Jewels of Gwahlur
start Conan realized that the mummy in the cavern must be the remains of
the writer of the manuscript, the mysterious Pelishtim, Bît-Yakin. The
man had died, as he had prophesied, and his servants, obviously, had
placed him in that open crypt, high up on the cliffs, according to his
instructions before his death.
It was strange that Bît-Yakin was not mentioned in any of the legends of
Alkmeenon. Obviously he had come to the valley after it had been
deserted by the original inhabitants--the manuscript indicated as
much--but it seemed peculiar that the priests who came in the old days
to consult the oracle had not seen the man or his servants. Conan felt
sure that the mummy and this parchment were more than a hundred years
old. Bît-Yakin had dwelt in the valley when the priests came of old to
bow before dead Yelaya. Yet concerning him the legends were silent,
telling only of a deserted city, haunted only by the dead.
Why had the man dwelt in this desolate spot, and to what unknown
destination had his servants departed after disposing of their master's
corpse?
Conan shrugged his shoulders and thrust the parchment back into his
girdle--he started violently, the skin on the backs of his hands
tingling. Startlingly, shockingly in the slumberous stillness, there had
boomed the deep strident clangor of a great gong!
He wheeled, crouching like a great cat, sword in hand, glaring down the
narrow corridor from which the sound had seemed to come. Had the priests
of Keshia arrived? This was improbable, he knew; they would not have had
time to reach the valley. But that gong was indisputable evidence of
human presence.
Conan was basically a direct-actionist. Such subtlety as he possessed
had been acquired through contact with the more devious races. When
taken off guard by some unexpected occurrence, he reverted instinctively
to type. So now, instead of hiding or slipping away in the opposite
direction as the average man might have done, he ran straight down the
corridor in the direction of the sound. His sandals made no more sound
than the pads of a panther would have made; his eyes were slits, his
lips unconsciously asnarl. Panic had momentarily touched his soul at the
shock of that unexpected reverberation, and the red rage of the
primitive that is wakened by threat of peril always lurked close to the
surface of the Cimmerian.
He emerged presently from the winding corridor into a small open court.
Something glinting in the sun caught his eye. It was the gong, a great
gold disk, hanging from a gold arm extending from the crumbling wall. A
brass mallet lay near, but there was no sound or sight of humanity. The
surrounding arches gaped emptily. Conan crouched inside the doorway for
what seemed a long time. There was no sound or movement throughout the
great palace. His patience exhausted at last, he glided around the curve
of the court, peering into the arches, ready to leap either way like a
flash of light, or to strike right or left as a cobra strikes.
He reached the gong, stared into the arch nearest it. He saw only a dim
chamber, littered with the debris of decay. Beneath the gong the
polished marble flags showed no footprints, but there was a scent in the
air--a faintly fetid odor he could not classify; his nostrils dilated
like those of a wild beast as he sought in vain to identify it.
He turned toward the arch--with appalling suddenness the seemingly solid
flags splintered and gave way under his feet. Even as he fell he spread
wide his arms and caught the edges of the aperture that gaped beneath
him. The edges crumbled off under his clutching fingers. Down into utter
darkness he shot, into black icy water that gripped him and whirled him
away with breathless speed.
2 A Goddess Awakens
The Cimmerian at first made no attempt to fight the current that was
sweeping him through lightless night. He kept himself afloat, gripping
between his teeth the sword, which he had not relinquished, even in his
fall, and did not even seek to guess to what doom he was being borne.
But suddenly a beam of light lanced the darkness ahead of him. He saw
the surging, seething black surface of the water, in turmoil as if
disturbed by some monster of the deep, and he 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 his 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 he saw he would be
swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again.
Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to
the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead
of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would
have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with
tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with
the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore,
fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and
with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on,
breathless.
A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting
his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but
they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the
wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian
was forced to bend his head as he 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 Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its
scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce
fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof.
He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and
careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he
had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself 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 Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He
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 him back into the current from which he had just
crawled.
And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had
those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was
there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he
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 him to his
death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister,
fraught with crawling menace.
Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought
occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious Bît-Yakin. Was it not
possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long
residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when
they departed? The possibility that he might be following a
will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian.
Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the
palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as
he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below
his feet.
His 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 his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling
into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent.
He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from
the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a
shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative
problems of antiquity.
He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was,
but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great
throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was
useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard.
He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests
came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the
oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which
he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the
jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest.
Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and
stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was
worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic
secret was locked in that marvelously molded form?
He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short
hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had
first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold,
gilded sandals and silken shirt. 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 Conan ripped out his sword.
'Crom! She's alive!'
At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up
at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen
speechlessness.
She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare.
He licked his dry lips and found voice.
'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered.
'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new
wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.'
'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he
demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam
was beginning to smolder in his eyes.
She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture.
'I am a goddess. 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 goddess 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. Man,
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 her
slender arm lifted and pointed.
Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not
obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful
fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a
bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there
was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her
skirt.
'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the
frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a
princess 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 Muriela,
Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on
your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you.
Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and
resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously.