As Conan perceived these details, the sweat-smeared chest of the Negro heaved convulsively. Again he groaned, rolling back his head. The feeble torchlight from the corridor caught the whites of his eyes. From his long experience with dead and dying men, Conan surmised that this man was near the end of his strength.
“Why have they bound you thus?” Conan demanded in a low but penetrating voice, speaking first in the Shemitish trade language and then repeating his question in Kushite.
“Who speaks?” inquired the bound man in a slow, weary voice.
“A fellow prisoner. I am Conan, king of Aquilonia to the north,” replied the Cimmerian, seeing no point in deception.
“I am Mbega, king of Zembabwei,” said the crucified man.
SEVEN: A Tale of Two Kings
The black had been greatly weakened by his ordeal, but Conan at length elicited his tale of treachery and devil-worship.
The black warriors of Zembabwei, it seemed, were an offshoot of the Kchaka, a black nation of the interior driven from their homes by a stronger tribe. The Zembabwan branch of the Kchaka had fled eastward until they reached the ancient, crumbling ruins of an unknown city, where they settled. The nearby tribes, holding the land to be accursed, avoided the river valley wherein lay these ruins. Hence the newcomers were able to settle undisturbed and to build a new city on the ruins of the old, which they named for their tribe, of Zembabwei.
For many years, their only foes were the wyverns who soared over the jungle from cave-lairs in a range of mountains farther east. A hero-chief of the tribe, by obtaining eggs of these creatures and rearing them in captivity, discovered that they could be tamed and trained as aerial steeds. This weapon enabled the Zembabwans to extend their rule over the neighboring tribes and form the present kingdom of Zembabwei.
The hero, Lubemba, had been one of a pair of twins and had been very close to his brother. When he announced a revelation from the gods, that the Zembabwans should henceforth be ruled by pairs of twins, so great was his prestige that none protested. Lubemba’s brother was accordingly enthroned beside him.
Ever since, the land had been ruled by twin kings. To avoid conflicts over the succession, it was the custom that when one of the pair died, the other was compelled to slay himself or he was hunted out of the country. After the end of each such dual reign, the priests chose by divination a pair of healthy twin boys from amongst the people and proclaimed them the monarchs of the next reign.
All had gone well with the young nation until the dual reign of Nenaunir and Mbega. Nenaunir had fallen in with a cult of devil-worshipers whose ancient brotherhood dated back three thousand years to the age of Acheron, kingdom of shadows. The demon-god Set, or Damballah as the Negroes called him, promised greatness to Nenaunir and his people if they would turn from their tribal gods and worship him, the Slithering God.
The conversion of the young king had torn the nation into factions, one faithful to Mbega and the old gods, the other made up of adherents of the Old Serpent and his vicar, Nenaunir. Since most of the chiefs and younger warriors had joined the new cult, there was a likelihood of bloody civil war between the factions. Rather than see the kingdom rent asunder and drowned in blood, Mbega abdicated his royal powers in favor of Nenaunir. He would have lived peacefully as just another subject had not Nenaunir embarked on a course of seizing and killing those of Mbega’s faction who had been outspoken in their opposition to Nenaunir and his new god.
So Mbega and his remaining followers had risen in revolt. But this revolution, being too little and too late, aborted. The forces of the former king had been crushed in an ambush, and his sacred person had been seized.
His capture, however, had presented a problem to Nenaunir. The latter could have easily had Mbega killed, but for the law stating that when one of a pair of royal twins died, the other should be slain or driven out. Nenaunir knew that his brother still had many thousands of partisans. If necessary, these would rise to see that the old law was obeyed—the more so because Damballah’s insatiable appetite for human sacrifices had destroyed much of Nenaunir’s early popularity.
Nenaunir’s solution was to imprison Mbega for life, bringing him out to display to the people on state occasions. This policy disarmed Mbega’s faction, whose leader was held hostage by his opponent.
Nenaunir, however, wreaked an occasional private vengeance on his brother. On a recent occasion, when Mbega was taken out and paraded before the people, Nenaunir had demanded that Mbega make a speech proclaiming his allegiance to Nenaunir and urging his followers to do likewise. Instead, Mbega had defied his brother and spat in his face. Hence the flogging.
Mbega was safe for the present, Conan surmised, since Nenaunir did not yet feel strong enough on his Skull Throne to risk upsetting the ancient law of dual kingship. If he were to blind or maim Mbega, the fact could not be hidden the next time he put his captive on display.
As the crucified black related his grim narrative, he seemed to grow stronger, fires of his fury feeding his lowered vitality. Conan saw that the man was a splendid specimen of savage manhood, thewed like a gladiator. That iron physique could absorb punishment and survive where a softer, city-bred man from more civilized lands would have died long since.
“Do you still have many strong, united followers?” the Cimmerian asked.
The black king nodded. “Many are still sworn to my service, and many who were Nenaunir’s men have turned against him. They have deserted him because of his cruelties, his flouting of our ancient laws, and his slaughter of their fellows in the sacrifices. Were I to escape for but an hour, I could raise an army to storm the citadel and drag the witch-king from his throne. But what use to speak of that? Our position is hopeless here.”
“Time will tell,” said Conan with an enigmatic smile.
EIGHT: Through the Black Gate
Pallantides crawled through the thick grasses to the edge of the river, the stench of rotting vegetation thick in his nostrils. Wriggling like a snake, the Aquilonian general worked his way up to where Count Trocero lay peering between a pair of close-set tree trunks. The Poitanian looked back at his comrade, his sensitive, aristocratic face and pointed gray beard smeared with oily mud. Sweat ran down his face from under the brim of his light helmet and cut runnels through the grime.
“Sentries on the walls,” Trocero whispered. “Guard-posts on the towers. This will be a hard nut to crack.”
Pallantides, thoughtfully chewing his mustache, looked the scene over. The immense walls of Zembabwei were strongly built, and his practiced eye told him that it would take months of siege to force an entry. They must needs fell trees to build catapults and other siege engines… A black shadow fell upon them. The general dug himself deeper into the ferns and waited, sweating. Overhead, one of the bat-winged horrors that had attacked them in the swampy plain ten days before floated across the walls. They could see the plumed warrior mounted between the throbbing wings. A shudder of revulsion shook him.
“Blood of Dagon!” he growled. “If Nenaunir can tame those winged horrors, no wonder he holds a grip on his folk. Look yonder!”
The reptile fluttered down to one of the doorless towers and vanished out of sight over its lofty rim.