Conan the Barbarian Read online

  Valeria ran her hands over the jewels encrusted in the battlements. “A fortune here!” she breathed. “And ours for the taking!”

  Sliding her dagger from its sheath, Valeria tried to pry a large sapphire from its enshrouding mortar. Subotai drew his unstrung bow from its case, placed one end on the rough-hewn pave, and strung it. Then he studied Valeria.

  “Leave off picking at those pretty pebbles, my lady,” he said. “They’re worth a pittance compared to what lies below. Besides, you’ll dull your blade, and you may need it soon.”

  “Let’s move,” growled Conan, “before some priest or guard stumbles on us.”

  Valeria poured her handful of loosened gems into her belt-wallet. “To work, then,” she said, striding to the narrow door that broke the circular line of the roof tiles. She grasped the carved handle and pulled vigorously in expectation of resistance; but the door swung back so easily that it almost overbalanced the girl. Peering through the open doorway, Conan frowned at the dim green glow within but Valeria, walking lithely on the balls of her feet, marched boldly in. Conan followed closely. He had an impression of a floor half-concealed by knee-high swirls of mist, a circle of stone columns supporting the roof, and a frieze along the walls between the columns. A soul-chilling, eerie light, reflected by the tenuous layer of mist, obscured further details.

  As the mist, released from the confines of the small rotunda, dispersed through the open door, Conan perceived a circular, well-like opening in the centre of the floorboards, from the depths of which emanated an emerald glow and the muffled sound of rhythmic chanting. Borne on the mists, a putrid odour wafted up. Valeria thrust a hand across her face; Subotai wrinkled his nose.

  “What plant or animal could stink like that?” he whispered.

  “A three-day-old battlefield,” Conan rumbled. “That’s carrion, or I’m a Hyrkanian.”

  “Look at this!” breathed Valeria. She pointed to the rim of the well, whence descended a series of iron rungs, forming a narrow ladder. Nearby an enormous hook protruded; and on it hung a pulley. Through this pulley a stout rope was threaded, the ends of which fell away into obscurity.

  Conan studied the contraption. “The beast-thing I killed probably ascended the iron ladder. But if there was need for haste, it might have ridden upward on this rope —assuming there be some counterweight below. We’ll use the rungs, knowing nought of that.”

  “I’d trust my own rope more,” whispered Valeria, frowning. “Those rungs look far apart and ill-fixed to the well wall.”

  “Come on, girl!” muttered Conan, lowering himself over the edge of the narrow platform. “If the rungs could bear the beast-thing, they’ll support our weight.”

  Masking her fear in a proud display of courage, Valeria swung out into the void, sought out a rung with a wary toe, and began the descent. Subotai, clutching his strung bow and a single arrow in one fist, came last.

  In silence they made their way into the unknown depths. Polished stones of a darkling hue, set with bright gems, made mockery of the star-tossed firmament beyond the tower’s pinnacle; for in the confines of the well, it seemed the very skies pressed in upon them with ominous intent. As each uncertain step was taken, the distant chanting swelled in volume, and the carrion stench enveloped them.

  At last they felt a cut-stone floor beneath their feet and saw the source of the almondine illumination. They stood in a round rock chamber, from which two darkened openings led away. A third aperture, the size of a large door, was blocked by an iron grating of widely-spaced bars; and it was through these bars that the strange light pushed its demoniac way. To Conan’s astonishment, near where they stood, another well-throat gaped into utter darkness.

  Through the bars, Conan and his companions, approaching carefully, could see a huge, pillared hall, lit by a pulsing emerald light. The floor of that great chamber glowed in the strange luminescence like the unbroken surface of a silent pond. Valeria whispered, “How could I hey fit this hall into the tower? It’s far too big!”

  “We must have descended far below the level of the street,” muttered Conan.

  He and Valeria exchanged a glance, an opulent design of curiosity stitched by needles of fear. Then the girl shrugged and slid her slender body between the bars of the grating. Conan followed with more difficulty; he had to turn sidewise and exhale sharply to force his massive shoulders through. Subotai, lithe as an eel despite his armaments, joined them.

  Beyond the shadows in which they paused, between two rows of columns, a group of robed figures stood with their backs to the intruders. At the farthest end of the rock-hewn hall, another man occupied some sort of ledge or balcony, his body clearly visible above the heads of the massed and reverent throng. In the bright light that was focused on him, Conan saw that he was a man of gigantic size, and black of skin. A magnificent specimen of virile manhood, the black stood, half naked, hands raised and eyes closed, intoning the sonorous chant which had broken the silence.

  Valeria nudged Conan. “That is Yaro, second in the hierarchy,” she whispered. “Only the man called Doom stands higher in the cult.”

  For a moment, Conan was riveted to the spot at the mention of that name; but he said nothing. Subotai murmured: “I have heard of such black men from countries far to the south. Is this Yaro, then, a Kushite?”

  Valeria shrugged. “They say he is a thousand years old; so Bel and Ishtar alone know whence he hails.”

  “Our way is blocked with worshippers,” said Conan softly. “How shall we pass them without raising an alarm?” “Let’s work our way around the side,” whispered Valeria. “I think there is another, lower level, and without doubt a stair to reach it by.”

  She glided from pillar to pillar, a silent shadow among the shadows, followed by Conan and Subotai. When they had almost reached the area in which stood the congregation, Valeria pointed to a dungeon-black stairwell. “You two go down,” she breathed, “to see what’s there. I’ll stay here for the time to guard your back.”

  The two men, tense with apprehension, descended a narrow, winding stair amid motionless, foetid air, which bore to their nostrils an ever-waxing stench. At length they reached another vaulted chamber, lit but feebly through a round opening in the ceiling. This aperture, Conan realized, connected the room in which they stood with that in which the ceremony they had glimpsed was in progress.

  As they felt their way through the foul air, Subotai started and hissed, “Erlik’s blood, Conan! Look at that!” The floor beneath the circular opening was littered with corpses, male and female. Some appeared fresh; others were far gone in decay; still others had been reduced to skeletal remains. As the men edged closer to the mass of putrescence, rats fled squeaking before them, their eyes aglow with hostility when, upon reaching safety, the rodents turned briefly to watch the intruders.

  Veiled in the darkness beyond the opening, Conan looked up. He could see Yaro kneeling on his balcony. As the black man rose, the chanting faded to a whisper. Moving as silently as a stalking panther, the Cimmerian skirted the shamble of corpses and positioned himself directly below the leader, whence, unseen, he could observe the faces of the foremost rank of worshippers. The cultists seemed to be young persons of both sexes, although I heir hoods shadowed their rapt faces and their long robes hid their bodies.

  As Conan watched, one of the group stepped forward, discarding its hooded robe. Revealed in the emerald light was a beautiful young woman, whose slender body was scarcely shielded by a gauzy wisp of fabric. With resolute step, the maiden mounted a stone corbel that jutted out like a spar from the side of the aperture; and as she moved, the solemn chanting swelled in volume.

  Subotai plucked at Conan’s sleeve and pointed to a low archway at the far side of the chamber. Conan tore his gaze away from the girl poised above the pit, and followed the Hyrkanian. Scrambling to get through the waist-high opening, Conan found himself in a rotunda some twenty paces across, with no entry or egress save that through which they had come. A pair of lamps, su
pported by ornate wall brackets, cast a fitful light across the curvate walls.

  The centre of the room was occupied by a truncated pylon or altar, awrithe with carved figures and glyphs.

  The Eye of the Serpent!” hissed Subotai, pointing. “Gods, look at that!”

  Conan’s glance, obedient to the Hyrkanian’s eager gesture, revealed an enormous ruby-red jewel of tear-drop shape, resting upon the stone pylon. Then a slight movement drew his attention to the altar’s base. Coiled about the stela was a serpent of prodigious size. No snake so large in size had the young Cimmerian ever heard of, or even imagined. The lamplight in the chamber sparkled on the glittering scales that clothed the sinuous length of the monstrous reptile, and added immeasurably to its apparent magnitude.

  “The rarest gem on earth, and the largest, by Mitra!” panted Subotai. “We could buy an emirate in Turan with it.”

  “Aye, if we could lay hand on it. Do you see what guards it?”

  Subotai inhaled a shocked breath, as he contemplated the enormity before them.

  Conan took a cautious step forward. “Does it sleep or, wake?” he whispered. “Its eyes are open.”

  “You can’t tell with snakes,” said Subotai. “They have no eyelids.”

  Conan took two more steps, but still the serpent remained motionless. “Could I but sever its neck with one mighty blow...’’ he muttered.

  “Oh, no!” said Subotai. “You little comprehend how long it takes for such vermin to die. In its thrashings, the headless body would crush us to pulp.”

  “Well, then,” growled Conan, “we must take the gem without arousing the brute. Here!”

  Moving as softly as he could, Conan pulled his baldric over his head and handed his scabbarded weapon to the Hyrkanian. Then he glided toward the pylon and its scaly guardian. When only a hand’s breadth separated his feet from the bulging coils of the creature, Conan stretched out his arm; but the ruby gem remained tantalizingly beyond his reach.

  Conan drew back, frowning in thought. If he let his body topple forward, bracing his chest against the pylon, he could reach the jewel without touching the serpent’s coils. I If he failed, he would surely die. He drew a deep breath, stiffened his back, and, standing on his toes, fell forward, until his outstretched hands made contact with the altar’s edge and broke his fall.

  Tightening the grasp of his right hand, he stretched forth his left to pluck the gem from the indentation in the carven surface on which it lay. Although the jewel felt icy cold against his palm, Conan tucked the stone into his tunic. He was about to try to regain his balance when another object on the altar caught his eye.

  Next to the hollow in which the gem had reposed lay a small bronze medallion, embossed with a design that, despite the dim light, awoke echoes in the barbarian’s mind.

  At the sight of two writhing serpents with intertwining tails, Conan’s memory fled back to the dreadful day in his childhood when, through the snow-trampled rutted road of his Cimmerian village, wheeling horsemen drove their merciless dogs and raised their swords against defenceless villagers. And he remembered the glittering arc made by Doom’s sword—his father’s sword—and his mother’s severed head....

  It was a grim-faced Conan who clamped the medallion between his jaws and heaved himself into an upright position. Turning, he started toward the low archway, when a look of horror crossed the Hyrkanian’s face.

  “Behind you!” croaked Subotai, his vocal chords half paralysed with terror.

  Conan whipped around to find that the serpent had awakened. The great wedge-shaped head, as large as that of horse, rose to the height of a man. The slavering jaws opened, like a miniature drawbridge, to reveal rows of dagger fangs.

  When the huge body lunged forward, Conan whipped out his long-bladed dirk; and as the snake’s head approached, he struck with the tigerish speed of a trained killer. The dagger’s needle point impaled the serpent’s lower jaw and drove in through the reptile’s palate, pinning the wicked jaws together.

  Hissing, the wounded serpent threw a confining coil about its attacker’s body, immobilizing one of Conan’s arms. A jerk of the creature’s head tore the dirk out of the barbarian's grasp and carried it out of reach. Struggling to loose the deadly coil, Conan staggered back against the wall of the chamber, but to no avail. The snake threw a second coil about him.

  Conan’s face blackened as the relentless coils squeezed the breath from his body. With his free arm, the Cimmerian sought to batter the serpentine head against the wall; but so large and powerful was the reptile that his effort was futile.

  In an agony of fear, Subotai danced about trying to get a clear shot at the serpent without further endangering his friend. At last, he nocked an arrow and released his bowstring. The missile sank halfway into the scaly neck, but the serpent seemed to feel nothing. It whipped another murderous coil about the Cimmerian’s legs, nearly dragging 1 him to the ground.

  With a mighty heave of chest and shoulders, Conan if managed to force the serpent’s head against the wall, so that 1 the dagger point, which protruded from the creature’s skull, 9 scrapped on the mortar between two stones. With his remaining strength, the barbarian pounded the pommel of the dirk with his free fist, driving the point into the crumbling mortar.

  During that momentary respite, Subotai shot another arrow; then a third. This missile drove through the serpent’s neck and pierced the mortar, immobilizing the reptile. As it thrashed about to free itself, it loosed its grip on its adversary, and Conan reeling from the exertion, fought free.

  “Catch, Conan, catch!” hissed Subotai, tossing the barbarian’s sword to him, hilt first. Conan caught the weapon and wheeled, just as the snake pulled loose from its insecure restraint. As the scaly body plunged toward the Cimmerian, he raised the sword and, with two mighty hands upon the pommel, brought the blade down across the serpent’s neck, severing the head.

  “Watch out!” called Subotai, as the headless body thrashed like a giant whip, knocking Conan to the ground and sending the Hyrkanian flying across the empty altar. Slowly, the reptilian thrashings ceased as the creature’s life-blood ebbed; and the battered adventurers gathered up their scattered gear and made their way back into the carrion-littered hall.

  In the hall above, the ceremony neared its climax. Conan saw the black priest, Yaro, rise to his full height. At his commanding gesture, the mesmerized girl poised on the jutting corbel, raised her arms, and fell or threw herself into the corpse-filled pit.

  A chorus of cries of surprise and superstitious terror filled the darkened chamber when none heard the expected thud of a fallen body or scream of a dying victim. Yaro leaned forward, peering into the dim depths below. Instead of a broken body atop the pile of corpses, he saw the girl lowered unharmed to the floor by the arms of a giant who had caught her as she fell. He heard her shriek, “Our god is dead, is dead!” as she stared through the archway wherein the headless serpent lay. He watched as the giant recovered the bloodstained sword he had cast aside to catch the falling girl and as, with a smaller man beside him, the intruder vanished into the darkness.

  As Conan and Subotai raced for the stair, the shocked moment of silence erupted into a clamour of confusion. By the time they reached the top step, they saw between the pillars several robed figures bending over the supine body of a dishevelled woman. Conan looked in vain for Valeria; he saw that the woman on the floor was raven-haired and so could not be the she-thief.

  “Make for the tower shaft!” panted Subotai, and the two sprinted for the grating that separated the great hall from the tower well.

  “The intruders!” shouted Yaro behind them. “There go the infidels! Slay them, ye faithful!”

  The mob pressed forward, robes billowing. Among them came Yaro, two shaven-headed archers, and a man armed with an axe. Conan and Subotai squeezed through die grating.

  “Where in the nine hells is the wench?” snarled Conan.

  “Go on, you two!” cried a familiar voice. “I’ll cover your retre
at.”

  “Come on!” shouted Subotai, setting foot on the lowest mug of the ladder. Reluctantly, Conan sheathed his sword and, seizing the rung, followed his friend upward. The two archers reached the tower well and, kneeling down, nocked their arrows and drew their bowstrings back.

  Suddenly a small, robed figure leaped forward and slashed the taut bowstrings. An instant later, one archer lay sprawling in his gore, with two of the faithful at his side. Bloody dagger in hand, Valeria threw off her stolen disguise mid ran for the rope.

  “Seize her!” bellowed Yaro.

  The axe-man pushed after the fleeing girl and swung his weapon. Valeria ducked, and the force of his blow spun the fellow halfway round. Instantly, Valeria grasped her dagger with her teeth, whipped the rope’s end around her adversary’s throat, and tightened it.

  As the man struggled, tearing at the rope that was strangling him, Valeria tied a quick knot and pushed the gasping man over the edge of the opening in the floor. Then, as the man spun into the black pit, the she-thief seized the other end of the rope, which passed over the pulley at the top of the tower. The weight of the falling body sent Valeria soaring effortlessly out of sight of the faithful who huddled, howling with frustration, at the bars of the grating.

  As she hurtled upward, she passed Conan and Subotai, who were struggling painfully, hand over hand, up the narrow rungs of the iron ladder. Clinging to her rope with both hands, and gripping her dagger in her teeth, the girl threw back her head and laughed, as if to say, “Hurry, laggards, if you want to catch me!”

  Moments later, the men, panting with exertion, reached the top of the shaft and found Valeria cleaning the blood from her mouth and dagger. They sank to the well-rim flooring to catch their breath.

  “Well, did you get it?” asked Valeria.

  Wordlessly, Conan pulled the ice-fire gem from his tunic and held it up to view. Her smile of satisfaction was brief; for sounds of pursuit billowed up from below. “They’re climbing the ladder!” the girl whispered, peering down the long shaft. “I think some beast-men are among them. Hide the Serpent’s Eye!”