Shadows in Zamboula
'No need to curse him for that,' grinned Conan. 'The old hyena has
better taste than I thought.'
She ignored the bluff compliment. She was regaining her poise swiftly.
'My lover is a--a young Turanian soldier. To spite me, Totrasmek gave
him a drug that drove him mad. Tonight he snatched up a sword and came
at me to slay me in his madness, but I fled from him into the streets.
The negroes seized me and brought me to this--_what was that?_'
Conan had already moved. Soundlessly as a shadow he drew her behind the
nearest hut, beneath the straggling palms. They stood in tense
stillness, while the low mutterings both had heard grew louder until
voices were distinguishable. A group of negroes, some nine or ten, were
coming along the road from the direction of the city. The girl clutched
Conan's arm and he felt the terrified quivering of her supple body
against his.
Now they could understand the gutturals of the black men.
'Our brothers have already assembled at the pit,' said one. 'We have had
no luck. I hope they have enough for us.'
'Aram promised us a man,' muttered another, and Conan mentally promised
Aram something.
'Aram keeps his word,' grunted yet another. 'Many a man we have taken
from his tavern. But we pay him well. I myself have given him ten bales
of silk I stole from my master. It was good silk, by Set!'
The blacks shuffled past, bare splay feet scuffing up the dust, and
their voices dwindled down the road.
'Well for us those corpses are lying behind these huts,' muttered Conan.
'If they look in Aram's death-room they'll find another. Let's begone.'
'Yes, let us hasten!' begged the girl, almost hysterical again. 'My
lover is wandering somewhere in the streets alone. The negroes may take
him.'
'A devil of a custom this is!' growled Conan, as he led the way toward
the city, paralleling the road but keeping behind the huts and
straggling trees. 'Why don't the citizens clean out these black dogs?'
'They are valuable slaves,' murmured the girl. 'There are so many of
them they might revolt if they were denied the flesh for which they
lust. The people of Zamboula know they skulk the streets at night, and
all are careful to remain within locked doors, except when something
unforeseen happens, as it did to me. The blacks prey on anything they
catch, but they seldom catch anybody but strangers. The people of
Zamboula are not concerned with the strangers that pass through the
city.
'Such men as Aram Baksh sell these strangers to the blacks. He would not
dare attempt such a thing with a citizen.'
Conan spat in disgust, and a moment later led his companion out into the
road which was becoming a street, with still, unlighted houses on each
side. Slinking in the shadows was not congenial to his nature.
'Where do you want to go?' he asked. The girl did not seem to object to
his arm about her waist.
'To my house, to rouse my servants,' she answered. 'To bid them search
for my lover. I do not wish the city--the priests--anyone--to know of
his madness. He--he is a young officer with a promising future. Perhaps
we can drive this madness from him if we can find him.'
'If _we_ find him?' rumbled Conan. 'What makes you think I want to spend
the night scouring the streets for a lunatic?'
She cast a quick glance into his face, and properly interpreted the
gleam in his blue eyes. Any woman could have known that he would follow
her wherever she led--for a while, at least. But being a woman, she
concealed her knowledge of that fact.
'Please,' she began with a hint of tears in her voice, 'I have no one
else to ask for help--you have been kind--'
'All right!' he grunted. 'All right! What's the young reprobate's name?'
'Why--Alafdhal. I am Zabibi, a dancing-girl. I have danced often before
the satrap, Jungir Khan, and his mistress Nafertari, and before all the
lords and royal ladies of Zamboula. Totrasmek desired me, and because I
repulsed him, he made me the innocent tool of his vengeance against
Alafdhal. I asked a love potion of Totrasmek, not suspecting the depth
of his guile and hate. He gave me a drug to mix with my lover's wine,
and he swore that when Alafdhal drank it, he would love me even more
madly than ever, and grant my every wish. I mixed the drug secretly with
my lover's wine. But having drunk, my lover went raving mad and things
came about as I have told you. Curse Totrasmek, the hybrid snake--ahhh!'
She caught his arm convulsively and both stopped short. They had come
into a district of shops and stalls, all deserted and unlighted, for the
hour was late. They were passing an alley, and in its mouth a man was
standing, motionless and silent. His head was lowered, but Conan caught
the weird gleam of eery eyes regarding them unblinkingly. His skin
crawled, not with fear of the sword in the man's hand, but because of
the uncanny suggestion of his posture and silence. They suggested
madness. Conan pushed the girl aside and drew his sword.
'Don't kill him!' she begged. 'In the name of Set, do not slay him! You
are strong--overpower him!'
'We'll see,' he muttered, grasping his sword in his right hand and
clenching his left into a mallet-like fist.
He took a wary step toward the alley--and with a horrible moaning laugh
the Turanian charged. As he came he swung his sword, rising on his toes
as he put all the power of his body behind the blows. Sparks flashed
blue as Conan parried the blade, and the next instant the madman was
stretched senseless in the dust from a thundering buffet of Conan's left
fist.
The girl ran forward.
'Oh, he is not--he is not--'
Conan bent swiftly, turned the man on his side and ran quick fingers
over him.
'He's not hurt much,' he grunted. 'Bleeding at the nose, but anybody's
likely to do that, after a clout on the jaw. He'll come to after a bit,
and maybe his mind will be right. In the meantime I'll tie his wrists
with his sword-belt--so. Now where do you want me to take him?'
'Wait!' She knelt beside the senseless figure, seized the bound hands
and scanned them avidly. Then, shaking her head as if in baffled
disappointment, she rose. She came close to the giant Cimmerian, and
laid her slender hands on his arching breast. Her dark eyes, like wet
black jewels in the starlight, gazed up into his.
'You are a man! Help me! Totrasmek must die! Slay him for me!'
'And put my neck into a Turanian noose?' he grunted.
'Nay!' The slender arms, strong as pliant steel, were around his corded
neck. Her supple body throbbed against his. 'The Hyrkanians have no love
for Totrasmek. The priests of Set fear him. He is a mongrel, who rules
men by fear and superstition. I worship Set, and the Turanians bow to
Erlik, but Totrasmek sacrifices to Hanuman the accursed! The Turanian
lords fear his black arts and his power over the hybrid population, and
they hate him. If he were slain in his temple at night, they would not
seek his slayer very closely.'
'And what of his magic?' rumbled the Cimmerian.
'You are a fighting-man,' she answered. 'To risk your life is part of
your profession.'
'For a price,' he admitted.
'There will be a price!' she breathed, rising on tiptoe, to gaze into
his eyes.
The nearness of her vibrant body drove a flame through his veins. The
perfume of her breath mounted to his brain. But as his arms closed about
her supple figure she avoided them with a lithe movement, saying: 'Wait!
First serve me in this matter.'
'Name your price.' He spoke with some difficulty.
'Pick up my lover,' she directed, and the Cimmerian stooped and swung
the tall form easily to his broad shoulder. At the moment he felt as if
he could have toppled over Jungir Khan's palace with equal ease. The
girl murmured an endearment to the unconscious man, and there was no
hypocrisy in her attitude. She obviously loved Alafdhal sincerely.
Whatever business arrangement she made with Conan would have no bearing
on her relationship with Alafdhal. Women are more practical about these
things than men.
'Follow me!' She hurried along the street, while the Cimmerian strode
easily after her, in no way discomforted by his limp burden. He kept a
wary eye out for black shadows skulking under arches, but saw nothing
suspicious. Doubtless the men of Darfar were all gathered at the
roasting-pit. The girl turned down a narrow side street, and presently
knocked cautiously at an arched door.
Almost instantly a wicket opened in the upper panel, and a black face
glanced out. She bent close to the opening, whispering swiftly. Bolts
creaked in their sockets, and the door opened. A giant black man stood
framed against the soft glow of a copper lamp. A quick glance showed
Conan the man was not from Darfar. His teeth were unfiled and his kinky
hair was cropped close to his skull. He was from the Wadai.
At a word from Zabibi, Conan gave the limp body into the black's arms,
and saw the young officer laid on a velvet divan. He showed no signs of
returning consciousness. The blow that had rendered him senseless might
have felled an ox. Zabibi bent over him for an instant, her fingers
nervously twining and twisting. Then she straightened and beckoned the
Cimmerian.
The door closed softly, the locks clicked behind them, and the closing
wicket shut off the glow of the lamps. In the starlight of the street
Zabibi took Conan's hand. Her own hand trembled a little.
'You will not fail me?'
He shook his maned head, massive against the stars.
'Then follow me to Hanuman's shrine, and the gods have mercy on our
souls!'
Along the silent streets they moved like phantoms of antiquity. They
went in silence. Perhaps the girl was thinking of her lover lying
senseless on the divan under the copper lamps; or was shrinking with
fear of what lay ahead of them in the demon-haunted shrine of Hanuman.
The barbarian was thinking only of the woman moving so supplely beside
him. The perfume of her scented hair was in his nostrils, the sensuous
aura of her presence filled his brain and left room for no other
thoughts.
Once they heard the clank of brass-shod feet, and drew into the shadows
of a gloomy arch while a squad of Pelishtim watchmen swung past. There
were fifteen of them; they marched in close formation, pikes at the
ready, and the rearmost men had their broad brass shields slung on their
backs, to protect them from a knife-stroke from behind. The skulking
menace of the black man-eaters was a threat even to armed men.
As soon as the clang of their sandals had receded up the street, Conan
and the girl emerged from their hiding-place and hurried on. A few
moments later they saw the squat, flat-topped edifice they sought
looming ahead of them.
The temple of Hanuman stood alone in the midst of a broad square, which
lay silent and deserted beneath the stars. A marble wall surrounded the
shrine, with a broad opening directly before the portico. This opening
had no gate or any sort of barrier.
'Why don't the blacks seek their prey here?' muttered Conan. 'There's
nothing to keep them out of the temple.'
He could feel the trembling of Zabibi's body as she pressed close to
him.
'They fear Totrasmek, as all in Zamboula fear him, even Jungir Khan and
Nafertari. Come! Come quickly, before my courage flows from me like
water!'
The girl's fear was evident, but she did not falter. Conan drew his
sword and strode ahead of her as they advanced through the open gateway.
He knew the hideous habits of the priests of the East, and was aware
that an invader of Hanuman's shrine might expect to encounter almost any
sort of nightmare horror. He knew there was a good chance that neither
he nor the girl would ever leave the shrine alive, but he had risked his
life too many times before to devote much thought to that consideration.