Chapter Three
It was the third day after Amalric's meeting with Conan that the riders of Tombalku neared the capital. Amalric rode at the head of the column beside Conan, and Iissa followed closely behind Amalric on a mare. Behind them trotted the company, strung out in a double line. Loose white garments fluttered in the breeze; bridles jingled; saddle leather creaked; the setting sun shone redly on the points of lances. Most of the riders were Tibu, but there were also contingents from the lesser desert tribes.
All, besides their local languages, spoke the simplified dialect of Shemitish that served as a common tongue for the dark-skinned folk from Kush to Zembabwei and from Stygia to the half-mythical black kingdom of the Atlaians, far to south. Many centuries before, Shemitish traders had stitched this vast area with their bade routes and had brought to it their language along with their trade goods. And Amalric knew enough Shemitish to communicate with these fierce warriors of the arid lands.
As the sun, like a vast drop of blood, sank toward the horizon, points of light appeared ahead. The ground fell away in a gentle slope before the riders, then leveled out again. On this level sprawled a large city of low dwellings. All these houses were made of dun-colored mud brick, so that Amalric's first impression was of a natural formation of earth and rock —a tumbled mass of bluffs, ravines, and boulders— rather than a city.
At the foot of the slope rose a stout brick wall, over which appeared the upper parts of the houses. lights glowed from an open space at the center of the city, whence came a roaring sound, faint with distance.
"Tombalku," said Conan briefly, then cocked his head to listen. "Crom! Something's up. We'd better hurry."
He touched spurs to his horse. The column cantered down the slope, jingling, behind him.
Tombalku stood on a low, wedge-shaped escarpment amid widespread groves of palms and spiny mimosas. The escarpment overlooked a bend in a sluggish river, which reflected the deepening blue of the evening sky. Beyond the river, the land rolled away in grassy savannas.
"What river is that?" asked Amalric.
"The Jeluba," replied Conan. "It flows east from here. Some say it flows on across Darfar and Keshan to join the Styx; some, that it swings south to pour into the Zarkheba. Perhaps some day I'll follow it down to see."
The massive wooden gates stood open as the column cantered through. Inside the gate, white-clad forms moved through the narrow, crooked streets. Behind the white men, the riders shouted hails to acquaintances and boasts of their prowess.
Turning in his saddle, Conan snapped out an order to a brown-skinned warrior, who led the column off toward the barracks. The Cimmerian, followed by Amalric and Lissa, trotted purposefully toward the central square.
Tombalku was awakening from its afternoon doze. Everywhere white-clad, dark-skinned figures trudged through the soft sand of the streets. Amalric was struck by the unexpected size of this desert metropolis and by the incongruous mixtures of barbarism and civilization to be seen on every hand. In spacious temple courtyards, within a few yards of each other, painted and feathered witch-doctors pranced and shook their sacred bones, dusky priests intoned the myths of their race, and dusky philosophers argued the nature of man and the gods.
As the three riders neared the central square, they fell in with more of the people of the city, all hurrying in the same direction. When the street became crowded, Conan's bellowing voice cleared a path for the horses.
They dismounted on the edge of the square, and Conan tossed the bridles of the horses to a man he picked out of the crowd. Then the Cimmerian shouldered his way toward the thrones on the far side of the square. Lissa clung to Amalric's arm as he pushed through the crowd in Conan's wake.
Around the plaza, regiments of black spearmen were drawn up to form a vast hollow square. The light of fires, blazing at the corners of the square, lit up the warriors' great oval shields of elephant hide, the long blades of their spearheads, the ostrich plumes and lions' manes of their headdresses, and white eyeballs and teeth against shiny black skins.
In the center of the hollow square, a man was tied to a post. This man, stripped to a loin cloth, was stocky, muscular, and brown-skinned, with heavy features. He strained at his bonds, while in front of him pranced a lean, fantastic figure. This man was black, but most of his skin was covered with painted designs. His shaven head was painted to resemble a skull. His regalia of plumes and monkey fur whipped this way and that as he danced in front of a small tripod, under which a fire smoldered and from which a thin spire of colored smoke ascended.
Beyond the stake, at one side of the hollow square, rose two thrones of stuccoed and painted brick, ornamented with bits of colored glass, with arms made from whole elephants' tusks. These thrones stood on a single dais, to which several steps led up. On the throne to Amalric's right, a huge, fat, black figure lounged. This man wore a long white gown and, on his head, an elaborate headdress, which included the skull of a lion and several ostrich plumes.
The other throne was empty, but the man who would have occupied it stood beside the other throne. This was a thin, hawk-faced, brown man, who wore a white robe like the other but, on his head, a jeweled turban instead of the first man's headgear of bones and feathers. The lean man was shaking a fist at the fat one and shouting, while a group of throne guards uneasily watched their kings quarrel. As Amalric, following Conan, came closer, he made out the lean one's words:
"You lie! Askia himself sent this sending of serpents, as you call it, to give him an excuse to murder Daura! If you do not stop this 'buffoonery, there will be war! We shall slay you, you black savage, little by little!" The thin man's voice rose to a scream. "Do as I say! Stop Askia, or else, by Jhill the Merciless…"
He reached for his scimitar, the guards about the throne shifted their spears.
The fat black merely laughed up at the furious face above him.
Conan, having pushed through the lines of spearmen, bounded up the brick steps of the dais and thrust himself between the two monarchs.
"Better take your hand off that sword, Zehbeh," he growled, and turned to the other. "What's going on, Sakumbe?"
The black king chuckled. "Daura thought to get rid of me by a sending of serpents. Ugh! Vipers in my bedding, asps among my robes, mambas dripping from the roof beams. Three of my women have died of their bites, besides several slaves and attendants. Askia learned by divination that Daura was the culprit, and my men surprised him with the evidence in the midst of his incantations. Look yonder, General Conan: Askia has just slain the goat. His demons will arrive any time, now.''
Following Conan's gaze, Amalric looked down into the hollow square towards the stake with its bound victim, in front of which the goat was expiring. Askia was nearing the climax of his incantation. His voice rose to a shriek as he leaped and capered and rattled his bones. The smoke from the tripod thickened, writhed, and glowed with a ghastly radiance of its own.
Overhead, night had fallen. The stars, which had began to shine out brightly in the clear desert air, turned dim and red; a crimson veil seemed to be drawn across the face of the rising moon. The fires sank and smoldered redly. A crackle of speech, in no human tongue, wafted down from the upper air. There was a sound like the beating of leathery wings.
Askia stood straight and still, with arms outstretched, plumed head thrown back, mouthing a long incantation of strange names. Amalric's hair rose; for, among the rush of meaningless syllables, he caught the name "Ollam-onga," repeated thrice.