14
The Black Hand of Set
Conan woke from a sound sleep as quickly and instantly as a cat. Andlike a cat he was on his feet with his sword out before the man who hadtouched him could so much as draw back.
'What word, Publio?' demanded Conan, recognizing his host. The gold lampburned low, casting a mellow glow over the thick tapestries and the richcoverings of the couch whereon he had been reposing.
Publio, recovering from the start given him by the sudden action of hisawakening guest, replied: 'The Zingaran has been located. He arrivedyesterday, at dawn. Only a few hours ago he sought to sell a huge,strange jewel to a Shemitish merchant, but the Shemite would have naughtto do with it. Men say he turned pale beneath his black beard at thesight of it, and closing his stall, fled as from a thing accursed.'
'It must be Beloso,' muttered Conan, feeling the pulse in his templespounding with impatient eagerness. 'Where is he now?'
'He sleeps in the house of Servio.'
'I know that dive of old,' grunted Conan. 'I'd better hasten before someof these waterfront thieves cut his throat for the jewel.'
He took up his cloak and flung it over his shoulders, then donned ahelmet Publio had procured for him.
'Have my steed saddled and ready in the court,' said he. 'I may returnin haste. I shall not forget this night's work, Publio.'
A few moments later Publio, standing at a small outer door, watched theking's tall figure receding down the shadowy street.
'Farewell to you, corsair,' muttered the merchant. 'This must be anotable jewel, to be sought by a man who has just lost a kingdom. Iwish I had told my knaves to let him secure it before they did theirwork. But then, something might have gone awry. Let Argos forget Amra,and let my dealings with him be lost in the dust of the past. In thealley behind the house of Servio--that is where Conan will cease to be aperil to me.'
* * * * *
Servio's house, a dingy, ill-famed den, was located close to thewharves, facing the waterfront. It was a shambling building of stone andheavy ship-beams, and a long narrow alley wandered up alongside it.Conan made his way along the alley, and as he approached the house hehad an uneasy feeling that he was being spied upon. He stared hard intothe shadows of the squalid buildings, but saw nothing, though once hecaught the faint rasp of cloth or leather against flesh. But that wasnothing unusual. Thieves and beggars prowled these alleys all night, andthey were not likely to attack him, after one look at his size andharness.
But suddenly a door opened in the wall ahead of him, and he slipped intothe shadow of an arch. A figure emerged from the open door and movedalong the alley, not furtively, but with a natural noiselessness, likethat of a jungle beast. Enough starlight filtered into the alley tosilhouette the man's profile dimly as he passed the doorway where Conanlurked. The stranger was a Stygian. There was no mistaking thathawk-faced, shaven head, even in the starlight, nor the mantle over thebroad shoulders. He passed on down the alley in the direction of thebeach, and once Conan thought he must be carrying a lantern among hisgarments, for he caught a flash of lambent light, just as the manvanished.
But the Cimmerian forgot the stranger as he noticed that the doorthrough which he had emerged still stood open. Conan had intendedentering by the main entrance and forcing Servio to show him the roomwhere the Zingaran slept. But if he could get into the house withoutattracting anyone's attention, so much the better.
A few long strides brought him to the door, and as his hand fell on thelock he stifled an involuntary grunt. His practised fingers, skilledamong the thieves of Zamora long ago, told him that the lock had beenforced, apparently by some terrific pressure from the outside that hadtwisted and bent the heavy iron bolts, tearing the very sockets loosefrom the jambs. How such damage could have been wrought so violentlywithout awakening everyone in the neighborhood Conan could not imagine,but he felt sure that it had been done that night. A broken lock, ifdiscovered, would not go unmended in the house of Servio, in thisneighborhood of thieves and cutthroats.
Conan entered stealthily, poniard in hand, wondering how he was to findthe chamber of the Zingaran. Groping in total darkness he haltedsuddenly. He sensed death in that room, as a wild beast senses it--notas peril threatening him, but a dead thing, something freshly slain. Inthe darkness his foot hit and recoiled from something heavy andyielding. With a sudden premonition he groped along the wall until hefound the shelf that supported the brass lamp, with its flint, steel andtinder beside it. A few seconds later a flickering, uncertain lightsprang up, and he stared narrowly about him.
A bunk built against the rough stone wall, a bare table and a benchcompleted the furnishings of the squalid chamber. An inner door stoodclosed and bolted. And on the hard-beaten dirt floor lay Beloso. On hisback he lay, with his head drawn back between his shoulders so that heseemed to stare with his wide glassy eyes at the sooty beams of thecobwebbed ceiling. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a frozengrin of agony. His sword lay near him, still in its scabbard. His shirtwas torn open, and on his brown, muscular breast was the print of ablack hand, thumb and four fingers plainly distinct.
Conan glared in silence, feeling the short hairs bristle at the back ofhis neck.
'Crom!' he muttered. 'The black hand of Set!'
He had seen that mark of old, the death-mark of the black priests ofSet, the grim cult that ruled in dark Stygia. And suddenly he rememberedthat curious flash he had seen emanating from the mysterious Stygian whohad emerged from this chamber.
'The Heart, by Crom!' he muttered. 'He was carrying it under his mantle.He stole it. He burst that door by his magic, and slew Beloso. He was apriest of Set.'
A quick investigation confirmed at least part of his suspicions. Thejewel was not on the Zingaran's body. An uneasy feeling rose in Conanthat this had not happened by chance, or without design; a convictionthat the mysterious Stygian galley had come into the harbor of Messantiaon a definite mission. How could the priests of Set know that the Hearthad come southward? Yet the thought was no more fantastic than thenecromancy that could slay an armed man by the touch of an open, emptyhand.
A stealthy footfall outside the door brought him round like a great cat.With one motion he extinguished the lamp and drew his sword. His earstold him that men were out there in the darkness, were closing in on thedoorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the sudden darkness, he couldmake out dim figures ringing the entrance. He could not guess theiridentity, but as always he took the initiative--leaping suddenly forthfrom the doorway without awaiting the attack.
His unexpected movement took the skulkers by surprise. He sensed andheard men close about him, saw a dim masked figure in the starlightbefore him; then his sword crunched home, and he was fleeting away downthe alley before the slower-thinking and slower-acting attackers couldintercept him.
As he ran he heard, somewhere ahead of him, a faint creak of oar-locks,and he forgot the men behind him. A boat was moving out into the bay!Gritting his teeth he increased his speed, but before he reached thebeach he heard the rasp and creak of ropes, and the grind of the greatsweep in its socket.
Thick clouds, rolling up from the sea, obscured the stars. In thickdarkness Conan came upon the strand, straining his eyes out across theblack restless water. Something was moving out there--a long, low, blackshape that receded in the darkness, gathering momentum as it went. Tohis ears came the rhythmical clack of long oars. He ground his teeth inhelpless fury. It was the Stygian galley and she was racing out to sea,bearing with her the jewel that meant to him the throne of Aquilonia.
With a savage curse he took a step toward the waves that lapped againstthe sands, catching at his hauberk and intending to rip it off and swimafter the vanishing ship. Then the crunch of a heel in the sand broughthim about. He had forgotten his pursuers.
Dark figures closed in on him with a rush of feet through the sands. Thefirst went down beneath the Cimmerian's flailing sword, but the othersdid not falter. Blades whickered dimly about
him in the darkness orrasped on his mail. Blood and entrails spilled over his hand and someonescreamed as he ripped murderously upward. A muttered voice spurred onthe attack, and that voice sounded vaguely familiar. Conan plowedthrough the clinging, hacking shapes toward the voice. A faint lightgleaming momentarily through the drifting clouds showed him a tall gauntman with a great livid scar on his temple. Conan's sword sheared throughhis skull as through a ripe melon.
Then an ax, swung blindly in the dark, crashed on the king's basinet,filling his eyes with sparks of fire. He lurched and lunged, felt hissword sink deep and heard a shriek of agony. Then he stumbled over acorpse, and a bludgeon knocked the dented helmet from his head; the nextinstant the club fell full on his unprotected skull.
The king of Aquilonia crumpled into the wet sands. Over him wolfishfigures panted in the gloom.
'Strike off his head,' muttered one.
'Let him lie,' grunted another. 'Help me tie up my wounds before I bleedto death. The tide will wash him into the bay. See, he fell at thewater's edge. His skull's split; no man could live after such blows.'
'Help me strip him,' urged another. 'His harness will fetch a fewpieces of silver. And haste. Tiberio is dead, and I hear seamen singingas they reel along the strand. Let us be gone.'
There followed hurried activity in the darkness, and then the sound ofquickly receding footsteps. The tipsy singing of the seamen grew louder.
* * * * *
In his chamber Publio, nervously pacing back and forth before a windowthat overlooked the shadowed bay, whirled suddenly, his nerves tingling.To the best of his knowledge the door had been bolted from within; butnow it stood open and four men filed into the chamber. At the sight ofthem his flesh crawled. Many strange beings Publio had seen in hislifetime, but none before like these. They were tall and gaunt,black-robed, and their faces were dim yellow ovals in the shadows oftheir coifs. He could not tell much about their features and wasunreasoningly glad that he could not. Each bore a long, curiouslymottled staff.
'Who are you?' he demanded, and his voice sounded brittle and hollow.'What do you wish here?'
'Where is Conan, he who was king of Aquilonia?' demanded the tallest ofthe four in a passionless monotone that made Publio shudder. It was likethe hollow tone of a Khitan temple bell.
'I do not know what you mean,' stammered the merchant, his customarypoise shaken by the uncanny aspect of his visitors. 'I know no suchman.'
'He has been here,' returned the other with no change of inflection.'His horse is in the courtyard. Tell us where he is before we do you aninjury.'
'Gebal!' shouted Publio frantically, recoiling until he crouched againstthe wall. '_Gebal!_'
The four Khitans watched him without emotion or change of expression.
'If you summon your slave he will die,' warned one of them, which onlyserved to terrify Publio more than ever.
'Gebal!' he screamed. 'Where are you, curse you? Thieves are murderingyour master!'
Swift footsteps padded in the corridor outside, and Gebal burst into thechamber--a Shemite, of medium height and mightily muscled build, hiscurled blue-black beard bristling, and a short leaf-shaped sword in hishand.
He stared in stupid amazement at the four invaders, unable to understandtheir presence; dimly remembering that he had drowsed unexplainably onthe stair he was guarding and up which they must have come. He had neverslept on duty before. But his master was shrieking with a note ofhysteria in his voice, and the Shemite drove like a bull at thestrangers, his thickly muscled arm drawing back for the disembowelingthrust. But the stroke was never dealt.
A black-sleeved arm shot out, extending the long staff. Its end buttouched the Shemite's brawny breast and was instantly withdrawn. Thestroke was horribly like the dart and recovery of a serpent's head.
Gebal halted short in his headlong plunge, as if he had encountered asolid barrier. His bull head toppled forward on his breast, the swordslipped from his fingers, and then he melted slowly to the floor. It wasas if all the bones of his frame had suddenly become flabby. Publioturned sick.
'Do not shout again,' advised the tallest Khitan. 'Your servants sleepsoundly, but if you awaken them they will die, and you with them. Whereis Conan?'
'He is gone to the house of Servio, near the waterfront, to search forthe Zingaran Beloso,' gasped Publio, all his power of resistance goneout of him. The merchant did not lack courage; but these uncannyvisitants turned his marrow to water. He started convulsively at asudden noise of footsteps hurrying up the stair outside, loud in theominous stillness.
'Your servant?' asked the Khitan.
Publio shook his head mutely, his tongue frozen to his palate. He couldnot speak.
One of the Khitans caught up a silken cover from a couch and threw itover the corpse. Then they melted behind the tapestry, but before thetallest man disappeared, he murmured: 'Talk to this man who comes, andsend him away quickly. If you betray us, neither he nor you will live toreach that door. Make no sign to show him you are not alone.' Andlifting his staff suggestively, the yellow man faded behind thehangings.
Publio shuddered and choked down a desire to retch. It might have been atrick of the light, but it seemed to him that occasionally those staffsmoved slightly of their own accord, as if possessed of an unspeakablelife of their own.
He pulled himself together with a mighty effort, and presented acomposed aspect to the ragged ruffian who burst into the chamber.
'We have done as you wished, my lord,' this man exclaimed. 'Thebarbarian lies dead on the sands at the water's edge.'
Publio felt a movement in the arras behind him, and almost burst fromfright. The man swept heedlessly on.
'Your secretary, Tiberio, is dead. The barbarian slew him, and four ofmy companions. We bore their bodies to the rendezvous. There wasnothing of value on the barbarian except a few silver coins. Are thereany further orders?'
'None!' gasped Publio, white about the lips. 'Go!'
The desperado bowed and hurried out, with a vague feeling that Publiowas both a man of weak stomach and few words.
The four Khitans came from behind the arras.
'Of whom did this man speak?' the taller demanded.
'Of a wandering stranger who did me an injury,' panted Publio.
'You lie,' said the Khitan calmly. 'He spoke of the king of Aquilonia.I read it in your expression. Sit upon that divan and do not move orspeak. I will remain with you while my three companions go search forthe body.'
So Publio sat and shook with terror of the silent, inscrutable figurewhich watched him, until the three Khitans filed back into the room,with the news that Conan's body did not lie upon the sands. Publio didnot know whether to be glad or sorry.
'We found the spot where the fight was fought,' they said. 'Blood was onthe sand. But the king was gone.'
The fourth Khitan drew imaginary symbols upon the carpet with his staff,which glistened scalily in the lamplight.
'Did you read naught from the sands?' he asked.
'Aye,' they answered. 'The king lives, and he has gone southward in aship.'
The tall Khitan lifted his head and gazed at Publio, so that themerchant broke into a profuse sweat.
'What do you wish of me?' he stuttered.
'A ship,' answered the Khitan. 'A ship well manned for a very longvoyage.'
'For how long a voyage?' stammered Publio, never thinking of refusing.
'To the ends of the world, perhaps,' answered the Khitan, 'or to themolten seas of hell that lie beyond the sunrise.'