Then a ringing voice broke the spell of Thoth-Amon’s words: “By the spawn of Damballah, Stygian, do you forget who kings it here?”
Conan raised his eyes to the Skull Throne, whose occupant he had had time to note only briefly. It was Nenaunir, wizard-king of Zembabwei, the last of Thoth-Amon’s allies. Nenaunir was a towering black whose mighty-muscled breast gleamed in the ruddy rays of dawn like oiled and polished ebony. His cold eyes stared down at them like the ice from some frozen hell.
The Stygian halted, and Conan thought that he visibly paled under his dusky hue. He faltered for words, and Conan sensed a tension between the two mighty princes of black magic. A rivalry for supremacy had emerged from the smashing of the worldwide league of sorcerers which Thoth-Amon had forged with his cunning and Conan had broken with his strength.
The Stygian wilted. “I—of course, brother, you are supreme here. But… our minds hold the same great scheme of empire. You shall rule the South; I, the West.
We shall divide the world, which shall henceforth grovel before Father Set…”
“Before Lord Damballah, whose prophet and vicar on this plane I am!” thundered the majestic black. “Remember your place, Stygian. The Slithering God has forsaken you at last. Your day is done, and I see no reason to share the empire of the world with such as you. Mayhap I will appoint you regent or governor of one of the provinces my armies will carve—if you behave yourself. But walk softly! I alone will decree the death of this white devil.”
The deep voice of Nenaunir, speaking the simplified Shemitish that was the trade language among the northerly black nations, ceased. A thousand blacks broke their silence to ring the butts of their spears against the stone.
In the ensuing silence, the witch-king of Zembabwei turned his icy gaze from the wasted form of Thoth-Amon to where Conan stood with arms folded calmly on his mighty breast, his young son standing brave-faced beside him.
“As for you, white dog,” intoned the black king, “you have indeed erred by entering my realm. We met in Louhi’s castle in Hyperborea. You won free because Louhi hesitated to have you slain, hoping to use you as a weapon against this Stygian and thus to rise to supreme command of the world’s magicians. While she spun her web of guile, you won free and destroyed her. You also destroyed Thoth-Amon’s power in Stygia. But I shall not repeat their errors, for I have naught to fear from the Stygian and little to gain from his friendship. I am king here, and I alone shall pronounce your doom. Think not to escape again.”
Conan said nothing, but his blazing eyes boldly met the chill glare of Nenaunir.
“We shall look upon each other one last time,” continued the other grimly, “on the Night of the Red Moon. When the moon turns red, your blood shall run scarlet on the altars of the Slithering God, whilst your soul goes shrieking forth to feed the hunger of Damballah.”
“When is all this to take place?” asked Conan calmly.
Nenaunir turned his head. “Rimush!” he boomed.
“Aye, Your Majesty?” a small, stooped, elderly Shemite in an astrologer’s worn, patched robe, embroidered with faded symbols of his craft, stepped out of the ranks and bowed low.
“When comes the Night of the Red Moon?”
“According to my calculations, it will occur—if some god interfere not—twelve nights from the one just past, sire.”
“There is your answer, white dog. Now take them away to the pits!”
SIX: The Pits of Zembabwei
The pits of Zembabwei were dungeon cells cut deeply into the bedrock below the ancient city. A party of black warriors escorted Conan and the boy thither through narrow, winding corridors lit only by the guttering flare of oil-soaked torches. From the curious angles and proportions of the passage, Conan guessed that the old myths were true; that it had indeed been the mysterious serpent-folk of prehuman times who had first raised the city of Old Zembabwei—or at least had laid the foundations on which the present city was built. He had seen that strangely angled masonry twice before in his long career: once in a ruined castle on the grassy plains of Kush; and again, years later, on the Nameless Isle in the uncharted Western Ocean, far to the south of the usual tracks of merchantmen, naval fleets, and piratical marauders.
The cell that Conan and his son were to share was narrow and damp. Moisture leaked from the mold-crusted walls of black, age-pitted stone. The floor was strewn with filthy, moldy straw. A large rat squeaked and scuttled out the door between the feet of the men entering the cell. The air was heavy with the stench of decay.
Into this cubicle they were thrust, and a barred grille of heavy bronze clanged shut behind them. The officer of the squad of black warriors locked the door with a great key, and the escort departed with a soft padding of naked feet.
As soon as the warriors had gone, Conan prowled the cage, searching the pitted stones of the walls with probing fingers, testing the bronze bars, green with age, with surge of his powerful thews. There was no window; the only light was a feeble one from a torch in a wall bracket at the last bend in the corridor.
Young Conn slumped in the driest corner and tried not to show his fatigue and despondency. He was also tormented by hunger and thirst; but, imitating his father, he set his face into an impassive mask of grim determination. Conan’s thirteen-year-old son would rather have gone to the stake than show fear before his sire.
Having examined the cell and found no means of exit, Conan kicked the driest straw together in a corner and stretched out with a huge yawn beside his son. He wrapped an arm around the lad for warmth and comfort.
After a little while, Conn asked: “What will they do with us, Father?”
Conan shrugged. “I know what they think to do with us, boy; but what may come to pass might be somewhat different. Remember, half the army of Aquilonia is on its way here at this very moment. I doubt not that Pallantides is pushing his men through the jungle at a pace that would slay less sturdy wights. The Night of the Red Moon is nearly a fortnight away, and much may happen ere then.”
Conn whispered: “They’re going to sacrifice us to Set, aren’t they?”
“So they think,” Conan grunted. “But it is not up to them, damn their black hides. Tis up to the gods, as the yammering priests would say—or to that shadowy Fate, which, some philosophers tell us, rules gods and mortals alike. As for me…”
“Yes, Father?”
“I dozed poorly in the claws of that wyvern-monster, and I could do with a bit of rest.” Conan yawned and stretched out his long legs.
Conn sighed and smiled a little in the darkness. It was impossible to feel fearful or gloomy for long in the presence of his father. It was not that his mighty sire was an optimist, but that he did not brood at length on dangers to come. Instead, he adjusted himself to circumstances as they arose and made the best of things, trusting to the future to bring a more favorable turn of fortune. Besides, Conan was already snoring loudly.
Conn’s head drooped on his father’s massive shoulder. Before long he, too, slept as deeply as his sire.
A deep, sepulchral groan aroused the huge Cimmerian from his exhausted slumbers. Instantly he came to full alertness, like a beast of the jungle aroused by the approach of an animal of a hostile species.
Sliding his arm out from under his son, Conan rose and glided across the cell. There he stood, listening keenly at the barred door. Again sounded that despairing groan, followed by labored breathing. At this repetition of the sound, Conn also awoke. He lay still, searching the gloom with keen young eyes. The boy had too much presence of mind to speak aloud.
From the edge of his barred door, Conan could see a little way down the corridor and into the nearest cell across the way. As his eyes fathomed the gloom, he made out the form of a gigantic black trussed to the farther wall. Stripped naked, his body striped with the weals of a recent flogging, the black hung from the wall in his chains as if crucified.