Conan and the Spider God (14 page)

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Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp

BOOK: Conan and the Spider God
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“Damn!” he muttered. “I swore that never again would I be caught in such a fix; so much for mortal plans. At least this good Kothian steel survived the blow.”
“Are you hurt?” inquired Jamilah, her low-pitched voice vibrant with concern.
“I think no bones are broken, albeit I have scratches and bruises aplenty. I feel like a man who has run the gauntlet between lines of foes with clubs.”
He wiped his sword on the tiger’s fur and sheathed it. Then, climbing the rope to the top of the wall, he sat astride it to haul the princess up and lower her down the other side. At last he released the rope from its attachment in the masonry and dropped down himself. He pulled on his boots, saying:
“Put on the cloak, and pull the hood well down. There will be guards at the city gate, so you’ll have to play the part of my sweetheart—one of the village girls from Khesron. Do you understand?”
“I trust, Master Nial,” she said, “that you do not plan some improper liberty. After all, I am of royal rank.”
“Fear not; but you’ll have to forget your royal rank if you want to get away from Yezud!”
“But—”
“But me no buts, lady! Your choice is between staying here and doing what I tell you. Make up your mind.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. Limping from his bruises, Conan hustled the noblewoman away.
A
s they passed another of the walls connecting the end of adjacent wings of the temple, Conan suddenly halted, also stopping Jamilah.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Listen!” He put his ear against the stone, motioning her to silence.
From the enclosure on the other side of this wall came two voices in grave discussion. Conan picked out the deep, bell-like tones of High Priest Feridun; the other voice he could not identify but assumed to be that of a lesser priest. The High Priest said:
“ … fear me the Children will not have reached their full growth for several months.”
“But, Holiness!” said the other voice. “We cannot continue to put off the King with bootless threats. He thinks we do but try to frighten him with imaginary bogles.”
“But my dear Mirzes, it is not we but he who is bluffing. Well he knows that let his raggle-taggle army but sight one of the Children of Zath, they will dissolve in panic flight. We have the most terrible weapon since the invention of the sword.”
“How shall we convince him?”
“Another embassy will soon arrive. If all else fails, I shall take Mithridates’s envoy below and show him.”
“Suppose he still rejects our just demands?”
“Then we shall set the Great Plan in motion. Even if not fully grown, the Children will perform their duty.”
“Zath grant that all work as planned, master,” murmured the priest Mirzes.
“Fear not,” replied Feridun’s tolling voice. “I can govern the Children, as I can beasts of all kinds. As my new Vicar, you must trust me to know best … .”
The voices faded away, as if the speakers were withdrawing into the temple. Conan motioned to Jamilah to resume their progress. But the delicate, highborn Turanian woman found it hard to keep up with Conan’s lengthy stride, and her thin slippers slipped on the rounded cobblestones.
“Here, let me carry you!” muttered Conan. When she uttered some faint protest, he swept her off her feet and pounded toward the city gate.
Soon afterward, as the moon hung low over the Karpashes, Conan astonished the Brythunians at the front gate by appearing, carrying the cloak-wrapped form of a woman. He set her on her feet but kept one brawny arm around her waist. He whispered in her ear:
“Now play your part, damn it; but don’t speak! They’d catch your accent.”
“Nial the lady-killer, at it again!” smirked one of the guards.
“Keep it quiet, lads,” said Conan. “I’m taking her home; but her people are narrow-minded.”
He tightened his grip on Jamilah’s waist with a little jerk. She forced a giggle and leaned her head on Conan’s shoulder. At a ribald remark from the other guard about what she and Conan had been doing, he felt her stiffen with indignation. But then they were through the small door and moving swiftly down the long incline to the bottom of the crag.
A
thunderous knocking on the front door of his inn aroused Bartakes. He dragged himself out of bed to shout imprecations down from his bedroom window, adding: “Any fool can see we are closed for the night!”
Conan roared back: “I don’t want you; I want Lord Parvez. Rouse him, unless you wish me to tear down your pigsty board by board! Tell him there’s a noble traveler here.”
Moments later, the yawning Turanian appeared at the door, clutching his flowered night-robe about him.
“Here she is,” said Conan’s rough voice, “sound but weary.”
Parvez dropped to one knee. “My lady Jamilah!” he exclaimed. “Come in at once!” A tear glistened on his cheek in the moonlight, so strong was his emotion. Rising, he said to Conan: “You have done the miraculous, young man. May I have my seal ring back, pray?”
“Oh, I forgot about it,” said Conan, slipping off the ring and handing it over.
“And one more thing. Have you seen my servant Chagor?”
“No, I have not. What of him?”
“The fellow has vanished, with his horse. No explanation. Ah, well; I must now bid you a hasty farewell, for it would not do to be here when the priests discover their captive has been enlarged. Bartakes, be so good as to rouse my retainers; we must be on the road ere dawn.”
“Permit me to thank you, Master Nial,” said Jamilah. “If ever you come to Turan, feel free to ask a boon of me, and if possible I will persuade the King to grant it. Farewell!” She disappeared into the inn.
B
ack at his quarters, Conan caught a little sleep and was lustily banging away at his anvil next morning when a party of four priests and two Brythunian soldiers appeared before his smithy. A priest in a scarlet turban and a dark-blue robe stepped into the smithy and, raising his voice above the clang of the hammer, said in a sharp, abrupt manner:
“You are Nial the blacksmith, are you not? A lady has been abducted. Hast seen such a person?”
“What sort of lady?” growled Conan, keeping his eyes on his workpiece. After a few more blows he returned it to the furnace and turned to face his questioner.
“Tall, black-haired, and fair to see,” said the priest, “albeit past her thirtieth year.”
Conan shook his head. “I know naught of such a woman.”
“Moreover, Ambassador Parvez and his Turanians hastily departed from Khesron last night. What know you of that?”
“Again, naught. I knew the man; we sometimes drank together of an evening.”
“What did you and he talk about?”
“Horses and swords and such things.”
“Someone,” persisted the priest in a hectoring tone, “slew the High Priest’s tiger with a single mighty blow of a sword or axe. Who but you has the thews for such a blow?”
Conan shrugged. “Many Brythunians are large, strong men. To you Zamorians, anyone else looks like a mountain of muscle. As for me, this is the first I have heard of it.”
“All barbarians are liars!” sneered the priest. “Fear not, we will get to the bottom of this, and you had better be ready to prove your innocence.” He took a step forward and thrust his face close to Conan’s.
Conan picked his workpiece out of the furnace with tongs and held the ruddily glowing iron before him. “Be careful around a forge, friend priest. If you get too close, this may set your whiskers afire.” When the priest hastily backed away, Conan laid the piece on the anvil and resumed his pounding.
The priest turned and rejoined his group, who marched away. Lar, who had watched the exchange big-eyed, said: “Oh, Master Nial, you all but defied the priests of Zath! They can call upon divine powers to blast you, if you use them with insolence!”
“What’s the name of the one who questioned me just now?” growled Conan.
“That is the holy father Mirzes.”
“I thought I knew the voice,” mused Conan. “He’s the new Vicar, I hear. Come on, lad; put some thews into working the bellows! Your fire is barely hot enough to boil water.”
 
THE STENCH OF CARRJON
 
F
or several days Conan did not see Rudabeh, save when she danced during a service to Zath. He entered the temple early, so as to stand in the front row, whence he had the best view of the spider-idol. Since this was a fair day and sunlight came through the clerestory windows above, Conan could clearly make out the four Eyes across the front of the creature, even at a distance of twenty cubits.
The barbarian’s keen vision caught sight of a thin ring around each Eye, lighter in color than the black stone of the statue. This, Conan reasoned, must be a ring of metal or cement let into the stone to hold the gem in place. To remove the Eyes he would have to dislodge these retaining rings, and do so very gently, so as not to crack the jewels. Conan had a good working knowledge of gems from his days as a thief, and he knew the fragility of opals.
Meanwhile his passion for Rudabeh, instead of subsiding, tormented him more and more. When Amytis told him that she expected her daughter home for supper, he impatiently awaited her in the garden, brooding.
On one hand, a fierce desire, like a tornado whirling along its serpentine path of destruction, surged up within him, to give up his rootless, adventurous life, to wed Rudabeh according to the laws of Zamora, and to become, as best he might, a solid citizen who cherished his growing family, joined the municipal watch, worshiped at the temple, and paid his tithes.
Yet, on the other hand, Conan’s wild, free, undisciplined spirit recoiled from this tableau as from a venomous serpent. But his other choice was to forget the girl and flee instanter, with the Eyes of Zath if he could obtain them, without them if he could not. If Feridun loosed his promised devastation upon the land, he might have to flee anyway, with or without Rudabeh.
When she appeared, he held out his arms. She shook her head, saying: “Do not torment me, Nial. I do truly love you, but you know under what conditions I would give myself to you.”
“But, my girl—” began Conan.
She held up a hand saying: “I have news of moment. You’ve heard of the disappearance of the princess Jamilah?”
“Aye; some such gossip has smitten my ears.”
“The High Priest is furious, as you might expect. Some of the priests suspect you of complicity.”
“Who, me?” said Conan with an air of injured innocence. “What have I to do with a Turanian noblewoman?”
“They know you were thick with that diplomat at Bartakes’s Inn, who vanished the same night as Jamilah. You would have been seized already, but that Feridun insists he have solid evidence against you ere he acts. I must say the old man tries to live up to his principles.
“Furthermore,” continued Rudabeh, “if gossip be true, the High Priest has advanced the date of his revolution. He held Jamilah as a hostage for the good conduct of the King of Turan. Now he must needs move quickly ere the Turanians learn of the princess’s escape. So he has warned all the temple folk to hold themselves ready seven days hence. When the alarm gong sounds, we must all go to our quarters and bolt ourselves in.”
Conan grunted as he digested this information. He must, he thought, get rid of that telltale coil of rope before some snooping priest stumbled upon it.
Amytis called, and they went in for supper. Afterwards, Conan escorted Rudabeh back to the temple and took his way to Khesron. He would have to plan his raid on the temple quickly, and he thought he could map his campaign best sitting alone with a stoup of wine before him.
“Hail, Nial!” At the inn, Catigern’s booming voice jogged Conan’s elbow. “How about a game?” The Brythunian rattled a pair of dice in his fist.
“I thank you, but not tonight,” said Conan. “I need to be alone.”
Catigern shrugged and went off to seek other companionship. Conan resumed his broodings. Several jacks of wine later, another voice, with a slight lisp and a guttural accent, invaded his musings. It was Psamitek the Stygian.
“Master Nial,” said the slim, swarthy scholar. “Someone wishes to see you beyond the inn.”
“Well,” growled Conan ungraciously, “tell that someone to come in. He can see me better here in the light.”
The scholar smiled a crooked little smile. “It is a lady,” he murmured. “It would not be proper for her to enter a vulgar barrelhouse like this.”
“Lady?” grunted Conan. “What the devil …” He rose, wondering if Jamilah, for some unaccountable reason, had returned to Khesron; but no, that would be insane. He followed Psamitek out.
In the courtyard of Bartakes’s Inn, illuminated by the bitumen lamp over the front door and the light of the gibbous moon, stood Rudabeh. Conan gasped as he viewed her; for, instead of the modest street garb she normally wore outside the temple, she was clad in her dancing costume of a few strings of beads and nothing else.
“Conan, darling!” she said in a low, thrilling voice. “You were right and I was wrong. Come, and I will show you that I am as much a woman as you are a man. I know a place where the grass is thick and soft.”
She turned and walked deliberately out of the courtyard, while Conan followed like a man in a daze. In the back of his mind, reason tried to warn him that all was not as it seemed; but the warning was swept aside by his rising tide of passion. His blood roared in his ears.
Rudabeh led Conan past a few hovels and out of the village. Her well-rounded form swayed seductively as she walked. Away from the houses of Khesron, the stony ground sloped up, and Conan became impatient to reach the promised meadow.
The ground leveled again, and Rudabeh turned to face Conan. She held out welcoming arms—and in that instant she disappeared. In her place stood Chagor the Turanian, Parvez’s vanished retainer, whom Conan had bathed in the horse trough. Chagor held a thick, double-curved Hyrkanian compound bow, with an arrow drawn to the head.
“Ha!” cried the Turanian. “Now you see!” And he released his shaft with the same sharp, flat twang that Conan had heard when he lost his horse. At that range it was impossible to miss.
But as Chagor let fly his shaft, something flew from behind Conan and struck the Turanian with a thump in the chest. As a result, the arrow whistled past Conan’s ear.
Before Chagor could whip another shaft from his quiver, Conan swept out his scimitar and charged with the roar of an angry lion. The Turanian dropped his bow and likewise drew, just in time to meet Conan’s rush.
Steel clanged and scraped in the moonlight. Behind him, Conan heard sounds of struggle but had no leisure to investigate. The Turanian was a strong swordsman, and Conan found his hands full. Slash backhand—parry—a a forehand cut—parry—feint—parry … The dancing blades clashed, ground, and twirled to the accompaniment of the stamp of booted feet, heavy breathing, and muttered curses.
The curses were Chagor’s, for Conan fought in grim silence. Chagor gasped. “I show you, dog … . Your head go to priest of Erlik … . Then me rich, you dead … .”
Once Chagor was a fraction slow in bringing his blade to a proper parry. Conan’s heavier sword sliced into his forearm. Uttering a yell of dismay, Chagor dropped his scimitar. With a catlike leap, Conan sprang forward and, with the power born of frenzy, swung his sword in a wide horizontal arc. The blade sheared through the Turanian’s thick neck; his head flew off, to land like a thrown melon in a nearby clump of shrubbery. The body, spouting a fountain of blood, black in the moonlight, tumbled to earth like a felled tree.
At the continuing sounds of struggle behind him, Conan whirled and perceived a tangle of limbs, which resolved itself into Captain Catigern struggling on the ground with Psamitek the Stygian.
Conan seized one of the Stygian’s arms with his free hand and twisted. Between him and Catigern, they subdued the scholar, who sat up with his arms gripped behind him and Catigern’s dagger pricking his throat.
“How came you to help me so timely?” asked Conan.
“I saw you follow this dog out,” explained Catigern, “after you said you wished to be alone; so I became suspicious. I never trusted this Stygian dung; and the next thing I saw was you following Chagor up the hill, bleating endearments, while Psamitek followed you, mumbling some spell. Since this did not sound like you, Nial, I followed Psamitek. When the Turanian drew an arrow on you, I cast a stone to spoil his aim and went for the Stygian. Have a care with this devil; he’s stronger than he looks. He bit me.”
“All right, Psamitek,” said Conan. “Explain this business. There’s a small chance that, if we like your explanation, we’ll let you live.”
“You heard Chagor,” said Psamitek. “He overheard Ambassador Parvez address you as ‘Conan,’ and I knew about Tughril’s offer for Conan’s head. So we put
our
heads together and arranged that he should desert Parvez’s escort, and we should divide the reward betwixt us. Even your limited minds could grasp this simple scheme … .”
Psamitek’s hypnotic voice so absorbed the attention of Conan and Catigern that they relaxed their grip upon him. Instantly the Stygian, lithe as an eel, squirmed out of their grasp and sprang to his feet. Conan leaped up, swinging his scimitar in a blow that would have cut the slender Stygian in two.
But the blade only swished through empty air. Psamitek had vanished like a blown-out candle flame.
“Come back here!” roared Conan, rushing this way and that with his blade bared and crashing through thorny bushes. The only reply was a peal of cynical, mocking laughter.
“You have your tricks, Conan,” said the lisping voice, “but I have mine also, as you shall yet see. Farewell, barbarian lout!”
Conan dashed toward the voice, his sword cleaving the air; but he found nothing. Catigern said: “Save your breath, Nial. The fellow is evidently an expert caster of illusions, and he has made himself invisible. What’s this about your being Conan, with a price on your head?”
“You should know better than to ask a fellow mercenary about his past,” growled Conan.
“True; forget what I said. We had better drag the Turanian’s remains back to the village. The priests will want another report.”
“Why not leave him for the hyenas?”
“His ghost would haunt us.”
“Oh, very well,” said Conan, grasping one ankle of the corpse and dragging it. “You can carry the head, though I’d rather send it as a gift to Tughril. And thanks for saving my life.”
A
s the Festival of All Gods approached, the temple of Zath hummed with activity. Rudabeh’s time was taken up with her duties, so Conan had no more personal meetings with her. Bartakes’s Inn filled up with the retinues of priestly parties from far parts of Zamora, and latecomers were obliged to rent space in the cramped houses of the villagers or pitch tents in the surrounding fields.
The festival began three days after the slaying of Chagor. Delegations from opulent sanctuaries and lowly shrines of the various Zamorian gods paraded up the broad steps of the temple with pomp and ceremony. Catigern’s Brythunians, their polished mail flashing in the sun, stood facing one another in two lines at opposite ends of the temple steps. As each pontiff, in glittering robe and jewel-bedight headdress, marched slowly up the stairs, the soldiers raised their pikes and halberds in salute, then grounded their weapons with a thunderous crash. The priesthoods of the different deities were riven by venomous rivalries, Conan knew, and ceaselessly intrigued to damage one another. But for today each legate beamed upon his fellow clerics and bowed benignly to the assembled priests of Zath.
During the procession of the priests, Conan stood in an inconspicuous corner of the square that fronted on the temple. But after the entrance of the last delegation, when the folk of Yezud and the spellbound pilgrims streamed in to honor the assembled gods of the Zamorian pantheon, Conan mingled with the motley crowd. In the vestibule he thought of slipping away for another attempt to explore the corridors; but this was impossible with a Brythunian firmly planted in front of the entrance to each hallway. So Conan resigned himself to standing through one more endless suite of rituals.
He took a place at the rear of the naos and stood through three hours of ceremony, in which the high priests of the other gods took turns invoking their deities and begging them for favors. Conan ignored their pronouncements but admired the glitter of their bejewelled regalia. If he could only strip a few of these pontiffs of their robes and miters, he thought, the jewels in them would ease his life for years, even though their value would be but a fraction of that of the Eyes of Zath.
T
wo days later, shafts of rain, hurled from a leaden sky, flogged the worn cobblestones of Yezud as the Festival of All Gods ended. The visiting priests, wrapped in voluminious hooded cloaks against the rain, bid ceremonious farewells to Feridun and his new Vicar on the steps of the temple before turning away to take their places in carriages and horse litters or to mount horses, mules, and camels.
That night, while rain still fell, a giant figure in a dark cloak slipped through the streets of Yezud on noiseless moccasins. At the southernmost wing on the east side of the temple of Zath, Conan fumbled for the silver arrow he had received from Parvez. Touching the lock with the point, he murmured:
“Kapinin achilir genishi!”

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