“So that’s the secret of the towers!” muttered Trocero. “That is where the wyverns go to roost, like bats in a cave!”
“To Moloch’s flames with the devils,” grunted Pallantides. “We have a king and a prince to rescue.”
“How can you be sure they are within those walls?”
“Fangs of Nergal, ’tis as plain as a mole on a dancing girl’s arse!” retorted Pallantides. “Thoth-Amon’s only ally is this Nenaunir, who kings it yonder, and the wizard’s flying devils pluck king and prince from our midst. Whither should they take them but to the capital?”
“Alive?”
“That we shall find out once we are within those walls.”
Trocero sighed. “You’ve had more experience with sieges than I; but to me those walls look impregnable.”
“To an army, yes; but not to a lone man.”
Trocero eyed the general. “You have a plan?”
The general ran a muddy hand over his stubbled jaw. “D’ye recall the Zingaran noble, Murzio?”
“That sly little turncoat? What of him?”
“Sly as a weasel in truth, but a good poniard-man and a faithful Aquilonian knight, for all that I misdoubt his patent of nobility. I think he was spawned in the gutters of Kordava; but no matter. Conan favors him because of a good turn his father did Conan in his buccaneering days. You recall that, three years since, the king invited to court his old friend Ninus …”
“The priest of Mitra? Aye! Our king, forsooth, has some rascally old-time comrades, but none so iniquitous as that spindle-shanked old tosspot!”
Pallantides chuckled. “True enough! You know how Ninus swaggered about the court by day, as pious as a patriarch, and how by night he wallowed in the wineshops and stews. Well, he and Murzio became thick as thieves. Conan wished to employ Murzio on a spying mission and persuaded Ninus to teach him his thievish tricks. Murzio proved an apt pupil. Conan sent him to Shem, where he uncovered a budding conspiracy among the king of Ophir and some of the Shemitish kinglets. Moreover, he brought back documents and other evidence that enabled Conan to crush the plot ere it got started.
“For this, Conan knighted Murzio. These Zingarans are a treacherous lot, but whole-hearted. Win one to you, and he’s your man to the last drop of his blood; and thus it is, I pray, with this Murzio.”
“Well, what has this to do with getting into Zembabwei?”
Pallantides winked. “There’s one unguarded gate to every great city: the sewers.”
“Sewers? The jungles have addled your wits, man! A barbarous place like this would not have sewers.”
“Ah, but it has; belike they date back to prehuman times. Do you see that trickle of ooze emerging from the grill along the southwest wall?” Pallantides pointed.
“Aye.”
“To judge from the stench wafted hither on the breeze, that is the outlet for the sewers of Zembabwei. For their jakes to empty thereinto, the blacks must have built underground tunnels connecting with that underground stream—or, mayhap, used a system already there; for I suspect that this city is built on the ruins of an older one. Now, if there be one man in our army who can worm his way through that grille, it were Murzio, who is slim as an eel and thrice as slippery.”
Trocero scratched his imperial—once neatly trimmed, now shaggy and muddy—and said: “I perceive your scheme, my friend. He’ll worm his way in, knife or sandbag the guards, and unbar the gate for us in the dark of the night.”
“You have my plan in full, noble Count. And the best part of it is the sewers. It does my heart good to think of that fastidious, long-nosed Zingaran up to his nostrils in foulness. Never have I had much heart for Zingarans, since I caught a troubadour of that persuasion in bed with my wife! My late wife, I mean.”
Trocero grinned. “Let’s return to camp and inform the noble Murzio how fate has chosen him to be the savior of his king,” he chuckled.
“Oh, no you don’t!” said Pallantides. “I am fain to be the one to tell him!”
Hours later, as purple darkness spread across the walls and towers of Zembabwei, a slim, graceful figure in black slipped from the edge of the jungle and swam noiselessly across the river. At the other side, it sought the reeking rivulet that flowed from the grille beneath the frowning walls. A few strokes more brought it to that obstacle. For a moment it lingered, seeking an entrance. Then it slid within and vanished from sight.
Murzio may or may not have possessed the noble blood he claimed. But when he swore fealty to a king, he was that king’s man to the end.
NINE: Red Moon
The ghostly light of the full moon shone down slantwise into the streets of Old Zembabwei. None slept in the city, for this was the Night of the Red Moon. When the ominous change passed over the heavenly orb, King Nenaunir would invoke his sinister god whose altar would run scarlet with the gore of human sacrifice even as the moon reflected that same sanguinary hue.
Torchlit processions moved through the narrow, winding streets of the ancient city. The thud of drums throbbed through the hot, black night. Weird chants arose.
In the pits of Zembabwei, Conan prowled his cell alertly, like a great cat. Prince Conn watched. He, too, had counted the days and the nights by keeping track of the number of times the prisoners were fed. The night they had broken the hosts of Stygia before the outstretched paws of the Black Sphinx of Nebthu, there had been a new moon in the sky. Nearly a month and a half—forty-one days, to be exact—had elapsed since then. Conn’s tutors had seen to it that he well knew the moon’s phases, since he would some day rule a mighty kingdom of farmers.
So tonight the moon would rise full, and his father had told him that an eclipse of the moon never occurred save on the night of the full moon.
So tonight, unless some unknown force intervened, he and his sire would die a hideous death on Damballah’s black altars.
Even at this depth, the eerie throb of jungle drums came to their ears in a slow, maddening rhythm. Far above their cell, thousands of Nenaunir’s savage followers were working themselves into a pitch of blood-lust for the rites that would attend the coming of the Red Moon.
Conan had more than once tested his strength against the bars of their cell, until his palms were raw. Each time, however, he had relaxed his grip, panting. His ears rang and his face was crimson with the effort. But the bars were too thick for even his superhuman strength. The builders of the cell had calculated well. Old and corroded though they were, these bars, more than an inch thick, were beyond the strength of mortal man to wrench askew.
At that instant, Conan’s keen eye caught a moving shadow, it was but a glimpse—a clot of gliding darkness scarcely more substantial than a mere shadow. Conan froze, staring out into the gloomy corridor. A narrow, sallow face floated against the darkness—a familiar face.
“Sir Murzio, is’t you, or do I dream?” whispered Conan.
“Tis I indeed, my liege,” replied a soft whisper.
“How in Crom’s name came you here? What of the host? Are they camped nearby? And how came you by that stink?”
The Zingaran smiled wearily, his lean, fine-boned face tense with excitement. In a swift, low tone he narrated his adventures.
“But, he added in tones of despair, “the sewers leading to the streets above were mere tubes, too narrow even for me to enter. I discovered this system of passages and followed it hither; but the exits are heavily guarded. I have found you, sire; but I have failed of my mission. I cannot get to the gates to open them for the army.”
Conan digested this news. “Mayhap all is not lost,” he growled. “Have you a pick-lock? Once out of this cage, we should have at least a fighting chance.”