Part 6 (1/2)

”Not so!” cried an older man, whose eyes were wild and weird. ”It was Atali, the daughter of Ymir, the frost-giant! To fields of the dead she comes, and shows herself to the dying! Myself when a boy I saw her, when I lay half-slain on the b.l.o.o.d.y field of Wolraven. I saw her walk among the dead in the snows, her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair unbearably bright in the moonlight. I lay and howled like a dying dog because I could not crawl after her. She lures men from stricken fields into the wastelands to be slain by her brothers, the ice-giants, who lay men's red hearts smoking on Ymir's board. The Cimmerian has seen Atali, the frost-giant's daughter!”

”Bah!” grunted Horsa. ”Old Gorm's mind was touched in his youth by a sword cut on the head.

Conan was delirious from the fury of battle look how his helmet is dinted. Any of those blows might have addled his brain. It was an hallucination he followed into the wastes. He is from the south; what does he know of Atali?”

”You speak truth, perhaps,” muttered Conan. ”It was all strange and weird by Crom!”

He broke off, glaring at the object that still dangled from his clenched left fist; the others gaped silently at the veil he held up a wisp of gossamer that was never spun by human distaff.45.

The G.o.d in the Bowl

The G.o.d in the Bowl

Arus the watchman grasped his crossbow with shaky hands, and he felt beads of clammy perspiration on his skin as he stared at the unlovely corpse sprawling on the polished floor before him. It is not pleasant to come upon Death in a lonely place at midnight.

Arus stood in a vast corridor, lighted by huge candles in niches along the walls. These walls were hung with black velvet tapestries, and between the tapestries hung s.h.i.+elds and crossed weapons of fantastic make. Here and there too, stood figures of curious G.o.ds images carved of stone or rare wood, or cast of bronze, iron or silver dimly reflected in the gleaming black mahogany floor.

Arus shuddered; he had never become used to the place, although he had worked there as watchman for some months. It was a fantastic establishment, the great museum and antique house which men called Kallian Publico's Temple, with its rarities from all over the world and now, in the lonesomeness of midnight, Arus stood in the great silent hall and stared at the sprawling corpse that had been the rich and powerful owner of the Temple.

It entered even the dull brain of the watchman that the man looked strangely different now, than when he rode along the Palian Way in his golden chariot, arrogant and dominant, with his dark eyes glinting with magnetic vitality. Men who had hated and feared Kallian Publico would scarcely have recognized him now as he lay like a disintegrated tun of fat, his rich robe half torn from him, and his purple tunic awry. His face was blackened, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his tongue lolled blackly from his gaping mouth. His fat hands were thrown out as in a gesture of curious futility. On the thick fingers gems glittered.

”Why didn't they take his rings?” muttered the watchman uneasily, then he started and glared, the short hairs p.r.i.c.kling at the nape of his neck. Through the dark silken hangings that masked one of the many doorways opening into the hallway, came a figure.

Arus saw a tall powerfully built youth, naked but for a loin-cloth, and sandals strapped high about his ankles. His skin was burned brown as by the suns of the wastelands, and Arus glanced nervously at his broad shoulders, ma.s.sive chest and heavy arms. A single look at the moody, broad-browed features told the watchman that the man was no Nemedian. From under a mop of unruly black hair smoldered a pair of dangerous blue eyes. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard at his girdle.46.

Arus felt his skin crawl, and he fingered his crossbow tensely, of half a mind to drive a bolt through the stranger's body without parley, yet fearful of what might happen if he failed to inflict death at the first shot.

The stranger looked at the body on the floor more in curiosity than surprize.

”Why did you kill him?” asked Arus nervously.

The other shook his tousled head.

”I didn't kill him,” he answered, speaking Nemedian with a barbaric accent. ”Who is he?

”Kallian Publico,” replied Arus, edging back.

A flicker of interest showed in the moody blue eyes.

”The owner of the house?

”Aye.” Arus had edged his way to the wall, and now he took hold of a thick velvet rope whichswung there, and jerked it violently. From the street outside sounded the strident clang of the bell that hung before all shops and establishments to summon the watch.

The stranger started.”Why did you do that?” he asked. ”It will fetch the watchman.

”I am the watchman, knave,” answered Arus, bracing his rocking courage. ”Stand where you are; don't move or I'll loose a bolt through you.

”.His finger was on the trigger of his arbalest, the wicked square head of the quarrel leveled full on the other's broad breast. The stranger scowled and his dark face was lowering. He showed no fear, but seemed to be hesitating in his mind as to whether he should obey the command or chance a sudden break of some kind. Arus licked his lips and his blood turned cold as he plainly saw indecision struggle with a murderous intent in the foreigner's cloudy eyes.

Then he heard a door crash open, and a medley of voices, and he drew a deep breath of amazed thankfulness. The stranger tensed and glared worriedly, like a startled hunting beast, as half a dozen men entered the hall. All but one wore the scarlet tunic of the Numalian police, were girt with stabbing swords and carried bills long shafted weapons, half pike, half axe.47.

”What devil's work is this?” exclaimed the foremost man, whose cold grey eyes and lean keen features, no less than his civilian garments, set him apart from his burly companions.

”By Mitra, Demetrio!” exclaimed Arus thankfully. ”Fortune is a.s.suredly with me tonight. I had no hope that the watch would answer the summons so swiftly or that you would be with them!”