Part 2 (2/2)

Before they had reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the outer steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne room, their torches driving back the shadows.

They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais.

Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty s.p.a.ce, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly to his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the wors.h.i.+ppers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber.

Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her att.i.tude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of s.p.a.ce, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. ”The little s.l.u.t's an actress,” he told himself. He knew she was shrivelling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the G.o.ddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that G.o.ddess imbued with vibrant life.

30.

Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by black men.

But the chant deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: ”Oh, great G.o.ddess, dweller with the great ones of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great G.o.ddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the G.o.ds, what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?”

The high-piled burnished ma.s.s of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed cold, detached, impersonal, though he winced at the Corinthian accent.

”It is the will of the G.o.ds that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!” She was repeating his exact words. ”They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the G.o.ds. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the G.o.ds!” There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse.

But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight.

”Yelaya has spoken!” he cried in an exalted voice. ”It is the will of the G.o.ds! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the G.o.ds, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world.

At the command of the G.o.ds the Teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born G.o.ddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the G.o.ds love!”

”You have my leave to go!” answered the false G.o.ddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and 31.

falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions.

The gold door closed and with a moan, the G.o.ddess fell back limply on the dais. ”Conan!” she whimpered faintly. ”Conan!”

”Shhh!” he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmans.h.i.+p intensified the light. The s.h.i.+ning dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining.

But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the pa.s.sage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty s.p.a.ce. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it.

While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle, in the crystal light.

The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally.

”Traitress!” Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. ”What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? s.l.u.t! I'll twist off your false head but first I'll ”

A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black.

He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backwards to the marble floor where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp.

Conan started toward him to finish the job for he knew that the black's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him.

32.

”I've done as you ordered!” she gasped hysterically. ”Take me away! Oh, please take me away!”

”We can't go yet,” he grunted. ”I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels.

There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's that gem you wore in your hair?”

”It must have fallen out on the dais,” she stammered, feeling for it. ”I was so frightened when the priests left I ran out to find you and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me ”

”Well, go get it while I dispose of this carca.s.s,” he commanded. ”Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.”

She hesitated, as if loath to return to that cryptic chamber, then, as he grasped Gwarunga's girdle and dragged him into the alcove, she turned and entered the oracle room. Conan dumped the senseless black on the floor, and lifted his sword. The Cimmerian had lived too long in the wild places of the world to have any illusions about mercy. The only safe enemy was a headless enemy. But before he could strike, a startling scream checked the lifted blade. It came from the oracle chamber.

”Conan! Conan! She's come back!” The shriek ended in a gurgle and a sc.r.a.ping shuffle.

With an oath Conan dashed out of the alcove, across the throne dais and into the oracle- chamber, almost before the sound had ceased. There he halted, glaring bewilderedly. To all appearances Muriela lay placidly on the dais, eyes closed as if in slumber.

”What in the h.e.l.l are you doing?” he demanded acidly. ”Is this any time to be playing jokes ”

His voice trailed away. His gaze ran along the ivory thigh molded in the close-fitting silk skirt.

That skirt should gape from girdle to hem. He knew, because it had been his own hand that tore it, as he ruthlessly stripped the garment from the dancer's writhing body. But the skirt showed no rent. A single stride brought him to the dais and he laid his hand on the ivory body s.n.a.t.c.hed away as if it had encountered hot iron instead of the cold immobility of death.

”Crom!” he muttered, his eyes suddenly slits of bale-fire. ”It's not Muriela! It's Yelaya!”

He understood now that frantic scream that had burst from Muriela's lips when she entered the chamber. The G.o.ddess had returned. The body had been stripped by Zargheba to furnish the accoutrements for the pretender. Yet now it was clad in silk and jewels as Conan had first seen it. A peculiar p.r.i.c.kling made itself manifest among the short hairs at the base of Conan's scalp.

33.

”Muriela!” he shouted suddenly. ”Muriela! Where the devil are you?”

The walls threw back his voice mockingly. There was no entrance that he could see except the golden door, and none could have entered or departed through that without his knowledge. This much was indisputable: Yelaya had been replaced on the dais within the few minutes that had elapsed since Muriela had first left the chamber to be seized by Gwarunga; his ears were still tingling with the echoes of Muriela's scream, yet the Corinthian had vanished as if into thin air.

There was but one explanation, if he rejected the darker speculation that suggested the supernatural somewhere in the chamber there was a secret door. And even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw it.

In what had seemed a curtain of solid marble, a thin perpendicular crack showed and in the crack hung a wisp of silk. In an instant he was bending over it. That shred was from Muriela's torn skirt. The implication was unmistakable. It had been caught in the closing door and torn off as she was borne through the opening by what ever grim beings were her captors. The bit of cloth had prevented the door from fitting perfectly into its frame.

Thrusting his dagger point into the crack, Conan exerted leverage with a corded forearm. The blade bent, but it was of unbreakable Akbitanan steel. The marble door opened. Conan's sword was lifted as he peered into the aperture beyond, but he saw no shape of menace. Light filtering into the oracle chamber revealed a short flight of steps cut out of marble. Pulling the door back to its fullest extent, he drove his dagger into a crack in the floor, propping it open. Then he went down the steps without hesitation. He saw nothing, heard nothing. A dozen steps down the stair ended in a narrow corridor which ran straight away into the gloom.

He halted suddenly, posed like a statue at the foot of the stair, staring at the paintings which frescoed the walls, half visible in the dim light which filtered down from above. The art was unmistakably Pelishtim; he had seen frescoes of identical characteristics on the walls of Asgalun. But the scenes depicted had no connection with anything Pelishtim, except for one human figure, frequently recurrent: a lean, white-bearded old man whose racial characteristics were unmistakable. They seemed to represent various sections of the palace above. Several scenes showed a chamber he recognized as the oracle chamber with the figure of Yelaya stretched upon the ivory dais and huge black men kneeling before it. And there behind the wall, in the niche, lurked the ancient Pelishtim. And there were other figures, too figures that moved through the deserted palace, did the bidding of the Pelishtim, and dragged unnamable things out of the subterranean river. In the few seconds Conan stood frozen, hitherto unintelligible phrases in the parchment ma.n.u.script blazed in his brain with chilling clarity. The loose bits of the pattern clicked into place. The mystery of Bit-Yakin was a mystery no longer, nor the riddle of Bit-Yakin's servants.

Conan turned and peered into the darkness, an icy finger crawling along his spine. Then he went along the corridor, cat-footed, and without hesitation, moving deeper and deeper into the 34.

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