Part 17 (1/2)

”When I was a thief in Zamora, I heard rumors of a cult called the Yezmites that used such a symbol. You're a Zamorian; what know you of this?”

Hattusas shrugged. ”There are many cults whose roots go back to the beginnings of time, to the days before the Cataclysm. Often rulers have thought they had stamped them out, and often they have come to life again. The Hidden Ones or Sons of Yezm are one of these, but more I cannot tell you. I meddle not in such matters.”

Conan spoke to Balash: ”Can your men guide me to where you found this man?”

”Aye. But it is an evil place, in the Gorge of Ghosts, on the borders of Drujistan, and-”

”Good. Everybody get some sleep. We ride at dawn.”

”To Anshan?” asked Balash.

”No. To Drujistan.”

”Then you think-?”

”I think nothing-yet.”

”Will the squadron ride with us?” asked Tubal. ”The horses are badly worn.”

”No, let the men and horses rest. You and Hattusas shall go with me, together with one of Balash's Kushafis for a guide. Codrus commands in my absence, and if there's any trouble as a result of my dogs' laying hands on the Kushafi women, tell him he is to knock their heads in.”

2. The Black Country

Dusk mantled the serrated skyline when Conan's guide halted. Ahead, the rugged terrain was broken by a deep canyon. Beyond the canyon rose a forbidding array of black crags and frowning cliffs, a wild, haglike chaos of broken black rock.

”There begins Drujistan,” said the Kushafi. ”Beyond that gorge, the Gorge of Ghosts, begins the country of horror and death. I go no farther.”

Conan nodded, his eyes picking out a trail that looped down rugged slopes into the canyon. It was a fading trace of the ancient road they had been following for many miles, but it looked as though it had often been used of late.

Conan glanced around. With him were Tubal, Hattusas, the guide-and Nanaia the girl. She had insisted on coming because, she said, she feared to be separated from Conan among all these wild foreigners, whose speech she could not understand. She had proved a good traveling companion, tough and uncomplaining, though of volatile and fiery disposition.

The Kushafi said: ”The trail is well-traveled, as you see. By it the demons of the black mountains come and go. But men who follow it do not return.”

Tubal jeered. ”What need demons with a trail? They fly with wings like bats!”

”When they take the shape of men they walk like men,” said the Kushafi.

He pointed to the jutting ledge over which the trail wound. ”At the foot of that slope we found the man you called a Khitan. Doubtless his brother demons quarreled with him and cast him down.”

”Doubtless he tripped and fell,” grunted Conan. ”Khitans of the desert are unused to climbing, their legs being bowed and weakened by a life in the saddle. Such a one would easily stumble on a narrow trail.”

”If he was a man, perhaps,” said the Kushafi. ”But- Asura!”

All but Conan jumped, and the Kushafi s.n.a.t.c.hed at his bow, glaring wildly. Out over the crags, from the south, rolled an incredible sound-a strident, braying roar, which vibrated among the mountains.

”The voice of the demons!” cried the Kushafi, jerking the rein so that his horse squealed and reared. ”In the name of Asura, let us be gone!

It's madness to remain!”

”Go back to your village if you're afraid,” said Conan. ”I'm going on.”

In truth, the hint of the supernatural made the Cimmerian's nape p.r.i.c.kle too, but before his followers he did not wish to admit this.