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Title: People Of The Black Circle
Author: Robert E. Howard
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Language: English
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THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK CIRCLE
By Robert E. Howard



CHAPTER 1 Death Strikes a King

The king of Vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the
temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint
echo in the gold-domed chamber where Bunda Chand struggled on the
velvet-cushioned dais. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his
fingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him. He was young; no
spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine. But his veins
stood out like blue cords on his temples, and his eyes dilated with
the nearness of death. Trembling slave girls knelt at the foot of the
dais, and leaning down to him, watching him with passionate intensity,
was his sister, the Devi Yasmina. With her was the wazam, a noble
grown old in the royal court.

She threw up her head in a gusty gesture of wrath and despair as the
thunder of the distant drums reached her ears.

"The priests and their clamor!" she exclaimed. "They are no wiser than
the leeches who are helpless! Nay, he dies and none can say why. He is
dying now--and I stand here helpless, who would burn the whole city
and spill the blood of thousands to save him."

"Not a man of Ayodhya but would die in his place, if it might be,
Devi," answered the wazam. "This poison--"

"I tell you it is not poison!" she cried. "Since his birth he has been
guarded so closely that the cleverest poisoners of the East could not
reach him. Five skulls bleaching on the Tower of the Kites can testify
to attempts which were made--and which failed. As you well know, there
are ten men and ten women whose sole duty is to taste his food and
wine, and fifty armed warriors guard his chamber as they guard it now.
No, it is not poison; it is sorcery--black, ghastly magic--"

She ceased as the king spoke; his livid lips did not move, and there
was no recognition in his glassy eyes. But his voice rose in an eery
call, indistinct and far away, as if called to her from beyond vast,
wind-blown gulfs.

"Yasmina! Yasmina! My sister, where are you? I can not find you. All
is darkness, and the roaring of great winds!"

"Brother!" cried Yasmina, catching his limp hand in a convulsive
grasp. "I am here! Do you not know me--"

Her voice died at the utter vacancy of his face. A low confused moan
waned from his mouth. The slave girls at the foot of the dais
whimpered with fear, and Yasmina beat her breast in anguish.

In another part of the city a man stood in a latticed balcony
overlooking a long street in which torches tossed luridly, smokily
revealing upturned dark faces and the whites of gleaming eyes. A long-
drawn wailing rose from the multitude.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back into the
arabesque chamber. He was a tall man, compactly built, and richly
clad.

"The king is not yet dead, but the dirge is sounded," he said to
another man who sat cross-legged on a mat in a corner. This man was
clad in a brown camel-hair robe and sandals, and a green turban was on
his head. His expression was tranquil, his gaze impersonal.

"The people know he will never see another dawn," this man answered.

The first speaker favored him with a long, searching stare.

"What I can not understand," he said, "is why I have had to wait so
long for your masters to strike. If they have slain the king now, why
could they not have slain him months ago?"

"Even the arts you call sorcery are governed by cosmic laws," answered
the man in the green turban. "The stars direct these actions, as in
other affairs. Not even my masters can alter the stars. Not until the
heavens were in the proper order could they perform this necromancy."
With a long, stained fingernail he mapped the constellations on the
marble-tiled floor. "The slant of the moon presaged evil for the king
of Vendhya; the stars are in turmoil, the Serpent in the House of the
Elephant. During such juxtaposition, the invisible guardians are
removed from the spirit of Bhunda Chand. A path is opened in the
unseen realms, and once a point of contact was established, mighty
powers were put in play along that path."

"Point of contact?" inquired the other. "Do you mean that lock of
Bhunda Chand's hair?"

"Yes. All discarded portions of the human body still remain part of
it, attached to it by intangible connections. The priests of Asura
have a dim inkling of this truth, and so all nail trimmings, hair and
other waste products of the persons of the royal family are carefully
reduced to ashes and the ashes hidden. But at the urgent entreaty of
the princess of Khosala, who loved Bhunda Chand vainly, he gave her a
lock of his long black hair as a token of remembrance. When my masters
decided upon his doom, the lock, in its golden, jewel-encrusted case,
was stolen from under her pillow while she slept, and another
substituted, so like the first that she never knew the difference.
Then the genuine lock travelled by camel caravan up the long, long
road to Peshkhauri, thence up the Zhaibar Pass, until it reached the
hands of those for whom it was intended."

"Only a lock of hair," murmured the nobleman.

"By which a soul is drawn from its body and across gulfs of echoing
space," returned the man on the mat.

The nobleman studied him curiously.

"I do not know if you are a man or a demon, Khemsa," he said at last.
"Few of us are what we seem. I, whom the Kshatriyas know as Kerim
Shah, a prince from Iranistan, am no greater a masquerader than most
men. They are all traitors in one way or another, and half of them
know not whom they serve. There at least I have no doubts; for I serve
King Yezdigerd of Turan."

"And I the Black Seers of Yimsha," said Khemsa; "and my masters are
greater than yours, for they have accomplished by their arts what
Yezdigerd could not with a hundred thousand swords."

Outside, the moan of the tortured thousands shuddered up to the stars
which crusted the sweating Vendhyan night, and the conchs bellowed
like oxen in pain.

In the gardens of the palace the torches glinted on polished helmets
and curved swords and gold-chased corselets. All the noble-born
fighting-men of Ayodhya were gathered in the great palace or about it,
and at each broad-arched gate and door fifty archers stood on guard,
with bows in their hands. But Death stalked through the royal palace
and none could stay his ghostly tread.

On the dais under the golden dome the king cried out again, racked by
awful paroxysms. Again his voice came faintly and far away, and again
the Devi bent to him, trembling with a fear that was darker than the
terror of death.

"Yasmina!" Again that far, weirdly dreeing cry, from realms
immeasurable. "Aid me! I am far from my mortal house! Wizards have
drawn my soul through the wind-blown darkness. They seek to snap the
silver cord that binds me to my dying body. They cluster around me;
their hands are taloned, their eyes are red like flame burning in
darkness. Aie, save me, my sister! Their fingers sear me like fire!
They would slay my body and damn my soul! What is this they bring
before me?--Aie!"

At the terror in his hopeless cry Yasmina screamed uncontrollably and
threw herself bodily upon him in the abandon of her anguish. He was
torn by a terrible convulsion; foam flew from his contorted lips and
his writhing fingers left their marks on the girl's shoulders. But the
glassy blankness passed from his eyes like smoke blown from a fire,
and he looked up at his sister with recognition.

"Brother!" she sobbed. "Brother--"

"Swift!" he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational. "I know now
what brings me to the pyre. I have been on a far journey and I
understand. I have been ensorcelled by the wizards of the Himelians.
They drew my soul out of my body and far away, into a stone room.
There they strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul
into the body of a foul night-weird their sorcery summoned up from
hell. Ali! I feel their pull upon me now! Your cry and the grip of
your fingers brought me back, but I am going fast. My soul clings to
my body, but its hold weakens. Quick--kill me, before they can trap my
soul for ever!"

"I can not!" she wailed, smiting her naked breasts.

"Swiftly, I command you!" There was the old imperious note in his
failing whisper. "You have never disobeyed me--obey my last command!
Send my soul clean to Asura! Haste, lest you damn me to spend eternity
as a filthy gaunt of darkness. Strike, I command you! Strike!"

Sobbing wildly, Yasmina plucked a jeweled dagger from her girdle and
plunged it to the hilt in his breast. He stiffened and then went limp,
a grim smile curving his dead lips. Yasmina hurled herself face-down
on the rush-covered floor, beating the reeds with her clenched hands.
Outside, the gongs and conchs brayed and thundered and the priests
gashed themselves with copper knives.



CHAPTER 2 A Barbarian from the Hills

Chunder Shan, governor of Peshkhauri, laid down his golden pen and
carefully scanned that which he had written on parchment that bore his
official seal. He had ruled Peshkhauri so long only because he weighed
his every word, spoken or written. Danger breeds caution, and only a
wary man lives long in that wild country where the hot Vendhyan plains
meet the crags of the Himelians. An hour's ride westward or northward
and one crossed the border and was among the hills where men lived by
the law of the knife.

The governor was alone in his chamber, seated at his ornately carven
table of inlaid ebony. Through the wide window, open for the coolness,
he could see a square of the blue Himelian night, dotted with great
white stars. An adjacent parapet was a shadowy line, and further
crenelles and embrasures were barely hinted at in the dim starlight.
The governor's fortress was strong, and situated outside the walls of
the city it guarded. The breeze that stirred the tapestries on the
wall brought faint noises from the streets of Peshkhauri--occasional
snatches of wailing song, or the thrum of a cithern.

The governor read what he had written, slowly, with his open hand
shading his eyes from the bronze butterlamp, his lips moving.
Absently, as he read, he heard the drum of horses' hoofs outside the
barbican, the sharp staccato of the guards' challenge. He did not
heed, intent upon his letter. It was addressed to the wazam of
Vendhya, at the royal court of Ayodhya, and it stated, after the
customary salutations:

"Let it be known to your excellency that I have faithfully carried out
your excellency's instructions. The seven tribesmen are well guarded
in their prison, and I have repeatedly sent word into the hills that
their chief come in person to bargain for their release. But he has
made no move, except to send word that unless they are freed he will
burn Peshkhauri and cover his saddle with my hide, begging your
excellency's indulgence. This he is quite capable of attempting, and I
have tripled the numbers of the lance guards. The man is not a native
of Ghulistan. I cannot with certainty predict his next move. But since
it is the wish of the Devi--'

He was out of his ivory chair and on his feet facing the arched door,
all in one instant. He snatched at the curved sword lying in its
ornate scabbard on the table, and then checked the movement.

It was a woman who had entered unannounced, a woman whose gossamer
robes did not conceal the rich garments beneath them any more than
they concealed the suppleness and beauty of her tall, slender figure.
A filmy veil fell below her breasts, supported by a flowing head-dress
bound about with a triple gold braid and adorned with a golden
crescent. Her dark eyes regarded the astonished governor over the
veil, and then with an imperious gesture of her white hand, she
uncovered her face.

"Devi!" The governor dropped to his knees before her, surprize and
confusion somewhat spoiling the stateliness of his obeisance. With a
gesture she motioned him to rise, and he hastened to lead her to the
ivory chair, all the while bowing level with his girdle. But his first
words were of reproof.

"Your Majesty! This was most unwise! The border is unsettled. Raids
from the hills are incessant. You came with a large attendance?"

"An ample retinue followed me to Peshkhauri," she answered. "I lodged
my people there and came on to the fort with my maid, Gitara."

Chunder Shan groaned in horror.

"Devi! You do not understand the peril. An hour's ride from this spot
the hills swarm with barbarians who make a profession of murder and
rapine. Women have been stolen and men stabbed between the fort and
the city. Peshkhauri is not like your southern provinces--

"But I am here, and unharmed," she interrupted with a trace of
impatience. "I showed my signet ring to the guard at the gate, and to
the one outside your door, and they admitted me unannounced, not
knowing me, but supposing me to be a secret courier from Ayodhya. Let
us not now waste time.

"You have received no word from the chief of the barbarians?"

"None save threats and curses, Devi. He is wary and suspicious. He
deems it a trap, and perhaps he is not to be blamed. The Kshatriyas
have not always kept their promises to the hill people."

"He must be brought to terms!" broke in Yasmina, the knuckles of her
clenched hands showing white.

"I do not understand." The governor shook his head. "When I chanced to
capture these seven hill-men, I reported their capture to the wazam, as
is the custom, and then, before I could hang them, there came an order
to hold them and communicate with their chief. This I did, but the man
holds aloof, as I have said. These men are of the tribe of Afghulis,
but he is a foreigner from the west, and he is called Conan. I have
threatened to hang them tomorrow at dawn, if he does not come."

"Good!" exclaimed the Devi. "You have done well. And I will tell you
why I have given these orders. My brother--" she faltered, choking, and
the governor bowed his head, with the customary gesture of respect for
a departed sovereign.

"The king of Vendhya was destroyed by magic," she said at last. "I
have devoted my life to the destruction of his murderers. As he died
he gave me a clue, and I have followed it. I have read the Book of
Skelos, and talked with nameless hermits in the caves below Jhelai. I
learned how, and by whom, he was destroyed. His enemies were the Black
Seers of Mount Yimsha."

"Asura!" whispered Chunder Shan, paling.

Her eyes knifed him through. "Do you fear them?"

"Who does not, Your Majesty?" he replied. "They are black devils,
haunting the uninhabited hills beyond the Zhaibar. But the sages say
that they seldom interfere in the lives of mortal men."

"Why they slew my brother I do not know," she answered. "But I have
sworn on the altar of Asura to destroy them! And I need the aid of a
man beyond the border. A Kshatriya army, unaided, would never reach
Yimsha."

"Aye," muttered Chunder Shan. "You speak the truth there. It would be
fight every step of the way, with hairy hill-men hurling down boulders
from every height, and rushing us with their long knives in every
valley. The Turanians fought their way through the Himelians once, but
how many returned to Khurusun? Few of those who escaped the swords of
the Kshatriyas, after the king, your brother, defeated their host on
the Jhumda River, ever saw Secunderam again."

"And so I must control men across the border," she said, "men who know
the way to Mount Yimsha--"

"But the tribes fear the Black Seers and shun the unholy mountain,"
broke in the governor.

"Does the chief, Conan, fear them?" she asked.

"Well, as to that," muttered the governor, "I doubt if there is
anything that devil fears."

"So I have been told. Therefore he is the man I must deal with. He
wishes the release of his seven men. Very well; their ransom shall be
the heads of the Black Seers!" Her voice thrummed with hate as she
uttered the last words, and her hands clenched at her sides. She
looked an image of incarnate passion as she stood there with her head
thrown high and her bosom heaving.

Again the governor knelt, for part of his wisdom was the knowledge
that a woman in such an emotional tempest is as perilous as a blind
cobra to any about her.

"It shall be as you wish, Your Majesty." Then as she presented a
calmer aspect, he rose and ventured to drop a word of warning. "I can
not predict what the chief Conan's action will be. The tribesmen are
always turbulent, and I have reason to believe that emissaries from
the Turanians are stirring them up to raid our borders. As your
majesty knows, the Turanians have established themselves in Secunderam
and other northern cities, though the hill tribes remain unconquered.
King Yezdigerd has long looked southward with greedy lust and perhaps
is seeking to gain by treachery what he could not win by force of
arms. I have thought that Conan might well be one of his spies."

"We shall see," she answered. "If he loves his followers, he will be
at the gates at dawn, to parley. I shall spend the night in the
fortress. I came in disguise to Peshkhauri, and lodged my retinue at
an inn instead of the palace. Besides my people, only yourself knows
of my presence here."

"I shall escort you to your quarters, Your Majesty," said the
governor, and as they emerged from the doorway, he beckoned the
warrior on guard there, and the man fell in behind them, spear held at
salute.

The maid waited, veiled like her mistress, outside the door, and the
group traversed a wide, winding corridor, lighted by smoky torches,
and reached the quarters reserved for visiting notables--generals and
viceroys, mostly; none of the royal family had ever honored the
fortress before. Chunder Shan had a perturbed feeling that the suite
was not suitable to such an exalted personage as the Devi, and though
she sought to make him feel at ease in her presence, he was glad when
she dismissed him and he bowed himself out. All the menials of the
fort had been summoned to serve his royal guest--though he did not
divulge her identity--and he stationed a squad of spearmen before her
doors, among them the warrior who had guarded his own chamber. In his
preoccupation he forgot to replace the man.

The governor had not been long gone from her when Yasmina suddenly
remembered something else which she had wished to discuss with him,
but had forgotten until that moment. It concerned the past actions of
one Kerim Shah, a nobleman from Iranistan, who had dwelt for a while
in Peshkhauri before coming on to the court at Ayodhya. A vague
suspicion concerning the man had been stirred by a glimpse of him in
Peshkhauri that night. She wondered if he had followed her from
Ayodhya. Being a truly remarkable Devi, she did not summon the
governor to her again, but hurried out into the corridor alone, and
hastened toward his chamber.

Chunder Shan, entering his chamber, closed the door and went to his
table. There he took the letter he had been writing and tore it to
bits. Scarcely had he finished when he heard something drop softly
onto the parapet adjacent to the window. He looked up to see a figure
loom briefly against the stars, and then a man dropped lightly into
the room. The light glinted on a long sheen of steel in his hand.

"Shhhh!" he warned. "Don't make a noise, or I'll send the devil a
henchman!"

The governor checked his motion toward the sword on the table. He was
within reach of the yard-long Zhaibar knife that glittered in the
intruder's fist, and he knew the desperate quickness of a hillman.

The invader was a tall man, at once strong and supple. He was dressed
like a hillman, but his dark features and blazing blue eyes did not
match his garb. Chunder Shan had never seen a man like him; he was not
an Easterner, but some barbarian from the West. But his aspect was as
untamed and formidable as any of the hairy tribesmen who haunt the
hills of Ghulistan.

"You come like a thief in the night," commented the governor,
recovering some of his composure, although he remembered that there
was no guard within call. Still, the hillman could not know that.

"I climbed a bastion," snarled the intruder. "A guard thrust his head
over the battlement in time for me to rap it with my knife hilt."

"You are Conan?"

"Who else? You sent word into the hills that you wished for me to come
and parley with you. Well, by Crom, I've come! Keep away from that
table or I'll gut you."

"I merely wish to seat myself," answered the governor, carefully
sinking into the ivory chair, which he wheeled away from the table.
Conan moved restlessly before him, glancing suspiciously at the door,
thumbing the razor edge of his three-foot knife. He did not walk like
an Afghuli, and was bluntly direct where the East is subtle.

"You have seven of my men," he said abruptly. "You refused the ransom
I offered. What the devil do you want?"

"Let us discuss terms," answered Chunder Shan cautiously.

"Terms?" There was a timbre of dangerous anger in his voice. "What do
you mean? Haven't I offered you gold?"

Chunder Shan laughed.

"Gold? There is more gold in Peshkhauri than you ever saw."

"You're a liar," retorted Conan. "I've seen the suk of the goldsmiths
in Khurusun."

"Well, more than an Afghuh ever saw," amended Chunder Shan. "And it is
but a drop of all the treasure of Vendhya. Why should we desire gold?
It would be more to our advantage to hang these seven thieves."

Conan ripped out a sulfurous oath and the long blade quivered in his
grip as the muscles rose in ridges on his brown arm.

"I'll split your head like a ripe melon!"

A wild blue flame flickered in the hillman's eyes, but Chunder Shan
shrugged his shoulders, though keeping an eye on the keen steel.

"You can kill me easily, and probably escape over the wall afterward.
But that would not save the seven tribesmen. My men would surely hang
them. And these men are headmen among the Afghulis."

"I know it," snarled Conan. "The tribe is baying like wolves at my
heels because I have not procured their release. Tell me in plain
words what you want, because, by Crom! if there's no other way, I'll
raise a horde and lead it to the very gates of Peshkhauri!"

Looking at the man as he stood squarely, knife in fist and eyes
glaring, Chunder Shan did not doubt that he was capable of it. The
governor did not believe any hill horde could take Peshkhauri, but he
did not wish a devastated countryside.

"There is a mission you must perform," he said, choosing his words
with as much care as if they had been razors. "There--"

Conan had sprung back, wheeling to face the door at the same instant,
lips asnarl. His barbarian ears had caught the quick tread of soft
slippers outside the door. The next instant the door was thrown open
and a slim, silk-robed form entered hastily, pulling the door shut--
then stopping short at sight of the hillman.

Chunder Shan sprang up, his heart jumping into his mouth.

"Devi!" he cried involuntarily, losing his head momentarily in his
fright.

"Devi!" It was like an explosive echo from the hillman's lips. Chunder
Shan saw recognition and intent flame up in the fierce blue eyes.

The governor shouted desperately and caught at his sword, but the
hillman moved with the devastating speed of a hurricane. He sprang,
knocked the governor sprawling with a savage blow of his knife hilt,
swept up the astounded Devi in one brawny arm and leaped for the
window. Chunder Shan, struggling frantically to his feet, saw the man
poise an instant on the sill in a flutter of silken skirts and white
limbs that was his royal captive, and heard his fierce, exultant
snarl: "Now dare to hang my men!" and then Conan leaped to the parapet
and was gone. A wild scream floated back to the governor's ears.

"Guard! Guard!" screamed the governor, struggling up and running
drunkenly to the door. He tore it open and reeled into the hall. His
shouts re-echoed along the corridors, and warriors came running,
gaping to see the governor holding his broken head, from which the
blood streamed.

"Turn out the lancers!" he roared. "There has been an abduction!" Even
in his frenzy he had enough sense left to withhold the full truth. He
stopped short as he heard a sudden drum of hoofs outside, a frantic
scream and a wild yell of barbaric exultation.

Followed by the bewildered guardsmen, the governor raced for the
stair. In the courtyard of the fort a force of lancers stood by
saddled steeds, ready to ride at an instant's notice. Chunder Shan led
his squadron flying after the fugitive, though his head swam so he had
to hold with both hands to the saddle. He did not divulge the identity
of the victim, but said merely that the noblewoman who had borne the
royal signet ring had been carried away by the chief of the Afghulis.
The abductor was out of sight and hearing, but they knew the path he
would strike the road that runs straight to the mouth of the Zhaibar.
There was no moon; peasant huts rose dimly in the starlight. Behind
them fell away the grim bastion of the fort, and the towers of
Peshkhauri. Ahead of them loomed the black walls of the Himelians.



CHAPTER 3 Khemsa Uses Magic

In the confusion that reigned in the fortress while the guard was
being turned out, no one noticed that the girl who had accompanied the
Devi slipped out the great arched gate and vanished in the darkness.
She ran straight for the city, her garments tucked high. She did not
follow the open road, but cut straight through fields and over slopes,
avoiding fences and leaping irrigation ditches as surely as if it were
broad daylight, and as easily as if she were a trained masculine
runner. The hoof-drum of the guardsmen had faded away up the hill
before she reached the city wall. She did not go to the great gate,
beneath whose arch men leaned on spears and craned their necks into
the darkness, discussing the unwonted activity about the fortress. She
skirted the wall until she reached a certain point where the spire of
the tower was visible above the battlements. Then she placed her hands
to her mouth and voiced a low weird call that carried strangely.

Almost instantly a head appeared at an embrasure and a rope came
wriggling down the wall. She seized it, placed a foot in the loop at
the end, and waved her arm. Then quickly and smoothly she was drawn up
the sheer stone curtain. An instant later she scrambled over the
merlons and stood up on a flat roof which covered a house that was
built against the wall. There was an open trap there, and a man in a
camel-hair robe who silently coiled the rope, not showing in any way
the strain of hauling a full-grown woman up a forty-foot wall.

"Where is Kerim Shah?" she gasped, panting after her long run.

"Asleep in the house below. You have news?"

"Conan has stolen the Devi out of the fortress and carried her away
into the hills!" She blurted out her news in a rush, the words
stumbling over one another.

Khemsa showed no emotion, but merely nodded his turbaned head. "Kerim
Shah will be glad to hear that," he said.

"Wait!" The girl threw her supple arms about his neck. She was panting
hard, but not only from exertion. Her eyes blazed like black jewels in
the starlight. Her upturned face was close to Khemsa's, but though he
submitted to her embrace, he did not return it.

"Do not tell the Hyrkanian!" she panted. "Let us use this knowledge
ourselves! The governor has gone into the hills with his riders, but
he might as well chase a ghost. He has not told anyone that it was the
Devi who was kidnapped. None in Peshkhauri or the fort knows it except
us."

"But what good does it do us?" the man expostulated. "My masters sent
me with Kerim Shah to aid him in every way--"

"Aid yourself?" she cried fiercely. "Shake off your yoke!"

"You mean--disobey my masters?" he gasped, and she felt his whole body
turn cold under her arms.

"Aye!" she shook him in the fury of her emotion. "You too are a
magician! Why will you be a slave, using your powers only to elevate
others? Use your arts for yourself?"

"That is forbidden!" He was shaking as if with an ague. "I am not one
of the Black Circle. Only by the command of the masters do I dare to
use the knowledge they have taught me."

"But you can use it!" she argued passionately. "Do as I beg you! Of
course Conan has taken the Devi to hold as hostage against the seven
tribesmen in the governor's prison. Destroy them, so Chunder Shan can
not use them to buy back the Devi. Then let us go into the mountains
and take her from the Afghulis. They can not stand against your
sorcery with their knives. The treasure of the Vendhyan kings will be
ours as ransom--and then when we have it in our hands, we can trick
them, and sell her to the king of Turan. We shall have wealth beyond
our maddest dreams. With it we can buy warriors. We will take
Khorbhul, oust the Turanians from the hills, and send our hosts
southward; become king and queen of an empire!"

Khemsa too was panting, shaking like a leaf in her grasp; his face
showed gray in the starlight, beaded with great drops of perspiration.

"I love you!" she cried fiercely, writhing her body against his,
almost strangling him in her wild embrace, shaking him in her abandon.
"I will make a king of you! For love of you I betrayed my mistress;
for love of me betray your masters! Why fear the Black Seers? By your
love for me you have broken one of their laws already! Break the rest!
You are as strong as they!"

A man of ice could not have withstood the searing heat of her passion
and fury. With an inarticulate cry he crushed her to him, bending her
backward and showering gasping kisses on her eyes, face and lips.

"I'll do it!" His voice was thick with laboring emotions. He staggered
like a drunken man. "The arts they have taught me shall work for me,
not for my masters. We shall be rulers of the world--of the world--"

"Come then!" Twisting lithely out of his embrace, she seized his hand
and led him toward the trapdoor. "First we must make sure that the
governor does not exchange those seven Afghulis for the Devi."

He moved like a man in a daze, until they had descended a ladder and
she paused in the chamber below. Kerim Shah lay on a couch motionless,
an arm across his face as though to shield his sleeping eyes from the
soft light of a brass lamp. She plucked Khemsa's arm and made a quick
gesture across her own throat. Khemsa lifted his hand; then his
expression changed and he drew away.

"I have eaten his salt," he muttered. "Besides, he can not interfere
with us."

He led the girl through a door that opened on a winding stair. After
their soft tread had faded into silence, the man on the couch sat up.
Kerim Shah wiped the sweat from his face. A knife thrust he did not
dread, but he feared Khemsa as a man fears a poisonous reptile.

"People who plot on roofs should remember to lower their voices," he
muttered. "But as Khemsa has turned against his masters, and as he was
my only contact between them, I can count on their aid no longer. From
now on I play the game in my own way."

Rising to his feet he went quickly to a table, drew pen and parchment
from his girdle and scribbled a few succinct lines.

"To Khosru Khan, governor of Secunderam: the Cimmerian Conan has
carried the Devi Yasmina to the villages of the Afghulis. It is an
opportunity to get the Devi into our hands, as  has so long been
desired. Send three thousand horsemen at once. I will meet them in the
valley of Gurashah with native guides."

And he signed it with a name that was not in the least like Kerim
Shah.

Then from a golden cage he drew forth a carrier pigeon, to whose leg
he made fast the parchment, rolled into a tiny cylinder and secured
with gold wire. Then he went quickly to a casement and tossed the bird
into the night. It wavered on fluttering wings, balanced, and was gone
like a flitting shadow. Catching up helmet, sword and cloak, Kerim
Shah hurried out of the chamber and down the winding stair.

The prison quarters of Peshkhauri were separated from the rest of the
city by a massive wall, in which was set a single iron-bound door under
an arch. Over the arch burned a lurid red cresset, and beside the door
squatted a warrior with spear and shield.

This warrior, leaning on his spear, and yawning from time to time,
started suddenly to his feet. He had not thought he had dozed, but a
man was standing before him, a man he had not heard approach. The man
wore a camel-hair robe and a green turban. In the flickering light of
the cresset his features were shadowy, but a pair of lambent eyes
shone surprizingly in the lurid glow.

"Who comes?" demanded the warrior, presenting his spear. "Who are
you?"

The stranger did not seem perturbed, though the spear point touched
his bosom. His eyes held the warrior's with strange intensity.

"What are you obliged to do?" he asked, strangely.

"To guard the gate!" The warrior spoke thickly and mechanically; he
stood rigid as a statue, his eyes slowly glazing.

"You lie! You are obliged to obey me! You have looked into my eyes,
and your soul is no longer your own. Open that door!"

Stiffly, with the wooden features of an image, the guard wheeled
about, drew a great key from his girdle, turned it in the massive lock
and swung open the door. Then he stood at attention, his unseeing
stare straight ahead of him.

A woman glided from the shadows and laid an eager hand on the
mesmerist's arm.

"Bid him fetch us horses, Khemsa," she whispered.

"No need of that," answered the Rakhsha. Lifting his voice slightly he
spoke to the guardsman. "I have no more use for you. Kill yourself!"

Like a man in a trance the warrior thrust the butt of his spear
against the base of the wall, and placed the keen head against his
body, just below the ribs. Then slowly, stolidly, he leaned against it
with all his weight, so that it transfixed his body and came out
between his shoulders. Sliding down the shaft he lay still, the spear
jutting above him its full length, like a horrible stalk growing out
of his back.

The girl stared down at him in morbid fascination, until Khemsa took
her arm and led her through the gate. Torches lighted a narrow space
between the outer wall and a lower inner one, in which were arched
doors at regular intervals. A warrior paced this enclosure, and when
the gate opened he came sauntering up, so secure in his knowledge of
the prison's strength that he was not suspicious until Khemsa and the
girl emerged from the archway. Then it was too late. The Rakhsha did
not waste time in hypnotism, though his action savored of magic to the
girl. The guard lowered his spear threateningly, opening his mouth to
shout an alarm that would bring spearmen swarming out of the
guardrooms at either end of the alleyway. Khemsa flicked the spear
aside with his left hand, as a man might flick a straw, and his right
flashed out and back, seeming gently to caress the warrior's neck in
passing. And the guard pitched on his face without a sound, his head
lolling on a broken neck.

Khemsa did not glance at him, but went straight to one of the arched
doors and placed his open hand against the heavy bronze lock. With a
rending shudder the portal buckled inward. As the girl followed him
through, she saw that the thick teakwood hung in splinters, the bronze
bolts were bent and twisted from their sockets, and the great hinges
broken and disjointed. A thousand-pound battering ram with forty men
to swing it could have shattered the barrier no more completely.
Khemsa was drunk with freedom and the exercise of his power, glorying
in his might and flinging his strength about as a young giant
exercises his thews with unnecessary vigor in the exultant pride of
his prowess.

The broken door let them into a small courtyard, lit by a cresset.
Opposite the door was a wide grille of iron bars. A hairy hand was
visible, gripping one of these bars, and in the darkness behind them
glimmered the whites of eyes.

Khemsa stood silent for a space, gazing into the shadows from which
those glimmering eyes gave back his stare with burning intensity. Then
his hand went into his robe and came out again, and from his opening
fingers a shimmering feather of sparkling dust sifted to the flags.
Instantly a flare of green fire lighted the enclosure. In the brief
glare the forms of seven men, standing motionless behind the bars,
were limned in vivid detail; tall, hairy men in ragged hill-men's
garments. They did not speak, but in their eyes blazed the fear of
death, and their hairy fingers gripped the bars.

The fire died out but the glow remained, a quivering ball of lambent
green that pulsed and shimmered on the flags before Khemsa's feet. The
wide gaze of the tribesmen was fixed upon it. It wavered, elongated;
it turned into a luminous green smoke spiraling upward. It twisted and
writhed like a great shadowy serpent, then broadened and billowed out
in shining folds and whirls. It grew to a cloud moving silently over
the flags--straight toward the grille. The men watched its coming with
dilated eyes; the bars quivered with the grip of their desperate
fingers. Bearded lips parted but no sound came forth. The green cloud
rolled on the bars and blotted them from sight; like a fog it oozed
through the grille and hid the men within. From the enveloping folds
came a strangled gasp, as of a man plunged suddenly under the surface
of water. That was all.

Khemsa touched the girl's arm, as she stood with parted lips and
dilated eyes. Mechanically she turned away with him, looking back over
her shoulder. Already the mist was thinning; close to the bars she saw
a pair of sandalled feet, the toes turned upward--she glimpsed the
indistinct outlines of seven still, prostrate shapes.

"And now for a steed swifter than the fastest horse ever bred in a
mortal stable," Khemsa was saying. "We will be in Afghulistan before
dawn."



CHAPTER 4 An Encounter in the Pass

Yasmina Devi could never clearly remember the details of her
abduction. The unexpectedness and violence stunned her; she had only a
confused impression of a whirl of happenings--the terrifying grip of a
mighty arm, the blazing eyes of her abductor, and his hot breath
burning on her flesh. The leap through the window to the parapet, the
mad race across battlements and roofs when the fear of falling froze
her, the reckless descent of a rope bound to a merlon--he went down
almost at a run, his captive folded limply over his brawny shoulder--
all this was a befuddled tangle in the Devi's mind. She retained a
more vivid memory of him running fleetly into the shadows of the
trees, carrying her like a child, and vaulting into the saddle of a
fierce Bhalkhana stallion which reared and snorted. Then there was a
sensation of flying, and the racing hoofs were striking sparks of fire
from the flinty road as the stallion swept up the slopes.

As the girl's mind cleared, her first sensations were furious rage and
shame. She was appalled. The rulers of the golden kingdoms south of
the Himelians were considered little short of divine; and she was the
Devi of Vendhya! Fright was submerged in regal wrath. She cried out
furiously and began struggling. She, Yasmina, to be carried on the
saddle-bow of a hill chief, like a common wench of the marketplace!
He merely hardened his massive thews slightly against her writhings,
and for the first time in her life she experienced the coercion of
superior physical strength. His arms felt like iron about her slender
limbs. He glanced down at her and grinned hugely. His teeth glimmered
whitely in the starlight. The reins lay loose on the stallion's
flowing mane, and every thew and fiber of the great beast strained as
he hurtled along the boulder-strewn trail. But Conan sat easily,
almost carelessly, in the saddle, riding like a centaur.

"You hill-bred dog!" she panted, quivering with the impact of shame,
anger, and the realization of helplessness. "You dare--you dare! Your
life shall pay for this! Where are you taking me?"

"To the villages of Afghulistan," he answered, casting a glance over
his shoulder.

Behind them, beyond the slopes they had traversed, torches were
tossing on the walls of the fortress, and he glimpsed a flare of light
that meant the great gate had been opened. And he laughed, a deep-
throated boom gusty as the hill wind.

"The governor has sent his riders after us," he laughed. "By Crom, we
will lead him a merry chase! What do you think, Devi--will they pay
seven lives for a Kshatriya princess?"

"They will send an army to hang you and your spawn of devils," she
promised him with conviction.

He laughed gustily and shifted her to a more comfortable position in
his arms. But she took this as a fresh outrage, and renewed her vain
struggle, until she saw that her efforts were only amusing him.
Besides, her light silken garments, floating on the wind, were being
outrageously disarranged by her struggles. She concluded that a
scornful submission was the better part of dignity, and lapsed into a
smoldering quiescence.

She felt even her anger being submerged by awe as they entered the
mouth of the Pass, lowering like a black well mouth in the blacker
walls that rose like colossal ramparts to bar their way. It was as if
a gigantic knife had cut the Zhaibar out of walls of solid rock. On
either hand sheer slopes pitched up for thousands of feet, and the
mouth of the Pass was dark as hate. Even Conan could not see with any
accuracy, but he knew the road, even by night. And knowing that armed
men were racing through the starlight after him, he did not check the
stallion's speed. The great brute was not yet showing fatigue. He
thundered along the road that followed the valley bed, labored up a
slope, swept along a low ridge where treacherous shale on either hand
lurked for the unwary, and came upon a trail that followed the lap of
the left-hand wall.

Not even Conan could spy, in that darkness, an ambush set by Zhaibar
tribesmen. As they swept past the black mouth of a gorge that opened
into the Pass, a javelin swished through the air and thudded home
behind the stallion's straining shoulder. The great beast let out his
life in a shuddering sob and stumbled, going headlong in mid-stride.
But Conan had recognized the flight and stroke of the javelin, and he
acted with spring-steel quickness.

As the horse fell he leaped clear, holding the girl aloft to guard her
from striking boulders. He lit on his feet like a cat, thrust her into
a cleft of rock, and wheeled toward the outer darkness, drawing his
knife.

Yasmina, confused by the rapidity of events, not quite sure just what
had happened, saw a vague shape rush out of the darkness, bare feet
slapping softly on the rock, ragged garments whipping on the wind of
his haste. She glimpsed the flicker of steel, heard the lightning
crack of stroke, parry and counterstroke, and the crunch of bone as
Conan's long knife split the other's skull.

Conan sprang back, crouching in the shelter of the rocks. Out in the
night men were moving and a stentorian voice roared: "What, you dogs!
Do you flinch? In, curse you, and take them!"

Conan started, peered into the darkness and lifted his voice.

"Yar Afzal! Is it you?"

There sounded a startled imprecation, and the voice called warily.

"Conan? Is it you, Conan?"

"Aye!" the Cimmerian laughed. "Come forth, you old war-dog. I've slain
one of your men."

There was movement among the rocks, a light flared dimly, and then a
flame appeared and came bobbing toward him, and as it approached, a
fierce bearded countenance grew out of the darkness. The man who
carried it held it high, thrust forward, and craned his neck to peer
among the boulders it lighted; the other hand gripped a great curved
tulwar. Conan stepped forward, sheathing his knife, and the other
roared a greeting.

"Aye, it is Conan! Come out of your rocks, dogs! It is Conan!"

Others pressed into the wavering circle of light--wild, ragged,
bearded men, with eyes like wolves, and long blades in their fists.
They did not see Yasmina, for she was hidden by Conan's massive body.
But peeping from her covert, she knew icy fear for the first time that
night. These men were more like wolves than human beings.

"What are you hunting in the Zhaibar by night, Yar Afzal?" Conan
demanded of the burly chief, who grinned like a bearded ghoul.

"Who knows what might come up the Pass after dark? We Wazulis are
night-hawks. But what of you, Conan?"

"I have a prisoner," answered the Cimmerian. And moving aside he
disclosed the cowering girl. Reaching a long arm into the crevice he
drew her trembling forth.

Her imperious bearing was gone. She stared timidly at the ring of
bearded faces that hemmed her in, and was grateful for the strong arm
that clasped her possessively. The torch was thrust close to her, and
there was a sucking intake of breath about the ring.

"She is my captive," Conan warned, glancing pointedly at the feet of
the man he had slain, just visible within the ring of light. "I was
taking her to Afghulistan, but now you have slain my horse, and the
Kshatriyas are close behind me."

"Come with us to my village," suggested Yar Afzal. "We have horses
hidden in the gorge. They can never follow us in the darkness. They
are close behind you, you say?"

"So close that I hear now the clink of their hoofs on the flint,"
answered Conan grimly.

Instantly there was movement; the torch was dashed out and the ragged
shapes melted like phantoms into the darkness. Conan swept up the Devi
in his arms, and she did not resist. The rocky ground hurt her slim
feet in their soft slippers and she felt very small and helpless in
that brutish, primordial blackness among those colossal, nighted
crags.

Feeling her shiver in the wind that moaned down the defiles, Conan
jerked a ragged cloak from its owner's shoulders and wrapped it about
her. He also hissed a warning in her ear, ordering her to make no
sound. She did not hear the distant clink of shod hoofs on rock that
warned the keen-eared hill-men; but she was far too frightened to
disobey, in any event.

She could see nothing but a few faint stars far above, but she knew by
the deepening darkness when they entered the gorge mouth. There was a
stir about them, the uneasy movement of horses. A few muttered words,
and Conan mounted the horse of the man he had killed, lifting the girl
up in front of him. Like phantoms except for the click of their hoofs,
the band swept away up the shadowy gorge. Behind them on the trail
they left the dead horse and the dead man, which were found less than
half an hour later by the riders from the fortress, who recognized the
man as a Wazuli and drew their own conclusions accordingly.

Yasmina, snuggled warmly in her captor's arms, grew drowsy in spite of
herself. The motion of the horse, though it was uneven, uphill and
down, yet possessed a certain rhythm which combined with weariness and
emotional exhaustion to force sleep upon her. She had lost all sense
of time or direction. They moved in soft thick darkness, in which she
sometimes glimpsed vaguely gigantic walls sweeping up like black
ramparts, or great crags shouldering the stars; at times she sensed
echoing depths beneath them, or felt the wind of dizzy heights blowing
cold about her. Gradually these things faded into a dreamy
unwakefulness in which the clink of hoofs and the creak of saddles
were like the irrelevant sounds in a dream.

She was vaguely aware when the motion ceased and she was lifted down
and carried a few steps. Then she was laid down on something soft and
rustling, and something--a folded coat perhaps--was thrust under her
head, and the cloak in which she was wrapped was carefully tucked
about her. She heard Yar Afzal laugh.

"A rare prize, Conan; fit mate for a chief of the Afghulis."

"Not for me," came Conan's answering rumble. "This wench will buy the
lives of my seven headmen, blast their souls."

That was the last she heard as she sank into dreamless slumber.

She slept while armed men rode through the dark hills, and the fate of
kingdoms hung in the balance. Through the shadowy gorges and defiles
that night there rang the hoofs of galloping horses, and the starlight
glimmered on helmets and curved blades, until the ghoulish shapes that
haunt the crags stared into the darkness from ravine and boulder and
wondered what things were afoot.

A band of these sat gaunt horses in the black pit-mouth of a gorge as
the hurrying hoofs swept past. Their leader, a well-built man in a
helmet and gilt-braided cloak, held up his hand warningly, until the
riders had sped on. Then he laughed softly.

"They must have lost the trail! Or else they have found that Conan has
already reached the Afghuli villages. It will take many riders to
smoke out that hive. There will be squadrons riding up the Zhaibar by
dawn."

"If there is fighting in the hills there will be looting," muttered a
voice behind him, in the dialect of the Irakzai.

"There will be looting," answered the man with the helmet. "But first
it is our business to reach the valley of Gurashah and await the
riders that will be galloping southward from Secunderam before
daylight."

He lifted his reins and rode out of the defile, his men falling in
behind him--thirty ragged phantoms in the starlight.



CHAPTER 5 The Black Stallion

The sun was well up when Yasmina awoke. She did not start and stare
blankly, wondering where she was. She awoke with full knowledge of all
that had occurred. Her supple limbs were stiff from her long ride, and
her firm flesh seemed to feel the contact of the muscular arm that had
borne her so far.

She was lying on a sheepskin covering a pallet of leaves on a hard-
beaten dirt floor. A folded sheepskin coat was under her head, and she
was wrapped in a ragged cloak. She was in a large room, the walls of
which were crudely but strongly built of uncut rocks, plastered with
sun-baked mud. Heavy beams supported a roof of the same kind, in which
showed a trapdoor up to which led a ladder. There were no windows in
the thick walls, only loopholes. There was one door, a sturdy bronze
affair that must have been looted from some Vendhyan border tower.
Opposite it was a wide opening in the wall, with no door, but several
strong wooden bars in place. Beyond them Yasmina saw a magnificent
black stallion munching a pile of dried grass. The building was fort,
dwelling place and stable in one.

At the other end of the room a girl in the vest and baggy trousers of
a hill-woman squatted beside a small fire, cooking strips of meat on
an iron grid laid over blocks of stone. There was a sooty cleft in the
wall a few feet from the floor, and some of the smoke found its way
out there. The rest floated in blue wisps about the room.

The hill-girl glanced at Yasmina over her shoulder, displaying a bold,
handsome face, and then continued her cooking. Voices boomed outside;
then the door was kicked open, and Conan strode in. He looked more
enormous than ever with the morning sunlight behind him, and Yasmina
noted some details that had escaped her the night before. His garments
were clean and not ragged. The broad Bakhariot girdle that supported
his knife in its ornamented scabbard would have matched the robes of a
prince, and there was a glint of fine Turanian mail under his shirt.

"Your captive is awake, Conan," said the Wazuli girl, and he grunted,
strode up to the fire and swept the strips of mutton off into a stone
dish.

The squatting girl laughed up at him, with some spicy jest, and he
grinned wolfishly, and hooking a toe under her haunches, tumbled her
sprawling onto the floor. She seemed to derive considerable amusement
from this bit of rough horse-play, but Conan paid no more heed to her.
Producing a great hunk of bread from somewhere, with a copper jug of
wine, he carried the lot to Yasmina, who had risen from her pallet and
was regarding him doubtfully.

"Rough fare for a Devi, girl, but our best," he grunted. "It will fill
your belly, at least."

He set the platter on the floor, and she was suddenly aware of a
ravenous hunger. Making no comment, she seated herself cross-legged on
the floor, and taking the dish in her lap, she began to eat, using her
fingers, which were all she had in the way of table utensils. After
all, adaptability is one of the tests of true aristocracy. Conan stood
looking down at her, his thumbs hooked in his girdle. He never sat
cross-legged, after the Eastern fashion.

"Where am I?" she asked abruptly.

"In the hut of Yar Afzal, the chief of the Khurum Wazulis," he
answered. "Afghulistan lies a good many miles farther on to the west.
We'll hide here awhile. The Kshatriyas are beating the hills for
you--several of their squads have been cut up by the tribes already."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Keep you until Chunder Shan is willing to trade back my seven cow-
thieves," he grunted. "Women of the Wazulis are crushing ink out of
shoki leaves, and after a while you can write a letter to the
governor."

A touch of her old imperious wrath shook her, as she thought how
maddeningly her plans had gone awry, leaving her captive of the very
man she had plotted to get into her power. She flung down the dish,
with the remnants of her meal, and sprang to her feet, tense with
anger.

"I will not write a letter! If you do not take me back, they will hang
your seven men, and a thousand more besides!"

The Wazuli girl laughed mockingly, Conan scowled, and then the door
opened and Yar Afzal came swaggering in. The Wazuli chief was as tall
as Conan, and of greater girth, but he looked fat and slow beside the
hard compactness of the Cimmerian. He plucked his red-stained beard
and stared meaningly at the Wazuli girl, and that wench rose and
scurried out without delay. Then Yar Afzal turned to his guest.

"The damnable people murmur, Conan," quoth he. "They wish me to murder
you and take the girl to hold for ransom. They say that anyone can
tell by her garments that she is a noble lady. They say why should the
Afghuh dogs profit by her, when it is the people who take the risk of
guarding her?"

"Lend me your horse," said Conan. "I'll take her and go."

"Pish!" boomed Yar Afzal. "Do you think I can't handle my own people?
I'll have them dancing in their shirts if they cross me! They don't
love you--or any other outlander--but you saved my life once, and I
will not forget. Come out, though, Conan; a scout has returned."

Conan hitched at his girdle and followed the chief outside. They
closed the door after them, and Yasmina peeped through a loophole.
She looked out on a level space before the hut. At the farther end of
that space there was a cluster of mud and stone huts, and she saw
naked children playing among the boulders, and the slim erect women of
the hills going about their tasks.

Directly before the chief's but a circle of hairy, ragged men
squatted, facing the door. Conan and Yar Afzal stood a few paces
before the door, and between them and the ring of warriors another man
sat cross-legged. This one was addressing his chief in the harsh
accents of the Wazuli, which Yasmina could scarcely understand, though
as part of her royal education she had been taught the languages of
Iranistan and the kindred tongues of Ghulistan.

"I talked with a Dagozai who saw the riders last night," said the
scout. "He was lurking near when they came to the spot where we
ambushed the lord Conan. He overheard their speech. Chunder Shan was
with them. They found the dead horse, and one of the men recognized it
as Conan's. Then they found the man Conan slew, and knew him for a
Wazuli. It seemed to them that Conan had been slain and the girl taken
by the Wazuli; so they turned aside from their purpose of following to
Afghulistan. But they did not know from which village the dead man was
come, and we had left no trail a Kshatriya could follow.

"So they rode to the nearest Wazuli village, which was the village of
Jugra, and burnt it and slew many of the people. But the men of Khojur
came upon them in darkness and slew some of them, and wounded the
governor. So the survivors retired down the Zhaibar in the darkness
before dawn, but they returned with reinforcements before sunrise, and
there has been skirmishing and fighting in the hills all morning. It
is said that a great army is being raised to sweep the hills about the
Zhaibar. The tribes are whetting their knives and laying ambushes in
every pass from here to Gurashah valley. Moreover, Kerim Shah has
returned to the hills."

A grunt went around the circle, and Yasmina leaned closer to the loop-
hole at the name she had begun to mistrust.

"Where went he?" demanded Yar Afzal.

"The Dagozai did not know; with him were thirty Irakzai of the lower
villages. They rode into the hills and disappeared."

"These Irakzai are jackals that follow a lion for crumbs," growled Yar
Afzal. "They have been lapping up the coins Kerim Shah scatters among
the border tribes to buy men like horses. I like him not, for all he
is our kinsman from Iranistan."

"He's not even that," said Conan. "I know him of old. He's an
Hyrkanian, a spy of Yezdigerd's. If I catch him I'll hang his hide to
a tamarisk."

"But the Kshatriyas!" clamored the men in the semicircle. "Are we to
squat on our haunches until they smoke us out? They will learn at last
in which Wazuh village the wench is held. We are not loved by the
Zhaibari; they will help the Kshatriyas hunt us out."

"Let them come," grunted Yar Afzal. "We can hold the defiles against a
host."

One of the men leaped up and shook his fist at Conan.

"Are we to take all the risks while he reaps the rewards?" he howled.
"Are we to fight his battles for him?"

With a stride Conan reached him and bent slightly to stare full into
his hairy face. The Cimmerian had not drawn his long knife, but his
left hand grasped the scabbard, jutting the hilt suggestively forward.

"I ask no man to fight my battles," he said softly. "Draw your blade
if you dare, you yapping dog!"

The Wazuh started back, snarling like a cat.

"Dare to touch me and here are fifty men to rend you apart!" he
screeched.

"What!" roared Yar Afzal, his face purpling with wrath. His whiskers
bristled, his belly swelled with his rage. "Are you chief of Khurum?
Do the Wazulis take orders from Yar Afzal, or from a low-bred cur?"

The man cringed before his invincible chief, and Yar Afzal, striding
up to him, seized him by the throat and choked him until his face was
turning black. Then he hurled the man savagely against the ground and
stood over him with his tulwar in his hand.

"Is there any who questions my authority?" he roared, and his warriors
looked down sullenly as his bellicose glare swept their semicircle.
Yar Afzal grunted scornfully and sheathed his weapon with a gesture
that was the apex of insult. Then he kicked the fallen agitator with a
concentrated vindictiveness that brought howls from his victim.

"Get down the valley to the watchers on the heights and bring word if
they have seen anything," commanded Yar Afzal, and the man went,
shaking with fear and grinding his teeth with fury.

Yar Afzal then seated himself ponderously on a stone, growling in his
beard. Conan stood near him, legs braced apart, thumbs hooked in his
girdle, narrowly watching the assembled warriors. They stared at him
sullenly, not daring to brave Yar Afzal's fury, but hating the
foreigner as only a hillman can hate.

"Now listen to me, you sons of nameless dogs, while I tell you what
the lord Conan and I have planned to fool the Kshatriyas." The boom of
Yar Afzal's bull-like voice followed the discomfited warrior as he
slunk away from the assembly.

The man passed by the cluster of huts, where women who had seen his
defeat laughed at him and called stinging comments, and hastened on
along the trail that wound among spurs and rocks toward the valley
head.

Just as he rounded the first turn that took him out of sight of the
village, he stopped short, gaping stupidly. He had not believed it
possible for a stranger to enter the valley of Khurum without being
detected by the hawk-eyed watchers along the heights; yet a man sat
cross-legged on a low ledge beside the path--a man in a camel-hair
robe and a green turban.

The Wazuli's mouth gaped for a yell, and his hand leaped to his knife 
hilt. But at that instant his eyes met those of the stranger and the
cry died in his throat, his fingers went limp. He stood like a statue,
his own eyes glazed and vacant.

For minutes the scene held motionless; then the man on the ledge drew
a cryptic symbol in the dust on the rock with his forefinger. The
Wazuli did not see him place anything within the compass of that
emblem, but presently something gleamed there--a round, shiny black
ball that looked like polished jade. The man in the green turban took
this up and tossed it to the Wazuli, who mechanically caught it.

"Carry this to Yar Afzal," he said, and the Wazuli turned like an
automaton and went back along the path, holding the black jade ball in
his outstretched hand. He did not even turn his head to the renewed
jeers of the women as he passed the huts. He did not seem to hear.

The man on the ledge gazed after him with a cryptic smile. A girl's
head rose above the rim of the ledge and she looked at him with
admiration and a touch of fear that had not been present the night
before.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

He ran his fingers through her dark locks caressingly.

"Are you still dizzy from your flight on the horse-of-air, that you
doubt my wisdom?" he laughed. "As long as Yar Afzal lives, Conan will
bide safe among the Wazuli fighting-men. Their knives are sharp, and
there are many of them. What I plot will be safer, even for me, than
to seek to slay him and take her from among them. It takes no wizard
to predict what the Wazulis will do, and what Conan will do, when my
victim hands the globe of Yezud to the chief of Khurum."

Back before the hut, Yar Afzal halted in the midst of some tirade,
surprized and displeased to see the man he had sent up the valley,
pushing his way through the throng.

"I bade you go to the watchers!" the chief bellowed. "You have not had
time to come from them."

The other did not reply; he stood woodenly, staring vacantly into the
chief's face, his palm outstretched holding the jade ball. Conan,
looking over Yar Afzal's shoulder, murmured something and reached to
touch the chief's arm, but as he did so, Yar Afzal, in a paroxysm of
anger, struck the man with his clenched fist and felled him like an
ox. As he fell, the jade sphere rolled to Yar Afzal's foot, and the
chief, seeming to see it for the first time, bent and picked it up.
The men, staring perplexedly at their senseless comrade, saw their
chief bend, but they did not see what he picked up from the ground.

Yar Afzal straightened, glanced at the jade, and made a motion to
thrust it into his girdle.

"Carry that fool to his hut," he growled. "He has the look of a lotus-
eater. He returned me a blank stare. I--aie!"

In his right hand, moving toward his girdle, he had suddenly felt
movement where movement should not be. His voice died away as he stood
and glared at nothing; and inside his clenched right hand he felt the
quivering of change, of motion, of life. He no longer held a smooth
shining sphere in his fingers. And he dared not look; his tongue clove
to the roof of his mouth, and he could not open his hand. His
astonished warriors saw Yar Afzal's eyes distend, the color ebb from
his face. Then suddenly a bellow of agony burst from his bearded lips;
he swayed and fell as if struck by lightning, his right arm tossed out
in front of him. Face down he lay, and from between his opening
fingers crawled a spider--a hideous, black, hairy-legged monster whose
body shone like black jade. The men yelled and gave back suddenly, and
the creature scuttled into a crevice of the rocks and disappeared.

The warriors started up, glaring wildly, and a voice rose above their
clamor, a far-carrying voice of command which came from none knew
where. Afterward each man there--who still lived--denied that he had
shouted, but all there heard it.

"Yar Afzal is dead! Kill the outlander!"

That shout focused their whirling minds as one. Doubt, bewilderment
and fear vanished in the uproaring surge of the blood-lust. A furious
yell rent the skies as the tribesmen responded instantly to the
suggestion. They came headlong across the open space, cloaks flapping,
eyes blazing, knives lifted.

Conan's action was as quick as theirs. As the voice shouted he sprang
for the hut door. But they were closer to him than he was to the door,
and with one foot on the sill he had to wheel and parry the swipe of a
yard-long blade. He split the man's skull--ducked another swinging
knife and gutted the wielder--felled a man with his left fist and
stabbed another in the belly--and heaved back mightily against the
closed door with his shoulders. Hacking blades were nicking chips out
of the jambs about his ears, but the door flew open under the impact
of his shoulders, and he went stumbling backward into the room. A
bearded tribesman, thrusting with all his fury as Conan sprang back,
overreached and pitched headfirst through the doorway. Conan stopped,
grasped the slack of his garments and hauled him clear, and slammed
the door in the faces of the men who came surging into it. Bones
snapped under the impact, and the next instant Conan slammed the bolts
into place and whirled with desperate haste to meet the man who sprang
from the floor and tore into action like a madman.

Yasmina cowered in a corner, staring in horror as the two men fought
back and forth across the room, almost trampling her at times; the
flash and clangor of their blades filled the room, and outside the mob
clamored like a wolf-pack, hacking deafeningly at the bronze door with
their long knives, and dashing huge rocks against it. Somebody fetched
a tree trunk, and the door began to stagger under the thunderous
assault. Yasmina clasped her ears, staring wildly. Violence and fury
within, cataclysmic madness without. The stallion in his stall neighed
and reared, thundering with his heels against the walls. He wheeled
and launched his hoofs through the bars just as the tribesman, backing
away from Conan's murderous swipes, stumbled against them. His spine
cracked in three places like a rotten branch and he was hurled
headlong against the Cimmerian, bearing him backward so that they both
crashed to the beaten floor.

Yasmina cried out and ran forward; to her dazed sight it seemed that
both were slain. She reached them just as Conan threw aside the corpse
and rose. She caught his arm, trembling from head to foot.

"Oh, you live! I thought--I thought you were dead!"

He glanced down at her quickly, into the pale, upturned face and the
wide-staring dark eyes.

"Why are you trembling?" he demanded. "Why should you care if I live
or die?"

A vestige of her poise returned to her, and she drew away, making a
rather pitiful attempt at playing the Devi.

"You are preferable to those wolves howling without," she answered,
gesturing toward the door, the stone sill of which was beginning to
splinter away.

"That won't hold long," he muttered, then turned and went swiftly to
the stall of the stallion.

Yasmina clenched her hands and caught her breath as she saw him tear
aside the splintered bars and go into the stall with the maddened
beast. The stallion reared above him, neighing terribly, hoofs lifted,
eyes and teeth flashing and ears laid back, but Conan leaped and
caught his mane with a display of sheer strength that seemed
impossible, and dragged the beast down on his forelegs. The steed
snorted and quivered, but stood still while the man bridled him and
clapped on the gold-worked saddle, with the wide silver stirrups.

Wheeling the beast around in the stall, Conan called quickly to
Yasmina, and the girl came, sidling nervously past the stallion's
heels. Conan was working at the stone wall, talking swiftly as he
worked.

"A secret door in the wall here, that not even the Wazuli know about.
Yar Afzal showed it to me once when he was drunk. It opens out into
the mouth of the ravine behind the hut. Ha!"

As he tugged at a projection that seemed casual, a whole section of
the wall slid back on oiled iron runners. Looking through, the girl
saw a narrow defile opening in a sheer stone cliff within a few feet
of the hut's back wall. Then Conan sprang into the saddle and hauled
her up before him. Behind them the great door groaned like a living
thing and crashed in, and a yell rang to the roof as the entrance was
instantly flooded with hairy faces and knives in hairy fists. And then
the great stallion went through the wall like a javelin from a
catapult, and thundered into the defile, running low, foam flying from
the bit-rings.

That move came as an absolute surprize to the Wazulis. It was a
surprize, too, to those stealing down the ravine. It happened so
quickly--the hurricane-like charge of the great horse--that a man in a
green turban was unable to get out of the way. He went down under the
frantic hoofs, and a girl screamed. Conan got one glimpse of her as
they thundered by--a slim, dark girl in silk trousers and a jeweled
breastband, flattening herself against the ravine wall. Then the
black horse and his riders were gone up the gorge like the spume blown
before a storm, and the men who came tumbling through the wall into
the defile after them met that which changed their yells of blood-lust
to shrill screams of fear and death.



CHAPTER 6 The Mountain of the Black Seers

"Where now?" Yasmina was trying to sit erect on the rocking saddle-
bow, clutching her captor. She was conscious of a recognition of shame
that she should not find unpleasant the feel of his muscular flesh
under her fingers.

"To Afghulistan," he answered. "It's a perilous road, but the stallion
will carry us easily, unless we fall in with some of your friends, or
my tribal enemies. Now that Yar Afzal is dead, those damned Wazulis
will be on our heels. I'm surprized we haven't sighted them behind us
already."

"Who was that man you rode down?" she asked.

"I don't know. I never saw him before. He's no Ghuli, that's certain.
What the devil he was doing there is more than I can say. There was a
girl with him, too."

"Yes." Her gaze was shadowed. "I can not understand that. That girl
was my maid, Gitara. Do you suppose she was coming to aid me? That the
man was a friend? If so, the Wazulis have captured them both."

"Well," he answered, "there's nothing we can do. If we go back,
they'll skin us both. I can't understand how a girl like that could
get this far into the mountains with only one man--and he a robed
scholar, for that's what he looked like. There's something infernally
queer in all this. That fellow Yar Afzal beat and sent away--he moved
like a man walking in his sleep. I've seen the priests of Zamora
perform their abominable rituals in their forbidden temples, and their
victims had a stare like that man. The priests looked into their eyes
and muttered incantations, and then the people became the walking dead
men, with glassy eyes, doing as they were ordered."

"And then I saw what the fellow had in his hand, which Yar Afzal
picked up. It was like a big black jade bead, such as the temple girls
of Yezud wear when they dance before the black stone spider which is
their god. Yar Afzal held it in his hand, and he didn't pick up
anything else. Yet when he fell dead, a spider, like the god at Yezud,
only smaller, ran out of his fingers."

"And then, when the Wazulis stood uncertain there, a voice cried out
for them to kill me, and I know that voice didn't come from any of the
warriors, nor from the women who watched by the huts. It seemed to
come from above."

Yasmina did not reply. She glanced at the stark outlines of the
mountains all about them and shuddered. Her soul shrank from their
gaunt brutality. This was a grim, naked land where anything might
happen. Age-old traditions invested it with shuddery horror for anyone
born in the hot, luxuriant southern plains.

The sun was high, beating down with fierce heat, yet the wind that
blew in fitful gusts seemed to sweep off slopes of ice. Once she heard
a strange rushing above them that was not the sweep of the wind, and
from the way Conan looked up, she knew it was not a common sound to
him, either. She thought that a strip of the cold blue sky was
momentarily blurred, as if some all but invisible object had swept
between it and herself, but she could not be sure. Neither made any
comment, but Conan loosened his knife in his scabbard.

They were following a faintly marked path dipping down into ravines so
deep the sun never struck bottom, laboring up steep slopes where loose
shale threatened to slide from beneath their feet, and following
knife-edge ridges with blue-hazed echoing depths on either hand.

The sun had passed its zenith when they crossed a narrow trail winding
among the crags. Conan reined the horse aside and followed it
southward, going almost at right angles to their former course.

"A Galzai village is at one end of this trail," he explained. "Their
women follow it to a well, for water. You need new garments."

Glancing down at her filmy attire, Yasmina agreed with him. Her cloth-
of-gold slippers were in tatters, her robes and silken undergarments
torn to shreds that scarcely held together decently. Garments meant
for the streets of Peshkhauri were scarcely appropriate for the crags
of the Himelians.

Coming to a crook in the trail, Conan dismounted, helped
Yasmina down and waited. Presently he nodded, though she heard
nothing.

"A woman coming along the trail," he remarked. In sudden panic she
clutched his arm.

"You will not--not kill her?"

"I don't kill women ordinarily," he grunted; "though some of the hill-
women are she-wolves. No," he grinned as at a huge jest. "By Crom,
I'll pay for her clothes! How is that?" He displayed a large handful
of gold coins, and replaced all but the largest. She nodded, much
relieved. It was perhaps natural for men to slay and die; her flesh
crawled at the thought of watching the butchery of a woman.

Presently a woman appeared around the crook of the trail--a tall, slim
Galzai girl, straight as a young sapling, bearing a great empty gourd.
She stopped short and the gourd fell from her hands when she saw them;
she wavered as though to run, then realized that Conan was too close
to her to allow her to escape, and so stood still, staring at them
with a mixed expression of fear and curiosity.

Conan displayed the gold coin.

"If you will give this woman your garments," he said, "I will give you
this money."

The response was instant. The girl smiled broadly with surprize and
delight, and, with the disdain of a hill-woman for prudish
conventions, promptly yanked off her sleeveless embroidered vest,
slipped down her wide trousers and stepped out of them, twitched off
her wide-sleeved shirt, and kicked off her sandals. Bundling them all
in a bunch, she proffered them to Conan, who handed them to the
astonished Devi.

"Get behind that rock and put these on," he directed, further proving
himself no native hillman. "Fold your robes up into a bundle and
bring them to me when you come out."

"The money!" clamored the hill-girl, stretching out her hands eagerly.
"The gold you promised me!"

Conan flipped the coin to her, she caught it, bit, then thrust it into
her hair, bent and caught up the gourd and went on down the path, as
devoid of self-consciousness as of garments. Conan waited with some
impatience while the Devi, for the first time in her pampered life,
dressed herself. When she stepped from behind the rock he swore in
surprize, and she felt a curious rush of emotions at the unrestrained
admiration burning in his fierce blue eyes. She felt shame,
embarrassment, yet a stimulation of vanity she had never before
experienced, and a tingling when meeting the impact of his eyes. He
laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned her about, staring avidly
at her from all angles.

"By Crom!" said he. "In those smoky, mystic robes you were aloof and
cold and far off as a star! Now you are a woman of warm flesh and
blood! You went behind that rock as the Devi of Vendhya; you come out
as a hill-girl--though a thousand times more beautiful than any wench
of the Zhaibar! You were a goddess--now you are real!"

He spanked her resoundingly, and she, recognizing this as merely
another expression of admiration, did not feel outraged. It was indeed
as if the changing of her garments had wrought a change in her
personality. The feelings and sensations she had suppressed rose to
domination in her now, as if the queenly robes she had cast off had
been material shackles and inhibitions.

But Conan, in his renewed admiration, did not forget that peril lurked
all about them. The farther they drew away from the region of the
Zhaibar, the less likely he was to encounter any Kshatriya troops. On
the other hand he had been listening all throughout their flight for
sounds that would tell him the vengeful Wazulis of Khurum were on
their heels.

Swinging the Devi up, he followed her into the saddle and again reined
the stallion westward. The bundle of garments she had given him, he
hurled over a cliff, to fall into the depths of a thousand-foot gorge.

"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Why did you not give them to the
girl?"

"The riders from Peshkhauri are combing these hills," he said.
"They'll be ambushed and harried at every turn, and by way of reprisal
they'll destroy every village they can take. They may turn westward
any time. If they found a girl wearing your garments, they'd torture
her into talking, and she might put them on my trail."

"What will she do?" asked Yasmina.

"Go back to her village and tell her people that a stranger attacked
her," he answered. "She'll have them on our track, all right. But she
had to go on and get the water first; if she dared go back without it,
they'd whip the skin off her. That gives us a long start. They'll
never catch us. By nightfall we'll cross the Afghuh border."

"There are no paths or signs of human habitation in these parts," she
commented. "Even for the Himelians this region seems singularly
deserted. We have not seen a trail since we left the one where we met
the Galzai woman."

For answer he pointed to the northwest, where she glimpsed a peak in a
notch of the crags.

"Yimsha," grunted Conan. "The tribes build their villages as far from
the mountain as they can."

She was instantly rigid with attention.

"Yimsha!" she whispered. "The mountain of the Black Seers!"

"So they say," he answered. "This is as near as I ever approached it.
I have swung north to avoid any Kshatriya troops that might be
prowling through the hills. The regular trail from Khurum to
Afghulistan lies farther south. This is an ancient one, and seldom
used."

She was staring intently at the distant peak. Her nails bit into her
pink palms.

"How long would it take to reach Yimsha from this point?"

"All the rest of the day, and all night," he answered, and grinned.
"Do you want to go there? By Crom, it's no place for an ordinary
human, from what the hill-people say."

"Why do they not gather and destroy the devils that inhabit it?" she
demanded.

"Wipe out wizards with swords? Anyway, they never interfere with
people, unless the people interfere with them. I never saw one of
them, though I've talked with men who swore they had. They say they've
glimpsed people from the tower among the crags at sunset or sunrise--
tall, silent men in black robes."

"Would you be afraid to attack them?"

"I?" The idea seemed a new one to him. "Why, if they imposed upon me,
it would be my life or theirs. But I have nothing to do with them. I
came to these mountains to raise a following of human beings, not to
war with wizards."

Yasmina did not at once reply. She stared at the peak as at a human
enemy, feeling all her anger and hatred stir in her bosom anew. And
another feeling began to take dim shape. She had plotted to hurl
against the masters of Yimsha the man in whose arms she was now
carried. Perhaps there was another way, besides the method she had
planned, to accomplish her purpose. She could not mistake the look
that was beginning to dawn in this wild man's eyes as they rested on
her. Kingdoms have fallen when a woman's slim white hands pulled the
strings of destiny. Suddenly she stiffened, pointing.

"Look!"

Just visible on the distant peak there hung a cloud of peculiar
aspect. It was a frosty crimson in color, veined with sparkling gold.
This cloud was in motion; it rotated, and as it whirled it contracted.
It dwindled to a spinning taper that flashed in the sun. And suddenly
it detached itself from the snow-tipped peak, floated out over the
void like a gay-hued feather, and became invisible against the
cerulean sky.

"What could that have been?" asked the girl uneasily, as a shoulder of
rock shut the distant mountain from view; the phenomenon had been
disturbing, even in its beauty.

"The hillmen call it Yimsha's Carpet, whatever that means," answered
Conan. "I've seen five hundred of them running as if the devil were at
their heels, to hide themselves in caves and crags, because they saw
that crimson cloud float up from the peak. What in--"

They had advanced through a narrow, knife-cut gash between turreted
walls and emerged upon a broad ledge, flanked by a series of rugged
slopes on one hand, and a gigantic precipice on the other. The dim
trail followed this ledge, bent around a shoulder and reappeared at
intervals far below, working a tedious way downward. And emerging from
the cut that opened upon the ledge, the black stallion halted short,
snorting. Conan urged him on impatiently, and the horse snorted and
threw his head up and down, quivering and straining as if against an
invisible barrier.

Conan swore and swung off, lifting Yasmina down with him. He went
forward, with a hand thrown out before him as if expecting to
encounter unseen resistance, but there was nothing to hinder him,
though when he tried to lead the horse, it neighed shrilly and jerked
back. Then Yasmina cried out, and Conan wheeled, hand starting to
knife hilt.

Neither of them had seen him come, but he stood there, with his arms
folded, a man in a camel-hair robe and a green turban. Conan grunted
with surprize to recognize the man the stallion had spurned in the
ravine outside the Wazuli village.

"Who the devil are you?" he demanded.

The man did not answer. Conan noticed that his eyes were wide, fixed,
and of a peculiar luminous quality. And those eyes held his like a
magnet.

Khemsa's sorcery was based on hypnotism, as is the case with most
Eastern magic. The way has been prepared for the hypnotist for untold
centuries of generations who have lived and died in the firm
conviction of the reality and power of hypnotism, building up, by mass
thought and practise, a colossal though intangible atmosphere against
which the individual, steeped in the traditions of the land, finds
himself helpless.

But Conan was not a son of the East. Its traditions were meaningless
to him; he was the product of an utterly alien atmosphere. Hypnotism
was not even a myth in Cimmeria. The heritage that prepared a native
of the East for submission to the mesmerist was not his.

He was aware of what Khemsa was trying to do to him; but he felt the
impact of the man's uncanny power only as a vague impulsion, a tugging
and pulling that he could shake off as a man shakes spider-webs from
his garments.

Aware of hostility and black magic, he ripped out his long knife and
lunged, as quick on his feet as a mountain lion.

But hypnotism was not all of Khemsa's magic. Yasmina, watching, did
not see by what roguery of movement or illusion the man in the green
turban avoided the terrible disemboweling thrust. But the keen blade
whickered between side and lifted arm, and to Yasmina it seemed that
Khemsa merely brushed his open palm lightly against Conan's bull neck.
But the Cimmerian went down like a slain ox.

Yet Conan was not dead; breaking his fall with his left hand, he
slashed at Khemsa's legs even as he went down, and the Rakhsha avoided
the scythelike swipe only by a most unwizardly bound backward. Then
Yasmina cried out sharply as she saw a woman she recognized as Gitara
glide out from among the rocks and come up to the man. The greeting
died in the Devi's throat as she saw the malevolence in the girl's
beautiful face.

Conan was rising slowly, shaken and dazed by the cruel craft of that
blow which, delivered with an art forgotten of men before Atlantis
sank, would have broken like a rotten twig the neck of a lesser man.
Khemsa gazed at him cautiously and a trifle uncertainly. The Rakhsha
had learned the full flood of his own power when he faced at bay the
knives of the maddened Wazulis in the ravine behind Khurum village;
but the Cimmerian's resistance had perhaps shaken his new-found
confidence a trifle. Sorcery thrives on success, not on failure.

He stepped forward, lifting his hand--then halted as if frozen, head
tilted back, eyes wide open, hand raised. In spite of himself Conan
followed his gaze, and so did the women--the girl cowering by the
trembling stallion, and the girl beside Khemsa.

Down the mountain slopes, like a whirl of shining dust blown before
the wind, a crimson, conoid cloud came dancing. Khemsa's dark face
turned ashen; his hand began to tremble, then sank to his side. The
girl beside him, sensing the change in him, stared at him inquiringly.

The crimson shape left the mountain slope and came down in a long
arching sweep. It struck the ledge between Conan and Khemsa, and the
Rakhsha gave back with a stifled cry. He backed away, pushing the girl
Gitara back with groping, fending hands.

The crimson cloud balanced like a spinning top for an instant,
whirling in a dazzling sheen on its point. Then without warning it was
gone, vanished as a bubble vanishes when burst. There on the ledge
stood four men. It was miraculous, incredible, impossible, yet it was
true. They were not ghosts or phantoms. They were four tall men, with
shaven, vulturelike heads, and black robes that hid their feet. Their
hands were concealed by their wide sleeves. They stood in silence,
their naked heads nodding slightly in unison. They were facing Khemsa,
but behind them Conan felt his own blood turning to ice in his veins.
Rising, he backed stealthily away, until he could feel the stallion's
shoulder trembling against his back, and the Devi crept into the
shelter of his arm. There was no word spoken. Silence hung like a
stifling pall.

All four of the men in black robes stared at Khemsa. Their vulture-
like faces were immobile, their eyes introspective and contemplative.
But Khemsa shook like a man in an ague. His feet were braced on the
rock, his calves straining as if in physical combat. Sweat ran in
streams down his dark face. His right hand locked on something under
his brown robe so desperately that the blood ebbed from that hand and
left it white. His left hand fell on the shoulder of Gitara and
clutched in agony like the grasp of a drowning man. She did not flinch
or whimper, though his fingers dug like talons into her firm flesh.

Conan had witnessed hundreds of battles in his wild life, but never
one like this, wherein four diabolical wills sought to beat down one
lesser but equally devilish will that opposed them. But he only
faintly sensed the monstrous quality of that hideous struggle. With
his back to the wall, driven to bay by his former masters, Khemsa was
fighting for his life with all the dark power, all the frightful
knowledge they had taught him through long, grim years of neophytism
and vassalage.

He was stronger than even he had guessed, and the free exercise of his
powers in his own behalf had tapped unsuspected reservoirs of forces.
And he was nerved to superenergy by frantic fear and desperation. He
reeled before the merciless impact of those hypnotic eyes, but he held
his ground. His features were distorted into a bestial grin of agony,
and his limbs were twisted as on a rack. It was a war of souls, of
frightful brains steeped in lore forbidden to men for a million years,
of mentalities which had plumbed the abysses and explored the dark
stars where spawn the shadows.

Yasmina understood this better than did Conan. And she dimly
understood why Khemsa could withstand the concentrated impact of those
four hellish wills which might have blasted into atoms the very rock
on which he stood. The reason was the girl that he clutched with the
strength of his despair. She was like an anchor to his staggering
soul, battered by the waves of those psychic emanations. His weakness
was now his strength. His love for the girl, violent and evil though
it might be, was yet a tie that bound him to the rest of humanity,
providing an earthly leverage for his will, a chain that his inhuman
enemies could not break; at least not break through Khemsa.

They realized that before he did. And one of them turned his gaze from
the Rakhsha full upon Gitara. There was no battle there. The girl
shrank and wilted like a leaf in the drought. Irresistibly impelled,
she tore herself from her lover's arms before he realized what was
happening. Then a hideous thing came to pass. She began to back toward
the precipice, facing her tormentors, her eyes wide and blank as dark
gleaming glass from behind which a lamp has been blown out. Khemsa
groaned and staggered toward her, falling into the trap set for him. A
divided mind could not maintain the unequal battle. He was beaten, a
straw in their hands. The girl went backward, walking like an
automaton, and Khemsa reeled drunkenly after her, hands vainly
outstretched, groaning, slobbering in his pain, his feet moving
heavily like dead things.

On the very brink she paused, standing stiffly, her heels on the edge,
and he fell on his knees and crawled whimpering toward her, groping
for her, to drag her back from destruction. And just before his clumsy
fingers touched her, one of the wizards laughed, like the sudden,
bronze note of a bell in hell. The girl reeled suddenly and,
consummate climax of exquisite cruelty, reason and understanding
flooded back into her eyes, which flared with awful fear. She
screamed, clutched wildly at her lover's straining hand, and then,
unable to save herself, fell headlong with a moaning cry.

Khemsa hauled himself to the edge and stared over, haggardly, his lips
working as he mumbled to himself. Then he turned and stared for a long
minute at his torturers, with wide eyes that held no human light. And
then with a cry that almost burst the rocks, he reeled up and came
rushing toward them, a knife lifted in his hand.

One of the Rakhshas stepped forward and stamped his foot, and as he
stamped, there came a rumbling that grew swiftly to a grinding roar.
Where his foot struck, a crevice opened in the solid rock that widened
instantly. Then, with a deafening crash, a whole section of the ledge
gave way. There was a last glimpse of Khemsa, with arms wildly
upflung, and then he vanished amidst the roar of the avalanche that
thundered down into the abyss.

The four looked contemplatively at the ragged edge of rock that formed
the new rim of the precipice, and then turned suddenly. Conan, thrown
off his feet by the shudder of the mountain, was rising, lifting
Yasmina. He seemed to move as slowly as his brain was working. He was
befogged and stupid. He realized that there was a desperate need for
him to lift the Devi on the black stallion and ride like the wind, but
an unaccountable sluggishness weighted his every thought and action.

And now the wizards had turned toward him; they raised their arms, and
to his horrified sight, he saw their outlines fading, dimming,
becoming hazy and nebulous, as a crimson smoke billowed around their
feet and rose about them. They were blotted out by a sudden whirling
cloud--and then he realized that he too was enveloped in a blinding
crimson mist--he heard Yasmina scream, and the stallion cried out like
a woman in pain. The Devi was torn from his arm, and as he lashed out
with his knife blindly, a terrific blow like a gust of storm wind
knocked him sprawling against a rock. Dazedly he saw a crimson conoid
cloud spinning up and over the mountain slopes. Yasmina was gone, and
so were the four men in black. Only the terrified stallion shared the
ledge with him.



CHAPTER 7 On to Yimsha

As mists vanish before a strong wind, the cobwebs vanished from
Conan's brain. With a searing curse he leaped into the saddle and the
stallion reared neighing beneath him. He glared up the slopes,
hesitated, and then turned down the trail in the direction he had been
going when halted by Khemsa's trickery. But now he did not ride at a
measured gait. He shook loose the reins and the stallion went like a
thunderbolt, as if frantic to lose hysteria in violent physical
exertion. Across the ledge and around the crag and down the narrow
trail threading the great steep they plunged at breakneck speed. The
path followed a fold of rock, winding interminably down from tier to
tier of striated escarpment, and once, far below, Conan got a glimpse
of the ruin that had fallen--a mighty pile of broken stone and
boulders at the foot of a gigantic cliff.

The valley floor was still far below him when he reached a long and
lofty ridge that led out from the slope like a natural causeway. Out
upon this he rode, with an almost sheer drop on either hand. He could
trace ahead of him the trail and made a great horseshoe back into the
riverbed at his left hand. He cursed the necessity of traversing those
miles, but it was the only way. To try to descend to the lower lap of
the trail here would be to attempt the impossible. Only a bird could
get to the riverbed with a whole neck.

So he urged on the wearying stallion, until a clink of hoofs reached
his ears, welling up from below. Pulling up short and reining to the
lip of the cliff, he stared down into the dry riverbed that wound
along the foot of the ridge. Along that gorge rode a motley throng--
bearded men on half-wild horses, five hundred strong, bristling with
weapons. And Conan shouted suddenly, leaning over the edge of the
cliff, three hundred feet above them.

At his shout they reined back, and five hundred bearded faces were
tilted up toward him; a deep, clamorous roar filled the canyon. Conan
did not waste words.

"I was riding for Ghor!" he roared. "I had not hoped to meet you dogs
on the trail. Follow me as fast as your nags can push! I'm going to
Yimsha, and--"

"Traitor!" The howl was like a dash of ice water in his face.

"What?" He glared down at them, jolted speechless. He saw wild eyes
blazing up at him, faces contorted with fury, fists brandishing
blades.

"Traitor!" they roared back, wholeheartedly. "Where are the seven
chiefs held captive in Peshkhauri?"

"Why, in the governor's prison, I suppose," he answered.

A bloodthirsty yell from a hundred throats answered him, with such a
waving of weapons and a clamor that he could not understand what they
were saying. He beat down the din with a bull-like roar, and bellowed:
"What devil's play is this? Let one of you speak, so I can understand
what you mean!"

A gaunt old chief elected himself to this position, shook his tulwar
at Conan as a preamble, and shouted accusingly: "You would not let us
go raiding Peshkhauri to rescue our brothers!"

"No, you fools!" roared the exasperated Cimmerian. "Even if you'd
breached the wall, which is unlikely, they'd have hanged the prisoners
before you could reach them."

"And you went alone to traffic with the governor!" yelled the Afghuli,
working himself into a frothing frenzy.

"Well?"

"Where are the seven chiefs?" howled the old chief, making his tulwar
into a glimmering wheel of steel about his head. "Where are they?
Dead!"

"What!" Conan nearly fell off his horse in his surprize.

"Aye, dead!" five hundred bloodthirsty voices assured him.

The old chief brandished his arms and got the floor again. "They were
not hanged!" he screeched. "A Wazuli in another cell saw them die! The
governor sent a wizard to slay them by craft!"

"That must be a lie," said Conan. "The governor would not dare. Last
night I talked with him--"

The admission was unfortunate. A yell of hate and accusation split the
skies.

"Aye! You went to him alone! To betray us! It is no lie. The Wazuli
escaped through the doors the wizard burst in his entry, and told the
tale to our scouts whom he met in Zhaibar. They had been sent forth to
search for you, when you did not return. When they heard the Wazuli's
tale, they returned with all haste to Ghor, and we saddled our steeds
and girt our swords!"

"And what do you fools mean to do?" demanded the Cimmerian.

"To avenge our brothers!" they howled. "Death to the Kshatriyas! Slay
him, brothers, he is a traitor!"

Arrows began to rattle around him. Conan rose in his stirrups,
striving to make himself heard above the tumult, and then, with a roar
of mingled rage, defiance and disgust, he wheeled and galloped back up
the trail. Behind him and below him the Afghulis came pelting,
mouthing their rage, too furious even to remember that the only way
they could reach the height whereon he rode was to traverse the
riverbed in the other direction, make the broad bend and follow the
twisting trail up over the ridge. When they did remember this, and
turned back, their repudiated chief had almost reached the point where
the ridge joined the escarpment.

At the cliff he did not take the trail by which he had descended, but
turned off on another, a mere trace along a rockfault, where the
stallion scrambled for footing. He had not ridden far when the
stallion snorted and shied back from something lying in the trail.
Conan stared down on the travesty of a man, a broken, shredded, bloody
heap that gibbered and gnashed splintered teeth.

Impelled by some obscure reason, Conan dismounted and stood looking
down at the ghastly shape, knowing that he was witness of a thing
miraculous and opposed to nature. The Rakhsha lifted his gory head,
and his strange eyes, glazed with agony and approaching death, rested
on Conan with recognition.

"Where are they?" It was a racking croak not even remotely resembling
a human voice.

"Gone back to their damnable castle on Yimsha," grunted Conan. "They
took the Devi with them."

"I will go!" muttered the man. "I will follow them! They killed
Gitara; I will kill them--the acolytes, the Four of the Black Circle,
the Master himself? Kill--kill them all!" He strove to drag his
mutilated frame along the rock, but not even his indomitable will
could animate that gory mass longer, where the splintered bones hung
together only by torn tissue and ruptured fibre.

"Follow them!" raved Khemsa, drooling a bloody slaver. "Follow!"

"I'm going to," growled Conan. "I went to fetch my Afghulis, but
they've turned on me. I'm going on to Yimsha alone. I'll have the Devi
back if I have to tear down that damned mountain with my bare hands. I
didn't think the governor would dare kill my headmen, when I had the
Devi, but it seems he did. I'll have his head for that. She's no use
to me now as a hostage, but--"

"The curse of Yizil on them!" gasped Khemsa. "Go! I am dying. Wait--
take my girdle."

He tried to fumble with a mangled hand at his tatters, and Conan,
understanding what he sought to convey, bent and drew from about his
gory waist a girdle of curious aspect.

"Follow the golden vein through the abyss," muttered Khemsa. "Wear the
girdle. I had it from a Stygian priest. It will aid you, though it
failed me at last. Break the crystal globe with the four golden
pomegranates. Beware of the Master's transmutations--I am going to
Gitara--she is waiting for me in hell--aie, ya Skelos yar!" And so he
died.

Conan stared down at the girdle. The hair of which it was woven was
not horsehair. He was convinced that it was woven of the thick black
tresses of a woman. Set in the thick mesh were tiny jewels such as he
had never seen before. The buckle was strangely made, in the form of a
golden serpent-head, flat, wedge-shaped and scaled with curious art. A
strong shudder shook Conan as he handled it, and he turned as though
to cast it over the precipice; then he hesitated, and finally buckled
it about his waist, under the Bakhariot girdle. Then he mounted and
pushed on.

The sun had sunk behind the crags. He climbed the trail in the vast
shadow of the cliffs that was thrown out like a dark blue mantle over
valleys and ridges far below. He was not far from the crest when,
edging around the shoulder of a jutting crag, he heard the clink of
shod hoofs ahead of him. He did not turn back. Indeed, so narrow was
the path that the stallion could not have wheeled his great body upon
it. He rounded the jut of the rock and came upon a portion of the path
that broadened somewhat. A chorus of threatening yells broke on his
ear, but his stallion pinned a terrified horse hard against the rock,
and Conan caught the arm of the rider in an iron grip, checking the
lifted sword in midair.

"Kerim Shah!" muttered Conan, red glints smoldering luridly in his
eyes. The Turanian did not struggle; they sat their horses almost
breast to breast, Conan's fingers locking the other's sword arm.
Behind Kerim Shah filed a group of lean Irakzai on gaunt horses. They
glared like wolves, fingering bows and knives, but rendered uncertain
because of the narrowness of the path and the perilous proximity of
the abyss that yawned beneath them.

"Where is the Devi?" demanded Kerim Shah.

"What's it to you, you Hyrkanian spy?" snarled Conan.

"I know you have her," answered Kerim Shah. "I was on my way northward
with some tribesmen when we were ambushed by enemies in Shalizah Pass.
Many of my men were slain, and the rest of us harried through the
hills like jackals. When we had beaten off our pursuers, we turned
westward, toward Amir Jehun Pass, and this morning we came upon a
Wazuli wandering through the hills. He was quite mad, but I learned
much from his incoherent gibberings before he died. I learned that he
was the sole survivor of a band which followed a chief of the Afghulis
and a captive Kshatriya woman into a gorge behind Khurum village. He
babbled much of a man in a green turban whom the Afghuh rode down, but
who, when attacked by the Wazulis who pursued, smote them with a
nameless doom that wiped them out as a gust of wind-driven fire wipes
out a cluster of locusts.

"How that one man escaped, I do not know, nor did he; but I knew from
his maunderings that Conan of Ghor had been in Khurum with his royal
captive. And as we made our way through the hills, we overtook a naked
Galzai girl bearing a gourd of water, who told us a tale of having
been stripped and ravished by a giant foreigner in the garb of an
Afghuli chief, who, she said, gave her garments to a Vendhyan woman
who accompanied him. She said you rode westward."

Kerim Shah did not consider it necessary to explain that he had been
on his way to keep his rendezvous with the expected troops from
Secunderam when he found his way barred by hostile tribesmen. The road
to Gurashah valley through Shalizah Pass was longer than the road that
wound through Amir Jehun Pass, but the latter traversed part of the
Afghuli country, which Kerim Shah had been anxious to avoid until he
came with an army. Barred from the Shalizah road, however, he had
turned to the forbidden route, until news that Conan had not yet
reached Afghulistan with his captive had caused him to turn southward
and push on recklessly in the hope of overtaking the Cimmerian in the
hills.

"So you had better tell me where the Devi is," suggested Kerim Shah.
"We outnumber you--"

"Let one of your dogs nock a shaft and I'll throw you over the cliff,"
Conan promised. "It wouldn't do you any good to kill me, anyhow. Five
hundred Afghulis are on my trail, and if they find you've cheated
them, they'll flay you alive. Anyway, I haven't got the Devi. She's in
the hands of the Black Seers of Yimsha."

"Tarim!" swore Kerim Shah softly, shaken out of his poise for the
first time. "Khemsa--"

"Khemsa's dead," grunted Conan. "His masters sent him to hell on a
landslide. And now get out of my way. I'd be glad to kill you if I had
the time, but I'm on my way to Yimsha."

"I'll go with you," said the Turanian abruptly.

Conan laughed at him. "Do you think I'd trust you, you Hyrkanian dog?"

"I don't ask you to," returned Kerim Shah. "We both want the Devi. You
know my reason; King Yezdigerd desires to add her kingdom to his
empire, and herself in his seraglio. And I knew you, in the days when
you were a hetman of the kozak steppes; so I know your ambition is
wholesale plunder. You want to loot Vendhya, and to twist out a huge
ransom for Yasmina. Well, let us for the time being, without any
illusion about each other, unite our forces, and try to rescue the
Devi from the Seers. If we succeed, and live, we can fight it out to
see who keeps her."

Conan narrowly scrutinized the other for a moment, and then nodded,
releasing the Turanian's arm. "Agreed; what about your men?"

Kerim Shah turned to the silent Irakzai and spoke briefly: "This chief
and I are going to Yimsha to fight the wizards. Will you go with us,
or stay here to be flayed by the Afghulis who are following this man?"

They looked at him with eyes grimly fatalistic. They were doomed and
they knew it--had known it ever since the singing arrows of the
ambushed Dagozai had driven them back from the Pass of Shalizah. The
men of the lower Zhaibar had too many reeking bloodfeuds among the
crag-dwellers. They were too small a band to fight their way back
through the hills to the villages of the border, without the guidance
of the crafty Turanian. They counted themselves as dead already, so
they made the reply that only dead men would make: "We will go with
thee and die on Yimsha."

"Then in Crom's name let us be gone," grunted Conan, fidgeting with
impatience as he started into the blue gulfs of the deepening
twilight. "My wolves were hours behind me, but we've lost a devilish
lot of time."

Kerim Shah backed his steed from between the black stallion and the
cliff, sheathed his sword and cautiously turned the horse. Presently
the band was filing up the path as swiftly as they dared. They came
out upon the crest nearly a mile east of the spot where Khemsa had
halted the Cimmerian and the Devi. The path they had traversed was a
perilous one, even for hillmen, and for that reason Conan had avoided
it that day when carrying Yasmina, though Kerim Shah, following him,
had taken it supposing the Cimmerian had done likewise. Even Conan
sighed with relief when the horses scrambled up over the last rim.
They moved like phantom riders through an enchanted realm of shadows.
The soft creak of leather, the clink of steel marked their passing,
then again the dark mountain slopes lay naked and silent in the
starlight.



CHAPTER 8 Yasmina Knows Stark Terror

Yasmina had time but for one scream when she felt herself enveloped in
that crimson whirl and torn from her protector with appalling force.
She screamed once, and then she had no breath to scream. She was
blinded, deafened, rendered mute and eventually senseless by the
terrific rushing of the air about her. There was a dazed consciousness
of dizzy height and numbing speed, a confused impression of natural
sensations gone mad, and then vertigo and oblivion.

A vestige of these sensations clung to her as she recovered
consciousness; so she cried out and clutched wildly as though to stay
a headlong and involuntary flight. Her fingers closed on soft fabric,
and a relieving sense of stability pervaded her. She took cognizance
of her surroundings.

She was lying on a dais covered with black velvet. This dais stood in
a great, dim room whose walls were hung with dusky tapestries across
which crawled dragons reproduced with repellent realism. Floating
shadows merely hinted at the lofty ceiling, and gloom that lent itself
to illusion lurked in the corners. There seemed to be neither windows
nor doors in the walls, or else they were concealed by the nighted
tapestries. Where the dim light came from, Yasmina could not
determine. The great room was a realm of mysteries, or shadows, and
shadowy shapes in which she could not have sworn to observe movement,
yet which invaded her mind with a dim and formless terror.

But her gaze fixed itself on a tangible object. On another, smaller
dais of jet, a few feet away, a man sat cross-legged, gazing
contemplatively at her. His long black velvet robe, embroidered with
gold thread, fell loosely about him, masking his figure. His hands
were folded in his sleeves. There was a velvet cap upon his head. His
face was calm, placid, not unhandsome, his eyes lambent and slightly
oblique. He did not move a muscle as he sat regarding her, nor did his
expression alter when he saw she was conscious.

Yasmina felt fear crawl like a trickle of ice water down her supple
spine. She lifted herself on her elbows and stared apprehensively at
the stranger.

"Who are you?" she demanded. Her voice sounded brittle and inadequate.

"I am the Master of Yimsha." The tone was rich and resonant, like the
mellow tones of a temple bell.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded.

"Were you not seeking me?"

"If you are one of the Black Seers--yes!" she answered recklessly,
believing that he could read her thoughts anyway.

He laughed softly, and chills crawled up and down her spine again.

"You would turn the wild children of the hills against the Seers of
Yimsha!" He smiled. "I have read it in your mind, princess. Your weak,
human mind, filled with petty dreams of hate and revenge."

"You slew my brother!" A rising tide of anger was vying with her fear;
her hands were clenched, her lithe body rigid. "Why did you persecute
him? He never harmed you. The priests say the Seers are above meddling
in human affairs. Why did you destroy the king of Vendhya?"

"How can an ordinary human understand the motives of a Seer?" returned
the Master calmly. "My acolytes in the temples of Turan, who are the
priests behind the priests of Tarim, urged me to bestir myself in
behalf of Yezdigerd. For reasons of my own, I complied. How can I
explain my mystic reasons to your puny intellect? You could not
understand."

"I understand this: that my brother died!" Tears of grief and rage
shook in her voice. She rose upon her knees and stared at him with
wide blazing eyes, as supple and dangerous in that moment as a she-
panther.

"As Yezdigerd desired," agreed the Master calmly. "For a while it was
my whim to further his ambitions."

"Is Yezdigerd your vassal?" Yasmina tried to keep the timbre of her
voice unaltered. She had felt her knee pressing something hard and
symmetrical under a fold of velvet. Subtly she shifted her position,
moving her hand under the fold.

"Is the dog that licks up the offal in the temple yard the vassal of
the god?" returned the Master.

He did not seem to notice the actions she sought to dissemble.
Concealed by the velvet, her fingers closed on what she knew was the
golden hilt of a dagger. She bent her head to hide the light of
triumph in her eyes.

"I am weary of Yezdigerd," said the Master. "I have turned to other
amusements--ha!"

With a fierce cry Yasmina sprang like a jungle cat, stabbing
murderously. Then she stumbled and slid to the floor, where she
cowered, staring up at the man on the dais. He had not moved; his
cryptic smile was unchanged. Tremblingly she lifted her hand and
stared at it with dilated eyes. There was no dagger in her fingers;
they grasped a stalk of golden lotus, the crushed blossoms drooping on
the bruised stem.

She dropped it as if it had been a viper, and scrambled away from the
proximity of her tormenter. She returned to her own dais, because that
was at least more dignified for a queen than groveling on the floor at
the feet of a sorcerer, and eyed him apprehensively, expecting
reprisals.

But the Master made no move.

"All substance is one to him who holds the key of the cosmos," he said
cryptically. "To an adept nothing is immutable. At will, steel
blossoms bloom in unnamed gardens, or flower-swords flash in the
moonlight."

"You are a devil," she sobbed.

"Not I!" he laughed. "I was born on this planet, long ago. Once I was
a common man, nor have I lost all human attributes in the numberless
eons of my adeptship. A human steeped in the dark arts is greater than
a devil. I am of human origin, but I rule demons. You have seen the
Lords of the Black Circle--it would blast your soul to hear from what
far realm I summoned them and from what doom I guard them with
ensorcelled crystal and golden serpents.

"But only I can rule them. My foolish Khemsa thought to make himself
great--poor fool, bursting material doors and hurtling himself and his
mistress through the air from hill to hill! Yet if he had not been
destroyed his power might have grown to rival mine."

He laughed again. "And you, poor, silly thing! Plotting to send a
hairy hill chief to storm Yimsha! It was such a jest that I myself
could have designed, had it occurred to me, that you should fall in
his hands. And I read in your childish mind an intention to seduce by
your feminine wiles to attempt your purpose, anyway.

"But for all your stupidity, you are a woman fair to look upon. It is
my whim to keep you for my slave."

The daughter of a thousand proud emperors gasped with shame and fury
at the word.

"You dare not!"

His mocking laughter cut her like a whip across her naked shoulders.

"The king dares not trample a worm in the road? Little fool, do you
not realize that your royal pride is no more than a straw blown on the
wind? I, who have known the kisses of the queens of hell! You have
seen how I deal with a rebel!"

Cowed and awed, the girl crouched on the velvet-covered dais. The
light grew dimmer and more phantomlike. The features of the Master
became shadowy. His voice took on a newer tone of command.

"I will never yield to you!" Her voice trembled with fear but it
carried a ring of resolution.

"You will yield," he answered with horrible conviction. "Fear and pain
shall teach you. I will lash you with horror and agony to the last
quivering ounce of your endurance, until you become as melted wax to
be bent and molded in my hands as I desire. You shall know such
discipline as no mortal woman ever knew, until my slightest command is
to you as the unalterable will of the gods. And first, to humble your
pride, you shall travel back through the lost ages, and view all the
shapes that have been you. Aie, yil la khosa!"

At these words the shadowy room swam before Yasmina's affrighted gaze.
The roots of her hair prickled her scalp, and her tongue clove to her
palate. Somewhere a gong sounded a deep, ominous note. The dragons on
the tapestries glowed like blue fire, and then faded out. The Master
on his dais was but a shapeless shadow. The dim light gave way to
soft, thick darkness, almost tangible, that pulsed with strange
radiations. She could no longer see the Master. She could see nothing.
She had a strange sensation that the walls and ceiling had withdrawn
immensely from her.

Then somewhere in the darkness a glow began, like a firefly that
rhythmically dimmed and quickened. It grew to a golden ball, and as it
expanded its light grew more intense, flaming whitely. It burst
suddenly, showering the darkness with white sparks that did not
illumine the shadows. But like an impression left in the gloom, a
faint luminance remained, and revealed a slender dusky shaft shooting
up from the shadowy floor. Under the girl's dilated gaze it spread,
took shape; stems and broad leaves appeared, and great black poisonous
blossoms that towered above her as she cringed against the velvet. A
subtle perfume pervaded the atmosphere. It was the dread figure of the
black lotus that had grown up as she watched, as it grows in the
haunted, forbidden jungles of Khitai.

The broad leaves were murmurous with evil life. The blossoms bent
toward her like sentient things, nodding serpentlike on pliant stems.
Etched against soft, impenetrable darkness it loomed over her,
gigantic, blackly visible in some mad way. Her brain reeled with the
drugging scent and she sought to crawl from the dais. Then she clung
to it as it seemed to be pitching at an impossible slant. She cried
out with terror and clung to the velvet, but she felt her fingers
ruthlessly torn away. There was a sensation as of all sanity and
stability crumbling and vanishing. She was a quivering atom of
sentiency driven through a black, roaring, icy void by a thundering
wind that threatened to extinguish her feeble flicker of animate life
like a candle blown out in a storm.

Then there came a period of blind impulse and movement, when the atom
that was she mingled and merged with myriad other atoms of spawning
life in the yeasty morass of existence, molded by formative forces
until she emerged again a conscious individual, whirling down an
endless spiral of lives.

In a mist of terror she relived all her former existences, recognized
and was again all the bodies that had carried her ego throughout the
changing ages. She bruised her feet again over the long, weary road of
life that stretched out behind her into the immemorial past. Back
beyond the dimmest dawns of Time she crouched shuddering in primordial
jungles, hunted by slavering beasts of prey. Skin-clad, she waded
thigh-deep in rice swamps, battling with squawking waterfowl for the
precious grains. She labored with the oxen to drag the pointed stick
through the stubborn soil, and she crouched endlessly over looms in
peasant huts.

She saw walled cities burst into flame, and fled screaming before the
slayers. She reeled naked and bleeding over burning sands, dragged at
the slaver's stirrup, and she knew the grip of hot, fierce hands on
her writhing flesh, the shame and agony of brutal lust. She screamed
under the bite of the lash, and moaned on the rack; mad with terror
she fought against the hands that forced her head inexorably down on
the bloody block.

She knew the agonies of childbirth, and the bitterness of love
betrayed. She suffered all the woes and wrongs and brutalities that
man has inflicted on woman throughout the eons; and she endured all
the spite and malice of women for woman. And like the flick of a fiery
whip throughout was the consciousness she retained of her Deviship.
She was all the women she had ever been, yet in her knowing she was
Yasmina. This consciousness was not lost in the throes of
reincarnation. At one and the same time she was a naked slave wench
groveling under the whip, and the proud Devi of Vendhya. And she
suffered not only as the slave girl suffered, but as Yasmina, to whose
pride the whip was like a white-hot brand.

Life merged into life in flying chaos, each with its burden of woe and
shame and agony, until she dimly heard her own voice screaming
unbearably, like one long-drawn cry of suffering echoing down the
ages.

Then she awakened on the velvet-covered dais in the mystic room.

In a ghostly gray light she saw again the dais and the cryptic robed
figure seated upon it. The hooded head was bent, the high shoulders
faintly etched against the uncertain dimness. She could make out no
details clearly, but the hood, where the velvet cap had been, stirred
a formless uneasiness in her. As she stared, there stole over her a
nameless fear that froze her tongue to her palate--a feeling that it
was not the Master who sat so silently on that black dais.

Then the figure moved and rose upright, towering above her. It stooped
over her and the long arms in their wide black sleeves bent about her.
She fought against them in speechless fright, surprized by their lean
hardness. The hooded head bent down toward her averted face. And she
screamed, and screamed again in poignant fear and loathing. Bony arms
gripped her lithe body, and from that hood looked forth a countenance
of death and decay--features like rotting parchment on a moldering
skull.

She screamed again, and then, as those champing, grinning jaws bent
toward her lips, she lost consciousness . . .



CHAPTER 9 The Castle of the Wizards

The sun had risen over the white Himelian peaks. At the foot of a long
slope a group of horsemen halted and stared upward. High above them a
stone tower poised on the pitch of the mountainside. Beyond and above
that gleamed the walls of a greater keep, near the line where the snow
began that capped Yimsha's pinnacle. There was a touch of unreality
about the whole--purple slopes pitching up to that fantastic castle,
toylike with distance, and above it the white glistening peak
shouldering the cold blue.

"We'll leave the horses here," grunted Conan. "That treacherous slope
is safer for a man on foot. Besides, they're done."

He swung down from the black stallion which stood with wide-braced
legs and drooping head. They had pushed hard throughout the night,
gnawing at scraps from saddlebags, and pausing only to give the
horses the rests they had to have.

"That first tower is held by the acolytes of the Black Seers," said
Conan. "Or so men say; watchdogs for their masters--lesser sorcerers.
They won't sit sucking their thumbs as we climb this slope."

Kerim Shah glanced up the mountain, then back the way they had come;
they were already far up Yimsha's side, and a vast expanse of lesser
peaks and crags spread out beneath them. Among these labyrinths the
Turanian sought in vain for a movement of color that would betray men.
Evidently the pursuing Afghulis had lost their chief's trail in the
night.

"Let us go, then." They tied the weary horses in a clump of tamarisk
and without further comment turned up the slope. There was no cover.
It was a naked incline, strewn with boulders not big enough to conceal
a man. But they did conceal something else.

The party had not gone fifty steps when a snarling shape burst from
behind a rock. It was one of the gaunt savage dogs that infested the
hill villages, and its eyes glared redly, its jaws dripped foam. Conan
was leading, but it did not attack him. It dashed past him and leaped
at Kerim Shah. The Turanian leaped aside, and the great dog flung
itself upon the Irakzai behind him. The man yelled and threw up his
arm, which was torn by the brute's fangs as it bore him backward, and
the next instant half a dozen tulwars were hacking at the beast. Yet
not until it was literally dismembered did the hideous creature cease
its efforts to seize and rend its attackers.

Kerim Shah bound up the wounded warrior's gashed arm, looked at him
narrowly, and then turned away without a word. He rejoined Conan, and
they renewed the climb in silence.

Presently Kerim Shah said: "Strange to find a village dog in this
place."

"There's no offal here," grunted Conan.

Both turned their heads to glance back at the wounded warrior toiling
after them among his companions. Sweat glistened on his dark face and
his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace of pain. Then
both looked again at the stone tower squatting above them.

A slumberous quiet lay over the uplands. The tower showed no sign of
life, nor did the strange pyramidal structure beyond it. But the men
who toiled upward went with the tenseness of men walking on the edge
of a crater. Kerim Shah had unslung the powerful Turanian bow that
killed at five hundred paces, and the Irakzai looked to their own
lighter and less lethal bows.

But they were not within bow-shot of the tower when something shot
down out of the sky without warning. It passed so close to Conan that
he felt the wind of rushing wings, but it was an Irakzai who staggered
and fell, blood jetting from a severed jugular. A hawk with wings like
burnished steel shot up again, blood dripping from the scimitar-beak,
to reel against the sky as Kerim Shah's bowstring twanged. It dropped
like a plummet, but no man saw where it struck the earth.

Conan bent over the victim of the attack, but the man was already
dead. No one spoke; useless to comment on the fact that never before
had a hawk been known to swoop on a man. Red rage began to vie with
fatalistic lethargy in the wild souls of the Irakzai. Hairy fingers
nocked arrows and men glared vengefully at the tower whose very
silence mocked them.

But the next attack came swiftly. They all saw it--a white puffball of
smoke that tumbled over the tower rim and came drifting and rolling
down the slope toward them. Others followed it. They seemed harmless,
mere woolly globes of cloudy foam, but Conan stepped aside to avoid
contact with the first. Behind him one of the Irakzai reached out and
thrust his sword into the unstable mass. Instantly a sharp report
shook the mountainside. There was a burst of blinding flame, and then
the puffball had vanished, and the too-curious warrior remained only a
heap of charred and blackened bones. The crisped hand still gripped
the ivory sword hilt, but the blade was gone melted and destroyed by
that awful heat. Yet men standing almost within reach of the victim
had not suffered except to be dazzled and half blinded by the sudden
flare.

"Steel touches it off," grunted Conan. "Look out--here they come!"

The slope above them was almost covered by the billowing spheres.
Kerim Shah bent his bow and sent a shaft into the mass, and those
touched by the arrow burst like bubbles in spurting flame. His men
followed his example and for the next few minutes it was as if a
thunderstorm raged on the mountain slope, with bolts of lightning
striking and bursting in showers of flame. When the barrage ceased,
only a few arrows were left in the quivers of the archers.

They pushed on grimly, over soil charred and blackened, where the
naked rock had in places been turned to lava by the explosion of those
diabolical bombs.

Now they were almost within arrow-flight of the silent tower, and they
spread their line, nerves taut, ready for any horror that might
descend upon them.

On the tower appeared a single figure, lifting a ten-foot bronze horn.
Its strident bellow roared out across the echoing slopes, like the
blare of trumpets on judgment Day. And it began to be fearfully
answered. The ground trembled under the feet of the invaders, and
rumblings and grindings welled up from the subterranean depths.

The Irakzai screamed, reeling like drunken men on the shuddering
slope, and Conan, eyes glaring, charged recklessly up the incline,
knife in hand, straight at the door that showed in the tower wall.
Above him the great horn roared and bellowed in brutish mockery. And
then Kerim Shah drew a shaft to his ear and loosed.

Only a Turanian could have made that shot. The bellowing of the horn
ceased suddenly, and a high, thin scream shrilled in its place. The
green-robed figure on the tower staggered, clutching at the long shaft
which quivered in its bosom, and then pitched across the parapet. The
great horn tumbled upon the battlement and hung precariously, and
another robed figure rushed to seize it, shrieking in horror. Again
the Turanian bow twanged, and again it was answered by a death-howl.
The second acolyte, in falling, struck the horn with his elbow and
knocked it clattering over the parapet to shatter on the rocks far
below.

At such headlong speed had Conan covered the ground that before the
clattering echoes of that fall had died away, he was hacking at the
door. Warned by his savage instinct, he gave back suddenly as a tide
of molten lead splashed down from above. But the next instant he was
back again, attacking the panels with redoubled fury. He was
galvanized by the fact that his enemies had resorted to earthly
weapons. The sorcery of the acolytes was limited. Their necromantic
resources might well be exhausted.

Kerim Shah was hurrying up the slope, his hillmen behind him in a
straggling crescent. They loosed as they ran, their arrows splintering
against the walls or arching over the parapet.

The heavy teak portal gave way beneath the Cimmerian's assault, and he
peered inside warily, expecting anything. He was looking into a
circular chamber from which a stair wound upward. On the opposite side
of the chamber a door gaped open, revealing the outer slope--and the
backs of half a dozen green-robed figures in full retreat.

Conan yelled, took a step into the tower, and then native caution
jerked him back, just as a great block of stone fell crashing to the
floor where his foot had been an instant before. Shouting to his
followers, he raced around the tower.

The acolytes had evacuated their first line of defence. As Conan
rounded the tower he saw their green robes twinkling up the mountain
ahead of him. He gave chase, panting with earnest blood-lust, and
behind him Kerim Shah and the Irakzai came pelting, the latter yelling
like wolves at the flight of their enemies, their fatalism momentarily
submerged by temporary triumph.

The tower stood on the lower edge of a narrow plateau whose upward
slant was barely perceptible. A few hundred yards away this plateau
ended abruptly in a chasm which had been invisible farther down the
mountain. Into this chasm the acolytes apparently leaped without
checking their speed. Their pursuers saw the green robes flutter and
disappear over the edge.

A few moments later they themselves were standing on the brink of the
mighty moat that cut them off from the castle of the Black Seers. It
was a sheer-walled ravine that extended in either direction as far as
they could see, apparently girdling the mountain, some four hundred
yards in width and five hundred feet deep. And in it, from rim to rim,
a strange, translucent mist sparkled and shimmered.

Looking down, Conan grunted. Far below him, moving across the
glimmering floor, which shone like burnished silver, he saw the forms
of the green-robed acolytes. Their outline was wavering and
indistinct, like figures seen under deep water. They walked in single
file, moving toward the opposite wall.

Kerim Shah nocked an arrow and sent it singing downward. But when it
struck the mist that filled the chasm it seemed to lose momentum and
direction, wandering widely from its course.

"If they went down, so can we!" grunted Conan, while Kerim Shah stared
after his shaft in amazement. "I saw them last at this spot--"

Squinting down he saw something shining like a golden thread across
the canyon floor far below. The acolytes seemed to be following this
thread, and there suddenly came to him Khemsa's cryptic words--"Follow
the golden vein!" On the brink, under his very hand as he crouched, he
found it, a thin vein of sparkling gold running from an outcropping of
ore to the edge and down across the silvery floor. And he found
something else, which had before been invisible to him because of the
peculiar refraction of the light. The gold vein followed a narrow ramp
which slanted down into the ravine, fitted with niches for hand and
foot hold.

"Here's where they went down," he grunted to Kerim Shah. "They're no
adepts, to waft themselves through the air! We'll follow them--"

It was at that instant that the man who had been bitten by the mad dog
cried out horribly and leaped at Kerim Shah, foaming and gnashing his
teeth. The Turanian, quick as a cat on his feet, sprang aside and the
madman pitched headfirst over the brink. The others rushed to the
edge and glared after him in amazement. The maniac did not fall
plummetlike. He floated slowly down through the rosy haze like a man
sinking in deep water. His limbs moved like a man trying to swim, and
his features were purple and convulsed beyond the contortions of his
madness. Far down at last on the shining floor his body settled and
lay still.

"There's death in that chasm," muttered Kerim Shah, drawing back from
the rosy mist that shimmered almost at his feet. "What now, Conan?"

"On!" answered the Cimmerian grimly. "Those acolytes are human; if the
mist doesn't kill them, it won't kill me."

He hitched his belt, and his hands touched the girdle Khemsa had given
him; he scowled, then smiled bleakly. He had forgotten that girdle;
yet thrice had death passed him by to strike another victim.

The acolytes had reached the farther wall and were moving up it like
great green flies. Letting himself upon the ramp, he descended warily.
The rosy cloud lapped about his ankles, ascending as he lowered
himself. It reached his knees, his thighs, his waist, his armpits. He
felt as one feels a thick heavy fog on a damp night. With it lapping
about his chin he hesitated, and then ducked under. Instantly his
breath ceased; all air was shut off from him and he felt his ribs
caving in on his vitals. With a frantic effort he heaved himself up,
fighting for life. His head rose above the surface and he drank air in
great gulps.

Kerim Shah leaned down toward him, spoke to him, but Conan neither
heard nor heeded. Stubbornly, his mind fixed on what the dying Khemsa
had told him, the Cimmerian groped for the gold vein, and found that
he had moved off it in his descent. Several series of handholds were
niched in the ramp. Placing himself directly over the thread, he began
climbing down once more. The rosy mist rose about him, engulfed him.
Now his head was under, but he was still drinking pure air. Above him
he saw his companions staring down at him, their features blurred by
the haze that shimmered over his head. He gestured for them to follow,
and went down swiftly, without waiting to see whether they complied or
not.

Kerim Shah sheathed his sword without comment and followed, and the
Irakzai, more fearful of being left alone than of the terrors that
might lurk below, scrambled after him. Each man clung to the golden
thread as they saw the Cimmerian do.

Down the slanting ramp they went to the ravine floor and moved out
across the shining level, treading the gold vein like rope-walkers. It
was as if they walked along an invisible tunnel through which air
circulated freely. They felt death pressing in on them above and on
either hand, but it did not touch them.

The vein crawled up a similar ramp on the other wall up which the
acolytes had disappeared, and up it they went with taut nerves, not
knowing what might be waiting for them among the jutting spurs of rock
that fanged the lip of the precipice.

It was the green-robed acolytes who awaited them, with knives in their
hands. Perhaps they had reached the limits to which they could
retreat. Perhaps the Stygian girdle about Conan's waist could have
told why their necromantic spells had proven so weak and so quickly
exhausted. Perhaps it was knowledge of death decreed for failure that
sent them leaping from among the rocks, eyes glaring and knives
glittering, resorting in their desperation to material weapons.

There among the rocky fangs on the precipice lip was no war ofwizard-craft. It was a whirl of blades, where real steel bit and real blood
spurted, where sinewy arms dealt forthright blows that severed
quivering flesh, and men went down to be trodden underfoot as the
fight raged over them.

One of the Irakzai bled to death among the rocks, but the acolytes
were down--slashed and hacked asunder or hurled over the edge to float
sluggishly down to the silver floor that shone so far below.

Then the conquerors shook blood and sweat from their eyes, and looked
at one another. Conan and Kerim Shah still stood upright, and four of
the Irakzai.

They stood among the rocky teeth that serrated the precipice brink,
and from that spot a path wound up a gentle slope to a broad stair,
consisting of half a dozen steps, a hundred feet across, cut out of a
green, jadelike substance. They led up to a broad stage or roofless
gallery of the same polished stone, and above it rose, tier upon tier,
the castle of the Black Seers. It seemed to have been carved out of
the sheer stone of the mountain. The architecture was faultless, but
unadorned. The many casements were barred and masked with curtains
within. There was no sign of life, friendly or hostile.

They went up the path in silence, and warily as men treading the lair
of a serpent. The Irakzai were dumb, like men marching to a certain
doom. Even Kerim Shah was silent. Only Conan seemed unaware what a
monstrous dislocating and uprooting of accepted thought and action
their invasion constituted, what an unprecedented violation of
tradition. He was not of the East; and he came of a breed who fought
devils and wizards as promptly and matter-of-factly as they battled
human foes.

He strode up the shining stairs and across the wide green gallery
straight toward the great golden-bound teak door that opened upon it.
He cast but a single glance upward at the higher tiers of the great
pyramidal structure towering above him. He reached a hand for the
bronze prong that jutted like a handle from the door--then checked
himself, grinning hardly. The handle was made in the shape of a
serpent, head lifted on arched neck; and Conan had a suspicion that
that metal head would come to grisly life under his hand.

He struck it from the door with one blow, and its bronze clink on the
glassy floor did not lessen his caution. He flipped it aside with his
knife point, and again turned to the door. Utter silence reigned over
the towers. Far below them the mountain slopes fell away into a purple
haze of distance. The sun glittered on snow-clad peaks on either hand.
High above, a vulture hung like a black dot in the cold blue of the
sky. But for it, the men before the gold-bound door were the only
evidence of life, tiny figures on a green jade gallery poised on the
dizzy height, with that fantastic pile of stone towering above them.

A sharp wind off the snow slashed them, whipping their tatters about.
Conan's long knife splintering through the teak panels roused the
startled echoes. Again and again he struck, hewing through polished
wood and metal bands alike. Through the sundered ruins he glared into
the interior, alert and suspicious as a wolf. He saw a broad chamber,
the polished stone walls untapestried, the mosaic floor uncarpeted.
Square, polished ebon stools and a stone dais formed the only
furnishings. The room was empty of human life. Another door showed in
the opposite wall.

"Leave a man on guard outside," grunted Conan. "I'm going in."

Kerim Shah designated a warrior for that duty, and the man fell back
toward the middle of the gallery, bow in hand. Conan strode into the
castle, followed by the Turanian and the three remaining Irakzai. The
one outside spat, grumbled in his beard, and started suddenly as a low
mocking laugh reached his ears.

He lifted his head and saw, on the tier above him, a tall, black-robed
figure, naked head nodding slightly as he stared down. His whole
attitude suggested mockery and malignity. Quick as a flash the Irakzai
bent his bow and loosed, and the arrow streaked upward to strike full
in the black-robed breast. The mocking smile did not alter. The Seer
plucked out the missile and threw it back at the bowman, not as a
weapon is hurled, but with a contemptuous gesture. The Irakzai dodged,
instinctively throwing up his arm. His fingers closed on the revolving
shaft.

Then he shrieked. In his hand the wooden shaft suddenly writhed. Its
rigid outline became pliant, melting in his grasp. He tried to throw
it from him, but it was too late. He held a living serpent in his
naked hand, and already it had coiled about his wrist and its wicked
wedge-shaped head darted at his muscular arm. He screamed again and
his eyes became distended, his features purple. He went to his knees
shaken by an awful convulsion, and then lay still.

The men inside had wheeled at his first cry. Conan took a swift stride
toward the open doorway, and then halted short, baffled. To the men
behind him it seemed that he strained against empty air. But though he
could see nothing, there was a slick, smooth, hard surface under his
hands, and he knew that a sheet of crystal had been let down in the
doorway. Through it he saw the Irakzai lying motionless on the glassy
gallery, an ordinary arrow sticking in his arm.

Conan lifted his knife and smote, and the watchers were dumbfounded to
see his blow checked apparently in midair, with the loud clang of
steel that meets an unyielding substance. He wasted no more effort. He
knew that not even the legendary tulwar of Amir Khurum could shatter
that invisible curtain.

In a few words he explained the matter to Kerim Shah, and the Turanian
shrugged his shoulders. "Well, if our exit is barred, we must find
another. In the meanwhile our way lies forward, does it not?"

With a grunt the Cimmerian turned and strode across the chamber to the
opposite door, with a feeling of treading on the threshold of doom. As
he lifted his knife to shatter the door, it swung silently open as if
of its own accord. He strode into the great hall, flanked with tall
glassy columns. A hundred feet from the door began the broad jade-
green steps of a stair that tapered toward the top like the side of a
pyramid. What lay beyond that stair he could not tell. But between him
and its shimmering foot stood a curious altar of gleaming black jade.
Four great golden serpents twined their tails about this altar and
reared their wedge-shaped heads in the air, facing the four quarters
of the compass like the enchanted guardians of a fabled treasure. But
on the altar, between the arching necks, stood only a crystal globe
filled with a cloudy smokelike substance, in which floated four
golden pomegranates.

The sight stirred some dim recollection in his mind; then Conan heeded
the altar no longer, for on the lower steps of the stair stood four
black-robed figures. He had not seen them come. They were simply
there, tall, gaunt, their vulture-heads nodding in unison, their feet
and hands hidden by their flowing garments.

One lifted his arm and the sleeve fell away revealing his hand--and it
was not a hand at all. Conan halted in midstride, compelled against
his will. He had encountered a force differing subtly from Khemsa's
mesmerism, and he could not advance, though he felt it in his power to
retreat if he wished. His companions had likewise halted, and they
seemed even more helpless than he, unable to move in either direction.

The seer whose arm was lifted beckoned to one of the Irakzai, and the
man moved toward him like one in a trance, eyes staring and fixed,
blade hanging in limp fingers. As he pushed past Conan, the Cimmerian
threw an arm across his breast to arrest him. Conan was so much
stronger than the Irakzai that in ordinary circumstances he could have
broken his spine between his hands. But now the muscular arm was
brushed aside like straw and the Irakzai moved toward the stair,
treading jerkily and mechanically. He reached the steps and knelt
stiffly, proffering his blade and bending his head. The Seer took the
sword. It flashed as he swung it up and down. The Irakzai's head
tumbled from his shoulders and thudded heavily on the black marble
floor. An arch of blood jetted from the severed arteries and the body
slumped over and lay with arms spread wide.

Again a malformed hand lifted and beckoned, and another Irakzai
stumbled stiffly to his doom. The ghastly drama was reenacted and
another headless form lay beside the first.

As the third tribesman clumped his way past Conan to his death, the
Cimmerian, his veins bulging in his temples with his efforts to break
past the unseen barrier that held him, was suddenly aware of allied
forces, unseen, but waking into life about him. This realization came
without warning, but so powerfully that he could not doubt his
instinct. His left hand slid involuntarily under his Bakhariot belt
and closed on the Stygian girdle. And as he gripped it he felt new
strength flood his numbed limbs; the will to live was a pulsing white-
hot fire, matched by the intensity of his burning rage.

The third Irakzai was a decapitated corpse, and the hideous finger was
lifting again when Conan felt the bursting of the invisible barrier. A
fierce, involuntary cry burst from his lips as he leaped with the
explosive suddenness of pent-up ferocity. His left hand gripped the
sorcerer's girdle as a drowning man grips a floating log, and the long
knife was a sheen of light in his right. The men on the steps did not
move. They watched calmly, cynically; if they felt surprise they did
not show it. Conan did not allow himself to think what might chance
when he came within knife-reach of them. His blood was pounding in his
temples, a mist of crimson swam before his sight. He was afire with
the urge to kill--to drive his knife deep into flesh and bone, and
twist the blade in blood and entrails.

Another dozen strides would carry him to the steps where the sneering
demons stood. He drew his breath deep, his fury rising redly as his
charge gathered momentum. He was hurtling past the altar with its
golden serpents when like a levin-flash there shot across his mind
again as vividly as if spoken in his external ear, the cryptic words
of Khemsa: "Break the crystal ball."

His reaction was almost without his own volition. Execution followed
impulse so spontaneously that the greatest sorcerer of the age would
not have had time to read his mind and prevent his action. Wheeling
like a cat from his headlong charge, he brought his knife crashing
down upon the crystal. Instantly the air vibrated with a peal of
terror, whether from the stairs, the altar, or the crystal itself he
could not tell. Hisses filled his ears as the golden serpents,
suddenly vibrant with hideous life, writhed and smote at him. But he
was fired to the speed of a maddened tiger. A whirl of steel sheared
through the hideous trunks that waved toward him, and he smote the
crystal sphere again and yet again. And the globe burst with a noise
like a thunderclap, raining fiery shards on the black marble, and the
gold pomegranates, as if released from captivity, shot upward toward
the lofty roof and were gone.

A mad screaming, bestial and ghastly, was echoing through the great
hall. On the steps writhed four black-robed figures, twisting in
convulsions, froth dripping from their livid mouths. Then with one
frenzied crescendo of inhuman ululation they stiffened and lay still,
and Conan knew that they were dead. He stared down at the altar and
the crystal shards. Four headless golden serpents still coiled about
the altar, but no alien life now animated the dully gleaming metal.

Kerim Shah was rising slowly from his knees, whither he had been
dashed by some unseen force. He shook his head to clear the ringing
from his ears.

"Did you hear that crash when you struck? It was as if a thousand
crystal panels shattered all over the castle as that globe burst. Were
the souls of the wizards imprisoned in those golden balls?--Ha!"

Conan wheeled as Kerim Shah drew his sword and pointed.

Another figure stood at the head of the stair. His robe, too, was
black, but of richly embroidered velvet, and there was a velvet cap on
his head. His face was calm, and not unhandsome.

"Who the devil are you?" demanded Conan, staring up at him, knife in
hand.

"I am the Master of Yimsha!" His voice was like the chime of a temple
bell, but a note of cruel mirth ran through it.

"Where is Yasmina?" demanded Kerim Shah.

The Master laughed down at him.

"What is that to you, dead man? Have you so quickly forgotten my
strength, once lent to you, that you come armed against me, you poor
fool? I think I will take your heart, Kerim Shah!"

He held out his hand as if to receive something, and the Turanian
cried out sharply like a man in mortal agony. He reeled drunkenly, and
then, with a splintering of bones, a rending of flesh and muscle and a
snapping of mail links, his breast burst outward with a shower of
blood, and through the ghastly aperture something red and dripping
shot through the air into the Master's outstretched hand, as a bit of
steel leaps to the magnet. The Turanian slumped to the floor and lay
motionless, and the Master laughed and hurled the object to fall
before Conan's feet--a still-quivering human heart.

With a roar and a curse Conan charged the stair. From Khemsa's girdle
he felt strength and deathless hate flow into him to combat the
terrible emanation of power that met him on the steps. The air filled
with a shimmering steely haze through which he plunged like a swimmer,
head lowered, left arm bent about his face, knife gripped low in his
right hand. His half-blinded eyes, glaring over the crook of his
elbow, made out the hated shape of the Seer before and above him, the
outline wavering as a reflection wavers in disturbed water.

He was racked and torn by forces beyond his comprehension, but he felt
a driving power outside and beyond his own lifting him inexorably
upward and onward, despite the wizard's strength and his own agony.

Now he had reached the head of the stairs, and the Master's face
floated in the steely haze before him, and a strange fear shadowed the
inscrutable eyes. Conan waded through the mist as through a surf, and
his knife lunged upward like a live thing. The keen point ripped the
Master's robe as he sprang back with a low cry. Then before Conan's
gaze, the wizard vanished--simply disappeared like a burst bubble, and
something long and undulating darted up one of the smaller stairs that
led up to left and right from the landing.

Conan charged after it, up the left-hand stair, uncertain as to just
what he had seen whip up those steps, but in a berserk mood that
drowned the nausea and horror whispering at the back of his
consciousness.

He plunged out into a broad corridor whose uncarpeted floor and
untapestried walls were of polished jade, and something long and swift
whisked down the corridor ahead of him, and into a curtained door.
From within the chamber rose a scream of urgent terror. The sound lent
wings to Conan's flying feet and he hurtled through the curtains and
headlong into the chamber within.

A frightful scene met his glare. Yasmina cowered on the farther edge
of a velvet-covered dais, screaming her loathing and horror, an arm
lifted as if to ward off attack, while before her swayed the hideous
head of a giant serpent, shining neck arching up from dark-gleaming
coils. With a choked cry Conan threw his knife.

Instantly the monster whirled and was upon him like the rush of wind
through tall grass. The long knife quivered in its neck, point and a
foot of blade showing on one side, and the hilt and a hand's-breadth
of steel on the other, but it only seemed to madden the giant reptile.
The great head towered above the man who faced it, and then darted
down, the venom-dripping jaws gaping wide. But Conan had plucked a
dagger from his girdle and he stabbed upward as the head dipped down.
The point tore through the lower jaw and transfixed the upper, pinning
them together. The next instant the great trunk had looped itself
about the Cimmerian as the snake, unable to use its fangs, employed
its remaining form of attack.

Conan's left arm was pinioned among the bone-crushing folds, but his
right was free. Bracing his feet to keep upright, he stretched forth
his hand, gripped the hilt of the long knife jutting from the
serpent's neck, and tore it free in a shower of blood. As if divining
his purpose with more than bestial intelligence, the snake writhed and
knotted, seeking to cast its loops about his right arm. But with the
speed of light the long knife rose and fell, shearing halfway through
the reptile's giant trunk.

Before he could strike again, the great pliant loops fell from him and
the monster dragged itself across the floor, gushing blood from its
ghastly wounds. Conan sprang after it, knife lifted, but his vicious
swipe cut empty air as the serpent writhed away from him and struck
its blunt nose against a paneled screen of sandalwood. One of the
panels gave inward and the long, bleeding barrel whipped through it
and was gone.

Conan instantly attacked the screen. A few blows rent it apart and he
glared into the dim alcove beyond. No horrific shape coiled there;
there was blood on the marble floor, and bloody tracks led to a
cryptic arched door. Those tracks were of a man's bare feet . . .

"Conan!" He wheeled back into the chamber just in time to catch the
Devi of Vendhya in his arms as she rushed across the room and threw
herself upon him, catching him about the neck with a frantic clasp,
half hysterical with terror and gratitude and relief.

His wild blood had been stirred to its uttermost by all that had
passed. He caught her to him in a grasp that would have made her wince
at another time, and crushed her lips with his. She made no
resistance; the Devi was drowned in the elemental woman. She closed
her eyes and drank in his fierce, hot, lawless kisses with all the
abandon of passionate thirst. She was panting with his violence when
he ceased for breath, and glared down at her lying limp in his mighty
arms.

"I knew you'd come for me," she murmured. "You would not leave me in
this den of devils."

At her words recollection of their environment came to him suddenly.
He lifted his head and listened intently. Silence reigned over the
castle of Yimsha, but it was a silence impregnated with menace. Peril
crouched in every corner, leered invisibly from every hanging.

"We'd better go while we can," he muttered. "Those cuts were enough to
kill any common beast--or man--but a wizard has a dozen lives. Wound
one, and he writhes away like a crippled snake to soak up fresh venom
from some source of sorcery."

He picked up the girl and carrying her in his arms like a child, he
strode out into the gleaming jade corridor and down the stairs, nerves
tautly alert for any sign or sound.

"I met the Master," she whispered, clinging to him and shuddering. "He
worked his spells on me to break my will. The most awful thing was a
moldering corpse which seized me in its arms--I fainted then and lay
as one dead, I do not know how long. Shortly after I regained
consciousness I heard sounds of strife below, and cries, and then that
snake came slithering through the curtains--ah!" She shook at the
memory of that horror. "I knew somehow that it was not an illusion,
but a real serpent that sought my life."

"It was not a shadow, at least," answered Conan cryptically. "He knew
he was beaten, and chose to slay you rather than let you be rescued."

"What do you mean, he?" she asked uneasily, and then shrank against
him, crying out, and forgetting her question. She had seen the corpses
at the foot of the stairs. Those of the Seers were not good to look
at; as they lay twisted and contorted, their hands and feet were
exposed to view, and at the sight Yasmina went livid and hid her face
against Conan's powerful shoulder.



CHAPTER 10 Yasmina and Conan

Conan passed through the hall quickly enough, traversed the outer
chamber and approached the door that led upon the gallery. Then he saw
the floor sprinkled with tiny, glittering shards. The crystal sheet
that had covered the doorway had been shivered to bits, and he
remembered the crash that had accompanied the shattering of the
crystal globe. He believed that every piece of crystal in the castle
had broken at that instant, and some dim instinct or memory of
esoteric lore vaguely suggested the truth of the monstrous connection
between the Lords of the Black Circle and the golden pomegranates. He
felt the short hair bristle chilly at the back of his neck and put the
matter hastily out of his mind.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he stepped out upon the green
jade gallery. There was still the gorge to cross, but at least he
could see the white peaks glistening in the sun, and the long slopes
falling away into the distant blue hazes.

The Irakzai lay where he had fallen, an ugly blotch on the glassy
smoothness. As Conan strode down the winding path, he was surprised to
note the position of the sun. It had not yet passed its zenith; and
yet it seemed to him that hours had passed since he plunged into the
castle of the Black Seers.

He felt an urge to hasten, not a mere blind panic, but an instinct of
peril growing behind his back. He said nothing to Yasmina, and she
seemed content to nestle her dark head against his arching breast and
find security in the clasp of his iron arms. He paused an instant on
the brink of the chasm, frowning down. The haze which danced in the
gorge was no longer rose-hued and sparkling. It was smoky, dim,
ghostly, like the life-tide that flickered thinly in a wounded man.
The thought came vaguely to Conan that the spells of magicians were
more closely bound to their personal beings than were the actions of
common men to the actors.

But far below, the floor shone like tarnished silver, and the gold
thread sparkled undimmed. Conan shifted Yasmina across his shoulder,
where she lay docilely, and began the descent. Hurriedly he descended
the ramp, and hurriedly he fled across the echoing floor. He had a
conviction that they were racing with time, that their chances of
survival depended upon crossing that gorge of horrors before the
wounded Master of the castle should regain enough power to loose some
other doom upon them.

When he toiled up the farther ramp and came out upon the crest, he
breathed a gusty sigh of relief and stood Yasmina upon her feet.

"You walk from here," he told her; "it's downhill all the way."

She stole a glance at the gleaming pyramid across the chasm; it reared
up against the snowy slope like the citadel of silence and immemorial
evil.

"Are you a magician, that you have conquered the Black Seers of
Yimsha, Conan of Ghor?" she asked, as they went down the path, with
his heavy arm about her supple waist.

"It was a girdle Khemsa gave me before he died," Conan answered. "Yes,
I found him on the trail. It is a curious one, which I'll show you
when I have time. Against some spells it was weak, but against others
it was strong, and a good knife is always a hearty incantation."

"But if the girdle aided you in conquering the Master," she argued,
"why did it not aid Khemsa?"

He shook his head. "Who knows? But Khemsa had been the Master's slave;
perhaps that weakened its magic. He had no hold on me as he had on
Khemsa. Yet I can't say that I conquered him. He retreated, but I have
a feeling that we haven't seen the last of him. I want to put as many
miles between us and his lair as we can."

He was further relieved to find horses tethered among the tamarisks as
he had left them. He loosed them swiftly and mounted the black
stallion, swinging the girl up before him. The others followed,
freshened by their rest.

"And what now?" she asked. "To Afghulistan?"

"Not just now!" He grinned hardly. "Somebody--maybe the governor--
killed my seven headmen. My idiotic followers think I had something to
do with it, and unless I am able to convince them otherwise, they'll
hunt me like a wounded jackal."

"Then what of me? If the headmen are dead, I am useless to you as a
hostage. Will you slay me, to avenge them?"

He looked down at her, with eyes fiercely aglow, and laughed at the
suggestion.

"Then let us ride to the border," she said. "You'll be safe from the
Afghulis there--"

"Yes, on a Vendhyan gibbet."

"I am Queen of Vendhya," she reminded him with a touch of her old
imperiousness. "You have saved my life. You shall be rewarded."

She did not intend it as it sounded, but he growled in his throat, ill
pleased.

"Keep your bounty for your city-bred dogs, princess! If you're a queen
of the plains, I'm a chief of the hills, and not one foot toward the
border will I take you!"

"But you would be safe--" she began bewilderedly.

"And you'd be the Devi again," he broke in. "No, girl; I prefer you as
you are now--a woman of flesh and blood, riding on my saddle-bow."

"But you can't keep me!" she cried. "You can't--"

"Watch and see!" he advised grimly.

"But I will pay you a vast ransom--"

"Devil take your ransom!" he answered roughly, his arms hardening
about her supple figure. "The kingdom of Vendhya could give me nothing
I desire half so much as I desire you. I took you at the risk of my
neck; if your courtiers want you back, let them come up the Zhaibar
and fight for you."

"But you have no followers now!" she protested. "You are hunted! How
can you preserve your own life, much less mine?"

"I still have friends in the hills," he answered. "There is a chief of
the Khurakzai who will keep you safely while I bicker with the
Afghulis. If they will have none of me, by Crom! I will ride northward
with you to the steppes of the kozaki. I was a hetman among the Free
Companions before I rode southward. I'll make you a queen on the
Zaporoska River!"

"But I can not!" she objected. "You must not hold me--"

"If the idea's so repulsive," he demanded, "why did you yield your
lips to me so willingly?"

"Even a queen is human," she answered, coloring. "But because I am a
queen, I must consider my kingdom. Do not carry me away into some
foreign country. Come back to Vendhya with me!"

"Would you make me your king?" he asked sardonically.

"Well, there are customs--" she stammered, and he interrupted her with
a hard laugh.

"Yes, civilized customs that won't let you do as you wish. You'll
marry some withered old king of the plains, and I can go my way with
only the memory of a few kisses snatched from your lips. Ha!"

"But I must return to my kingdom!" she repeated helplessly.

"Why?" he demanded angrily. "To chafe your rump on gold thrones, and
listen to the plaudits of smirking, velvet-skirted fools? Where is the
gain? Listen: I was born in the Cimmerian hills where the people are
all barbarians. I have been a mercenary soldier, a corsair, a kozak,
and a hundred other things. What king has roamed the countries, fought
the battles, loved the women, and won the plunder that I have?

"I came into Ghulistan to raise a horde and plunder the kingdoms to
the south--your own among them. Being chief of the Afghulis was only a
start. If I can conciliate them, I'll have a dozen tribes following me
within a year. But if I can't, I'll ride back to the steppes and loot
the Turanian borders with the kozaki. And you'll go with me. To the
devil with your kingdom; they fended for themselves before you were
born."

She lay in his arms looking up at him, and she felt a tug at her
spirit, a lawless, reckless urge that matched his own and was by it
called into being. But a thousand generations of sovereignship rode
heavy upon her.

"I can't! I can't!" she repeated helplessly.

"You haven't any choice," he assured her. "You--what the devil!"

They had left Yimsha some miles behind them, and were riding along a
high ridge that separated two deep valleys. They had just topped a
steep crest where they could gaze down into the valley on their right
hand. And there was a running fight in progress. A strong wind was
blowing away from them, carrying the sound from their ears, but even
so the clashing of steel and thunder of hoofs welled up from far
below.

They saw the glint of the sun on lance tip and spired helmet. Three
thousand mailed horsemen were driving before them a ragged band of
turbaned riders, who fled snarling and striking like fleeing wolves.

"Turanians," muttered Conan. "Squadrons from Secunderam. What the
devil are they doing here?"

"Who are the men they pursue?" asked Yasmina. "And why do they fall
back so stubbornly? They can not stand against such odds."

"Five hundred of my mad Afghulis," he growled, scowling down into the
vale. "They're in a trap, and they know it."

The valley was indeed a cul-de-sac at that end. It narrowed to a high-
walled gorge, opening out further into a round bowl, completely rimmed
with lofty, unscalable walls.

The turbaned riders were being forced into this gorge, because there
was nowhere else for them to go, and they went reluctantly, in a
shower of arrows and a whirl of swords. The helmeted riders harried
them, but did not press in too rashly. They knew the desperate fury of
the hill tribes, and they knew too that they had their prey in a trap
from which there was no escape. They had recognized the hill-men as
Afghulis, and they wished to hem them in and force a surrender. They
needed hostages for the purpose they had in mind.

Their emir was a man of decision and initiative. When he reached the
Gurashah valley, and found neither guides nor emissary waiting for
him, he pushed on, trusting to his own knowledge of the country. All
the way from Secunderam there had been fighting, and tribesmen were
licking their wounds in many a crag-perched village. He knew there was
a good chance that neither he nor any of his helmeted spearmen would
ever ride through the gates of Secunderam again, for the tribes would
all be up behind him now, but he was determined to carry out his
orders--which were to take Yasmina Devi from the Afghulis at all
costs, and to bring her captive to Secunderam, or if confronted by
impossibility, to strike off her head before he himself died.

Of all this, of course, the watchers on the ridge were not aware. But
Conan fidgeted with nervousness.

"Why the devil did they get themselves trapped?" he demanded of the
universe at large. "I know what they're doing in these parts--they
were hunting me, the dogs! Poking into every valley--and found
themselves penned in before they knew it. The poor fools! They're
making a stand in the gorge, but they can't hold out for long. When
the Turanians have pushed them back into the bowl, they'll slaughter
them at their leisure."

The din welling up from below increased in volume and intensity. In
the strait of the narrow gut, the Afghulis, fighting desperately, were
for the time holding their own against the mailed riders, who could
not throw their whole weight against them.

Conan scowled darkly, moved restlessly, fingering his hilt, and
finally spoke bluntly: "Devi, I must go down to them. I'll find a
place for you to hide until I come back to you. You spoke of your
kingdom--well, I don't pretend to look on those hairy devils as my
children, but after all, such as they are, they're my henchmen. A
chief should never desert his followers, even if they desert him
first. They think they were right in kicking me out--hell, I won't be
cast off! I'm still chief of the Afghulis, and I'll prove it! I can
climb down on foot into the gorge."

"But what of me?" she queried. "You carried me away forcibly from my
people; now will you leave me to die in the hills alone while you go
down and sacrifice yourself uselessly?"

His veins swelled with the conflict of his emotions.

"That's right," he muttered helplessly. "Crom knows what I can do."

She turned her head slightly, a curious expression dawning on her
beautiful face. Then:

"Listen!" she cried. "Listen!"

A distant fanfare of trumpets was borne faintly to their ears. They
stared into the deep valley on the left, and caught a glint of steel
on the farther side. A long line of lances and polished helmets moved
along the vale, gleaming in the sunlight.

"The riders of Vendhya!" she cried exultingly.

"There are thousands of them!" muttered Conan. "It has been long since
a Kshatriya host has ridden this far into the hills."

"They are searching for me!" she exclaimed. "Give me your horse! I
will ride to my warriors! The ridge is not so precipitous on the left,
and I can reach the valley floor. I will lead my horsemen into the
valley at the upper end and fall upon the Turanians! We will crush
them in the vise! Quick, Conan! Will you sacrifice your men to your
own desire?"

The burning hunger of the steppes and the wintry forests glared out of
his eyes, but he shook his head and swung off the stallion, placing
the reins in her hands.

"You win!" he grunted. "Ride like the devil!"

She wheeled away down the left-hand slope and he ran swiftly along the
ridge until he reached the long ragged cleft that was the defile in
which the fight raged. Down the rugged wall he scrambled like an ape,
clinging to projections and crevices, to fall at last, feet first,
into the melee that raged in the mouth of the gorge. Blades were
whickering and clanging about him, horses rearing and stamping, helmet
plumes nodding among turbans that were stained crimson.

As he hit, he yelled like a wolf, caught a gold-worked rein, and
dodging the sweep of a scimitar, drove his long knife upward through
the rider's vitals. In another instant he was in the saddle, yelling
ferocious orders to the Afghulis. They stared at him stupidly for an
instant; then as they saw the havoc his steel was wreaking among their
enemies, they fell to their work again, accepting him without comment.
In that inferno of licking blades and spurting blood there was no time
to ask or answer questions.

The riders in their spired helmets and gold-worked hauberks swarmed
about the gorge mouth, thrusting and slashing, and the narrow defile
was packed and jammed with horses and men, the warriors crushed breast
to breast, stabbing with shortened blades, slashing murderously when
there was an instant's room to swing a sword. When a man went down he
did not get up from beneath the stamping, swirling hoofs. Weight and
sheer strength counted heavily there, and the chief of the Afghulis
did the work of ten. At such times accustomed habits sway men
strongly, and the warriors, who were used to seeing Conan in their
vanguard, were heartened mightily, despite their distrust of him.

But superior numbers counted too. The pressure of the men behind
forced the horsemen of Turan deeper and deeper into the gorge, in the
teeth of the flickering tulwars. Foot by foot the Afghulis were shoved
back, leaving the defile-floor carpeted with dead, on which the riders
trampled. As he hacked and smote like a man possessed, Conan had time
for some chilling doubts--would Yasmina keep her word? She had but to
join her warriors, turn southward and leave him and his band to
perish.

But at last, after what seemed centuries of desperate battling, in the
valley outside there rose another sound above the clash of steel and
yells of slaughter. And then with a burst of trumpets that shook the
walls, and rushing thunder of hoofs, five thousand riders of Vendhya
smote the hosts of Secunderam.

That stroke split the Turanian squadrons asunder, shattered, tore and
rent them and scattered their fragments all over the valley. In an
instant the surge had ebbed back out of the gorge; there was a
chaotic, confused swirl of fighting, horsemen wheeling and smiting
singly and in clusters, and then the emir went down with a Kshatriya
lance through his breast, and the riders in their spired helmets
turned their horses down the valley, spurring like mad and seeking to
slash a way through the swarms which had come upon them from the rear.
As they scattered in flight, the conquerors scattered in pursuit, and
all across the valley floor, and up on the slopes near the mouth and
over the crests streamed the fugitives and the pursuers. The Afghulis,
those left to ride, rushed out of the gorge and joined in the harrying
of their foes, accepting the unexpected alliance as unquestioningly as
they had accepted the return of their repudiated chief.

The sun was sinking toward the distant crags when Conan, his garments
hacked to tatters and the mail under them reeking and clotted with
blood, his knife dripping and crusted to the hilt, strode over the
corpses to where Yasmina Devi sat her horse among her nobles on the
crest of the ridge, near a lofty precipice.

"You kept your word, Devi!" he roared. "By Crom, though, I had some
bad seconds down in that gorge--look out!"

Down from the sky swooped a vulture of tremendous size with a thunder
of wings that knocked men sprawling from their horses.

The scimitar-like beak was slashing for the Devi's soft neck, but
Conan was quicker--a short run, a tigerish leap, the savage thrust of
a dripping knife, and the vulture voiced a horribly human cry, pitched
sideways and went tumbling down the cliffs to the rocks and river a
thousand feet below. As it dropped, its black wings thrashing the air,
it took on the semblance, not of a bird, but of a black-robed human
body that fell, arms in wide black sleeves thrown abroad.

Conan turned to Yasmina, his red knife still in his hand, his blue
eyes smoldering, blood oozing from wounds on his thickly muscled arms
and thighs.

"You are the Devi again," he said, grinning fiercely at the
gold-clasped gossamer robe she had donned over her hill-girl attire,
and awed not at all by the imposing array of chivalry about him. "I
have you to thank for the lives of some three hundred and fifty of my
rogues, who are at least convinced that I didn't betray them. You have
put my hands on the reins of conquest again."

"I still owe you my ransom," she said, her dark eyes glowing as they
swept over him. "Ten thousand pieces of gold I will pay you--"

He made a savage, impatient gesture, shook the blood from his knife
and thrust it back in its scabbard, wiping his hands on his mail.

"I will collect your ransom in my own way, at my own time," he said.
"I will collect it in your palace at Ayodhya, and I will come with
fifty thousand men to see that the scales are fair."

She laughed, gathering her reins into her hands. "And I will meet you
on the shores of the Jhumda with a hundred thousand!"

His eyes shone with fierce appreciation and admiration, and stepping
back, he lifted his hand with a gesture that was like the assumption
of kingship, indicating that her road was clear before her.



THE END




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