Jewels of Gwahlur, Reboxed, Page 2

  Chapter 2.

  A God Awakens

  The Cimmerian at first made no attempt to fight the current that was sweeping her through lightless night. She kept herself afloat, gripping between her teeth the sword, which she had not relinquished, even in her fall, and did not seek to guess to what doom she was being borne. But suddenly a beam of light lanced the darkness ahead of her. She saw the surging, seething black surface of the water, in turmoil as if disturbed by some monster of the deep, and she saw the sheer stone walls of the channel curved up to a vault overhead. On each side ran a narrow ledge, just below the arching roof, but they were far out of her reach. At one point this roof had been broken, probably fallen in, and the light was streaming through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as she saw she would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again.

  Then she saw something else: bronze ladders extending from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of her. Instantly she struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held her to the middle of the stream. It dragged at her as with tangible, animate, slimy hands, but she buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now she was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge she gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless.

  A few seconds later she struggled up out of the seething water, trusting her weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and she clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a woman's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend her head as she stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conyn's efforts. She transferred her sword from her teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood -- for the edge had cut her lips in that fierce fight with the river -- and turned her attention to the broken roof.

  She could reach her arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told her it would bear her weight. An instant later she had drawn herself up through the hole, and found herself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conyn believed she was still in the great palace. She wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate her back into the current from which she had just crawled.

  And she wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath her weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: she was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure her to her death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace.

  Could it be someone on the same mission as herself? A sudden thought occurred to her, at the memory of the mysterious Bit-Yakin. Was it not possible that this woman had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in her long residence in Alkmeenon -- that her servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that she might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian.

  Choosing a corridor which she believed led back toward the part of the palace she had first entered, she hurried along it, stepping gingerly as she thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below her feet.

  Her speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding place.

  The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of her sandaled feet. The chambers and halls she traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as she advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. She wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. She was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity.

  She was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where she was, but presently she emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne room under one of the arches. She had reached a decision; it was useless for her to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. She would conceal herself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, she would follow them to the hiding place of the gems, to which she was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. She would content herself with the rest.

  Drawn by a morbid fascination, she re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the prince who was worshipped as a god, entranced by his frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form?

  She started violently. The breath sucked through her teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of her scalp. The body still lay as she had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken skirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red--

  With a panicky curse Conyn ripped out her sword.

  "Crom! He's alive!"

  At her words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gazed up at her inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. She glared in frozen speechlessness.

  He sat up with a supple ease, still holding her ensorcelled stare.

  She licked her dry lips and found voice.

  "You -- are -- are you Yelay?" she stammered.

  "I am Yelay!" The voice was rich and musical, and she stared with new wonder. "Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding."

  "How can a dead man come to life after all these centuries?" she demanded, as if skeptical of what her senses told her. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in her eyes.

  He lifted his arms in a mystical gesture.

  "I am a god. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the god in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Woman, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!" The voice became imperious, and his slender arm lifted and pointed.

  Conyn, her eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed her sword, but she did not obey his order. She stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination -- without the slightest warning she grabbed his up in a bear-like grasp. He screamed a very ungod-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench she tore off his skirt.

  "God! Ha!" Her bark was full of angry contempt. She ignored the frantic writhings of her captive. "I thought it was strange that a prince of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Murielo, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing boy. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. God! Bah!" She smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with her open hand, and the boy yelped piteously.

  All his imperiousness had gone out of him. He was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing boy, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market place. He lifted up his voice and wept unashamedly. His captor glared down at his with angry triumph.

  "God! Ha! So you were one of the veiled men Zargheba brought to Keshia with her. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I
saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces -- or men's figures. I think I'll--"

  Squirming about in her grasp he threw his slender arms about her massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down his cheeks, and his sobs quivered with a note of hysteria.

  "Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!"

  "Why, you sacrilegious little hustler!" rumbled Conyn. "Do you not fear the gods? Crom! Is there no honesty anywhere?"

  "Oh, please!" he begged, quivering with abject fright. "I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!"

  "What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an imposter?" she demanded.

  At the thought his legs refused to support him, and he collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conyn's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of his innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from his pose as the ancient prince, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved his then was now his undoing.

  "Where is Zargheba?" she demanded. "Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me."

  "Outside the palace," he whimpered, "watching for the priests."

  "How many women with her?"

  "None. We came alone."

  "Ha!" It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. "You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?"

  He shook his head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation she seized his slim shoulders and shook his until he gasped for breath.

  "Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?"

  "Zargheba knew the secret way," he gasped. "The priestess Gwarunga told her, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets."

  "I climbed the cliffs on the east side," she muttered. "Well, what then?"

  "We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while she went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think she fully trusted Gwarunga. While she was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the god Yelay lay upon the dais. She stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then she went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away."

  "What were you to say as the oracle?" she asked.

  "I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as she desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately."

  "Thutmekri wanted the treasure where she -- or the Zembabwans -- could lay hand on it easily," muttered Conyn, disregarding the remark concerning herself. "I'll carve her liver yet -- Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?"

  "No. She believes in her gods, and is incorruptible. She knows nothing about this. She will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, she had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded."

  "Well, I'm damned!" muttered Conyn. "A priestess who honestly believes in her oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did she know I was here? Could she have known about that rotten flagging? Where is she now, boy?"

  "Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace," he answered. Then he renewed his importunities. "Oh, Conyn, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me -- oh, Conyn, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served her purpose here -- I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit.

  "She is a devil -- she bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of her intrigues ever since. Take me away from her! You can not be as cruel as she. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!"

  He was on his knees, clutching at Conyn hysterically, his beautiful tear-stained face upturned to her, his dark silken hair flowing in disorder over him white shoulders. Conyn picked his up and set his on her knee.

  "Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you."

  He faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping her corded neck as if seeking security from the contact.

  "Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelay, as Zargheba planned -- it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and her Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and tratiors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conyn. Let her lead the armies of Keshan. She is beloved of the gods.'"

  He shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced.

  "But Zargheba?" he cried. "She'll kill me!"

  "Don't worry about Zargheba," she grunted. "I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it."

  She replaced the great glowing gem herself, nodding approval.

  "It's worth a roomful of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A god doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelay, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the god with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily."

  "I'll try," he shivered.

  "Good; I'm going to find Zargheba."

  At that he became panicky again.

  "No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!"

  "There's nothing here to harm you," she assured his impatiently. "Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after her. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong."

  And turning, she hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind her Murielo squeaked wretchedly at her going.

  Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conyn strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the boy was nervous amid such surroundings.

  She glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs, stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. She made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. She followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until she saw ahead of her, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the boy, Zargheba should be lurking. Conyn became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, she melted into the thickets.

  She approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed her passing. At the
edge of the trees she halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of her, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conyn knew that it was a woman's face. And it was turned toward her. She shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen her? The woman was looking directly toward her. Seconds passed. The dim face had not moved. Conyn could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black locks.

  And suddenly Conyn was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, she knew, was not a tall woman. Standing erect, she head would scarcely top the Cimmerians shoulders; yet that face was on a level with Conyn's own. Was the woman standing on something? Conyn bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but her vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But she saw something else, and she stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush she glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. She should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body -- but there was no body there.

  Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks her prey, Conyn glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. She looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair.