Jewels of Gwahlur
reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached
him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The
priests of Keshan had come.
They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had
expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into
the valley of Alkmeenon.
They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high.
He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of
copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black
men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the
procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of
countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom
Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the
pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the
intrigues of the Stygian.
He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the
fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches
streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the
double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps
and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined
wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room,
their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In
single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics
contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the
ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily
at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais.
Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space,
framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then
the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing
repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose,
showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The
gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan
darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne.
He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber.
Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he
pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through.
Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back
against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume
of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of
course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far
gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who
knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an
actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but
she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked
exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one
could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life.
Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar
to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue
of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests.
It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing
lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she
snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the
little trollop tortured and slain by these men.
But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a
conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its
period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on
the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural
attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the
great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the
ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak,
great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the
darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed
the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh
mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the
Stygian?'
The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull
bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half
in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in
the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal,
though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent.
'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be
driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are
thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur
be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of
Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!'
There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat,
believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks
did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of
which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a
murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered
fanatically in the torchlight.
'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of
the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo
and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful
jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the
command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command
they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your
leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for
him whom the gods love!'
'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious
gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests
backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the
rhythm of their genuflexions.
The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on
the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!'
'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the
niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door
showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was
at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the
torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly.
An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome
which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining
dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the
curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black
countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the
chambers immediately adjoining.
But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was
brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the
passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring
into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to
lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little
way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he
could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere
down it.
While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from
behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an
unexpected spectacle in the crystal light.
The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but
one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were
convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat,
choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally.
'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra.
'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye,
Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his
friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first
I'll--'
A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder
warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's
sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong
backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from
a ragged gash in his scalp.
Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the
priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but
Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him.
'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh,
please take me away!'
'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see
where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you
can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?'
'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I
was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this
big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--'
'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on!
That gem is worth a fortune itself.'
She hesitated, as if loth to return to that cryptic chamber; then, as he
grasped Gwarunga's girdle and dragged him into the alcove, she turned
and entered the oracle room.
Conan dumped the senseless black on the floor, and lifted his sword. The
Cimmerian had lived too long in the wild places of the world to have any
illusions about mercy. The only safe enemy was a headless enemy. But
before he could strike, a startling scream checked the lifted blade. It
came from the oracle chamber.
'Conan! Conan! She's come back!' The shriek ended in a gurgle and a
scraping shuffle.
With an oath Conan dashed out of the alcove, across the throne dais and
into the oracle chamber, almost before the sound had ceased. There he
halted, glaring bewilderedly. To all appearances Muriela lay placidly on
the dais, eyes closed as in slumber.
'What in thunder are you doing?' he demanded acidly. 'Is this any time
to be playing jokes--'
His voice trailed away. His gaze ran along the ivory thigh molded in the
close-fitting silk skirt. That skirt should gape from girdle to hem. He
knew, because it had been his own hand that tore it as he ruthlessly
stripped the garment from the dancer's writhing body. But the skirt
showed no rent. A single stride brought him to the dais and he laid his
hand on the ivory body--snatched it away as if it had encountered hot
iron instead of the cold immobility of death.
'Crom!' he muttered, his eyes suddenly slits of bale-fire. 'It's not
Muriela! It's Yelaya!'
He understood now that frantic scream that had burst from Muriela's lips
when she entered the chamber. The goddess had returned. The body had
been stripped by Zargheba to furnish the accouterments for the
pretender. Yet now it was clad in silk and jewels as Conan had first
seen it. A peculiar prickling made itself manifest among the short hairs
at the base of Conan's scalp.
'Muriela!' he shouted suddenly. 'Muriela! Where the devil are you?'
The walls threw back his voice mockingly. There was no entrance that he
could see except the golden door, and none could have entered or
departed through that without his knowledge. This much was
indisputable: Yelaya had been replaced on the dais within the few
minutes that had elapsed since Muriela had first left the chamber to be
seized by Gwarunga; his ears were still tingling with the echoes of
Muriela's scream, yet the Corinthian girl had vanished as if into thin