded. Cautiously, sword and spear in hand, Conan entered. The entrance tunnel was dark and ominous. He heard no sounds from ahead, but that meant nothing. Successful ambushes were always silent. The last few feet he covered at a run, diving into the central room, rolling as he hit, and coming up with weapons ready. The room was deserted.
'It is safe,' he called. 'Come on in.' The others walked into the room, looking about curiously.
The chamber was exactly as Conan had last seen it, but for two exceptions: Marandos was no longer there, and the great slab the madman had caressed so lovingly now stood tilted on one end, revealing a stairway that led into the bowels of the earth beneath the fortress. What had moved it, the strength of the men or the magic of Sethmes?
'We must go down there,' Conan said. The warriors eyed the dark stairwell dubiously. Once more, they were on unfamiliar territory. 'Go outside and fetch torches,' he ordered Khefi.
Grateful to have instructions to obey, the slave ran outside, where fires still smoked before the deserted huts. Minutes later he returned with a bundle of torches under one arm and another flaming in his hand.
Sheathing his sword, Conan took one, as did each of the warriors. With the flaming brand held before him, the Cimmerian began his descent.
Instantly, he saw that this passageway differed from the fort
above. It had been hewn from the solid stone beneath the fort, lovingly smoothed and ablaze with exotic decoration. Walls and ceiling were covered with paintings that had something of the Stygian about them, yet differed noticeably. Conan knew that this was Pythonian art, the ancestor of Stygian. The warriors pointed and exclaimed at the strange, colourful figures that ran riot over every available surface. Gods, kings, and mythological beings acted out unknown legends and the rituals of forgotten religion. Some creatures had the bodies of men and the heads of animals, or vice versa. There were scenes of banquet and battle, but most activities were utterly incomprehensible and many of them thoroughly repellent.
The stair turned out to be far longer than Conan had expected, and it did not follow a straight course, but instead took odd, unexplained turns, stopped at seemingly purposeless landings, only to continue down a few paces on. Everywhere, the riotous paintings overwhelmed and wearied the eye.
A warrior exclaimed something. 'Look at the torches!' The flames fluttered in a breeze that could only originate ahead of them.
'Somebody is going to be very disappointed if this is naught but an escape tunnel.' Then he chuckled. 'Serve the lot of them right, though.'
Now they could hear strange sounds ahead of them. There were screechings and squealings, much distorted by distance and the echoing walls. Over all, though, was a rhythmic, booming sound so low in pitch that it was more felt than heard. It was not the sound of drums, but it had a deep, oceanic beat that was like the throbbing heart of a world.
Ahead of them, they saw a strange glow that did not flicker like natural firelight. It was yellow with a faint, greenish tinge and there was a coldness to it that was not of the familiar world. It came from a portal where the stairs ended. Conan dropped his torch and drew his sword.
The room they entered was a vast, echoing chamber, so large that Conan was unable to make out whether it was a man-made place or a natural cavern. The wall through which he had just
entered was smooth, and upon it were painted more Pythonian figures, these colossal in size. The farther walls were a mystery to him, for the radiance did not illumine them. It was more like a glowing fog than light spreading from a single source. In what seemed to be the centre of the chamber, a vast, irregular heap of something glittered, and near this heap he saw a number of figures moving.
'Prepare to do some slaying,' Conan said, 'but you are not to attack the woman, the small man, the big man whose beard is yellow, or the man with the full red beard.' Khefi relayed the orders, but Conan had his doubts, having seen how frenzied these men became when their blood was up. His companions would just have to look out for themselves if the warriors got too excited.
They began to stalk toward the glitter. As they drew nearer, Conan saw that the strange light flashed from jewels and gold, and that much of this precious material was formed into instruments of exotic design, rather than ornaments. At their approach, the tallest figure turned.
'Welcome, Cimmerian. My colleague, Aghla, has told me of your imminent arrival.'
'To your misfortune,' Conan said. He saw that, just beyond the treasure hoard, the floor of the chamber and an expanse of water stretched into the obscuring gloom. It splashed upon the floor in sluggish wavelets, and it was from this uncanny, subterranean lake that the deep throbbing came.
'Conan! Can you truly be alive?' It w
as Springald, looking haggard but excited. By him stood Ulfilo, wearing his perpetual look of offended dignity. Near them was Wulfrede, who seemed slyly amused. All three wore their weapons.
'How did you come to be here with this liar?' said Conan, pointing at the priest.
'When he let us out of the dungeon and gave us the choice of following him rather than feeding the lake-thing,' Ulfilo said, 'we were willing to set aside our differences for the nonce.'
'Where is Malia?' Conan demanded.
'You speak of the White Queen,' said Sethmes. Now Cc
saw that the two Stygian officers stood behind the priest, their hands upon their weapons. 'You are not to speak of her as of an ordinary woman. She is now beyond your ken.'
'Where is she, damn you?' Conan strode near the man, raising his sword. Geb and Khopshef stepped before their master, drawing their weapons.
' 'If you would see her,'' Sethmes said, ''you need only look up.'
Conan gazed up the glittering slope, which seemed to be made up of pearls, rods, and crystals, an occasional book, many complex objects dedicated to purposes at which he could not guess. Atop the heap was a structure of gold and silver glittering with jewels, in the shape of a great throne. Upon this sat Malia. The woman did not look at him or seem aware of him in any way. She wore a crown that spread over her brow in a towering fan. Great ropes of pearls and jewels hung from her neck and circles of precious metals clasped her limbs. She wore nothing else, and her full attention was directed toward the water. Beside her crouched Aghla, chanting and beating a tiny drum. It was made of skin stretched over a human skull.
'What is this?' Conan demanded. 'What are you doing to her?'
'Ask him, blackhair.' It was Wulfrede who spoke. He pointed to a ragged creature who sat upon the flank of the treasure heap, digging his fingers and toes into the glittering wealth.
'I see you have what you suffered so long for, Marandos,' said Conan. 'But you do not seem happily reunited with your loving wife.'
'Wife?' The man blinked. 'Oh, her. She was a part of the bargain.'
'What bargain, curse you?' Beside Conan the young warriors stared at this spectacle, so far beyond their comprehension that they had forgotten that they were there to kill.
'The Stygian. He promised to lead me to the treasure, if I would lure Malia hither as well. He wanted her for something. So I agreed.'
'And the others?' Conan asked.
'Well, she couldn't very well get here by herself, could she?' He looked offended at such a foolish question. Conan turned to Ulfilo.
'So this is the brother you crossed the world to find?'
Ulfilo spat. 'Think you I set out upon such a venture for the sake of my worthless brother? From birth he was a fool and a wastrel. It was the treasure I wanted, to restore my family's fortunes. As for his woman, what is she to me? She is just some slut he found in his wanderings, no more than a horse or a hunting dog that took his eye. If the priest needs her for his purposes, what is that compared to establishing my family as the greatest in Aquilonia?'
'Your honour comes cheap, nobleman,' Conan said.
'You dare to speak of honour to me, barbarian!' He tore his long blade free of its sheath.
'I did not come here to kill you,' Conan growled. 'We have been companions. Let's not fight when enemies stand near.'
'They are not my enemies,' said Ulfilo.
'You make me regret that I came here,' Conan said. 'It was to get you free of Nabo and Sethmes that I helped Goma to take the city.'
'That was most noble of you, my friend,' said Springald. 'And we thank you most heartily. There is no need for us to quarrel. Join forces with us. This is no mere treasure hunt. There are forces at work here, things so ancient and so powerful that the course of the world will be changed by the events of these days in this valley. Compared to such historic happenings, what are a few lives, or one woman, more or less?'
'Join forces with this lying, conniving priest?' Conan was incredulous. 'You have all gone as mad as Marandos! The Stygian will share nothing with you!'
'Pythonian, if you please, barbarian. I am not Stygian, but of the pure, royal blood of imperial Python. This day I unite the ancient crown and treasure of that nation with the immeasurable power of the thing from beyond the stars we know. With such power harnessed to my will, I shall raise ancient Python from the dust and shards, restoring it as it once was, ruling it with power such as the old kings never dreamed of!' His black eyes shone with fanatic light.
'Power?' Conan said, aghast. 'That thing is too weak to raise itself from the hole it made when it fell to Earth. It is so helpless that it needs fearful tribesmen to feed it!''
'See you this great heap of gold and jewels, barbarian? Know you what it is?'
'It is the treasure of Python, for which certain fools have marched and fought their way across half the world.'
'Have you noticed how little of it is made up of gauds and ornaments, and how much of instruments and tomes?'
'It is plain enough.'
'This represents the concentrated magical power of the Pythonian empire! As the Hyborian tribesmen won victory after victory, the emperor called in all the sages and wizards and gathered their most precious, powerful devices into one place, the greatest gathering of sorcerous power in history!'
'Much good did it do him,' Conan said contemptuously. 'The Hybori watered their horses in the canals of Python. They warmed themselves by the fires of its burning palaces.'
'The stars were Python's enemies,' Sethmes said. 'In the year of the Fall of Python, they formed a conjunction of such malignancy as is not seen in ten thousand years. But the creature in the lake sensed the power gathered in the treasury of Python, and it began to draw that power toward itself. It was not by accident that the commander of the expedition made his way across trackless waste to this valley, and erected his treasury by this lake! It was no common urge for security that kept the workmen driving their passage downward and ever downward. Each time the supervisor of the work decided that it was time to hew out a treasure chamber, some nameless impulse caused him to order further digging, until at last they broke into this cavern.'
Conan turned to the Aquilonians and the Van. 'This treasure
represents his sorcerous power. Will he share this with you? You cannot be that foolish!'
'If he meant to gull us,' Ulfilo demanded, 'wherefore did he release us from the dungeon and restore to us our arms? Wherefore bring us hither?'
At this Conan laughed heartily. 'Fools! He released you because he needed someone to paddle his boat across the lake, before Goma's men could storm into the city. He brought you here to the treasury because he did not know what he would find. There might have been guards to fight. You are alive now because he has only those two Stygian sellswords to fight for him. But you will not outlive his first exercise of this power he expects to draw from the lake-thing.'
'Must we listen to this savage, master?' demanded the red-bearded Khopshef. 'Let me slay him for you.'
'Not yet, my friend,' said Sethmes, a faint uneasiness showing in his eyes. 'In fact, this might be a good time for our mighty Ulfilo to display his loyalty. Aquilonian, if you would be the greatest among my nobles, slay this black-haired northerner for me.'
Ulfilo lost a bit of his arrogant self-assurance. 'Would you have it thus? The man is no danger to the lot of us. He is only a single sword. Lowborn and outlandish as he is, he was a brave and faithful ally upon the long road hither.'
'I fear you may lack the steel spine of a Pythonian duke,' said Sethmes in mock sadness.
'I can be as hard as any man!' Ulfilo roared. He drew his long sword. 'No foreign savage stands between me and the glory of my house!'
'Cease this!' Springald hissed. 'This is childish!' But his friend was past all reason. All he saw before before him was the power of his family slipping away, and an enemy who wanted to keep him from reversing that fall.
The two long swords rang together and the Cimmerian was fight
ing desperately for his life. Gone was any thought that he and this man had been companions, of a sort. Ulfilo was as
strong and expert a swordsman as he had ever faced and Conan granted no concessions to those who drew steel on him. The blades wove a blurring net of steel around both men as they attacked and gave ground.
The onlookers watched tensely. Springald was distressed to see two friends trying to kill one another. Wulfrede looked on with his usual cool, sardonic amusement. The young warriors chattered excitedly to see this novel form of combat. Marandos ignored all but the treasure. Geb and Khopshef fingered their hilts, eager to plunge a blade into an unsuspecting back. Malia was oblivious. Aghla and Sethmes watched the water.
Ulfilo aimed a mighty blow that would have cleft the Cimmerian's skull, but Conan interposed his own blade, stopping the edge just as it touched his hair. With a powerful wrench of his wrists he caught Ulfilo's blade between blade and crossguard of his own weapon. The two stood for a few seconds in a trial of strength, than Conan jerked Ulfilo's sword aside and disengaged it from his own. His return blow was a short, powerful chop that split the Aquilonian's chest from armpit to breastbone.
Sethmes said something and his two captains jerked their blades out. They rushed at Conan's back, their points aimed between his shoulderblades, snarling. Khefi screamed a warning and Conan whirled, jerking his blade free of Ulfilo's body just in time to beat Khopshef's sword aside. The four young warriors attacked, howling.
In the wild melee that ensued, Conan was for a moment puzzled as to who was fighting whom. Swords and spears whirled and flickered. Blood sprayed the foetid, lake-smelling air, and there seemed to be too many swords in motion at once. The Cimmerian halved Khopshef at the waist, and he turned to see Geb pierced by a spear even as the Stygian gutted a warrior with his sword. At his feet lay another warrior who had failed to allow for the fact that his enemy wore armour. At a pair of surprised screams, Conan whirled in time to see the remaining two warriors fall. Over them stood Wulfrede, his blade stained to the hilt.
'Why did you do that?' Conan demanded.
The Conan Chronology Page 539