Somewhere arose the whir of Hyrkanian kettledrums above the throb of many hooves.
“The Hyrkanians at last!” panted Bombaata. “They’ve loitered long enough. And where in Derketa’s name is Imbalayo?”
Into the square raced a frantic horse, foam flying from its bit rings. The rider, reeling in the saddle, screamed: “Bombaata! Bombaata!” as he clung to the mane with bloody hands.
“Here, fool!” roared the Kushite, catching the other’s bridle.
“Imbalayo is dead!” shrieked the man above the roar of the flames and the rising thunder of the kettledrums. “The Hyrkanians have turned against us! They have slain our brothers in the palaces! Here they come!”
With a deafening thunder of hooves and drums, the squadrons of mailed lancers burst upon the square, riding down friend and foe. Bombaata saw the lean, exultant face of Mazdak beneath the blazing arc of his scimitar, and then a sword fell and the Kushite with it.
On the rocky spurs of Libnun the herdsmen watched and shivered, and the clangor of swords was heard miles up the river, where pallid nobles trembled in their gardens. Hemmed in by mailed Hyrkanians, furious Anakim, and shrieking Asgalunim, the Kushites died fighting to a man.
It was the mob that first turned its attention to Akhirom. They rushed through the unguarded gates into the inner city, and through the great bronze doors of the East Palace. Ragged hordes streamed yelling down the corridors through the Golden Gates into the great Golden Hall, tearing aside the curtain of cloth-of-gold to reveal an empty throne. Silken tapestries were ripped from the walls by grimed and bloody fingers. Sardonyx tables were overthrown with a clatter of golden vessels. Eunuchs in crimson robes fled squeaking, and slave-girls shrieked in the hands of ravishers.
In the Great Emerald Hall, King Akhirom stood like a statue on a fur-strewn dais, his white hands twitching. At the entrance to the hall clustered a handful of his faithful servants, beating back the mob with swords. A band of Anakim plowed through the throng and burst the barrier of black slaves. As the wedge of swarthy Shemitish soldiers clattered forward, Akhirom seemed to come to himself. He dashed to an exit in the rear. Anakim and Pelishtim, mingling as they ran, chased the fleeing king. After them came a band of Hyrkanians with the blood-splashed Mazdak at their head.
Akhirom ran down a corridor, then turned aside to dash up a winding stair. The stair curled up and up until it came out on the roof of the palace. But it did not stop there; it continued on up into the slender spire that rose from the roof, from which Akhirom’s father, King Azumelek, had observed the stars.
Up went Akhirom, and after him came the pursuers, until the stair became so narrow that only one man could negotiate it, and the pursuit slowed for lack of breath.
King Akhirom came out on the small circular platform at the top of the tower, surrounded by a low wall. He slammed down the stone trapdoor and bolted it. Then he leaned over the wall. Men swarmed on the roof, and below them others gazed up from the main courtyard.
“Sinful mortals!” screeched Akhirom. “You do not believe I am a god! I will show you! I am not bound to the surface of the earth as worms like you are, but can soar through the heavens like a bird! You shall see, and then you will bow down and worship me as you ought! Here I go!” Akhirom climbed to the top of the wall, balanced an instant, and dove off, spreading his arms like wings. His body described a long, steep parabola downward, missing the edge of the roof and plunging on down, the wind whistling in his garments, until he struck the stones of the courtyard below with the sound of a melon hit by a sledgehammer.
Not even the extermination of the Kushites and the death of Akhirom brought peace to troubled Asgalun. Other mobs roamed the city, incited by a mysterious rumor that Amra, the pirate chief of the black corsairs, was there, and that the Ophirean woman Rufia was with him. The rumors grew and changed with each retelling until men said that Amra had sent Rufia to Asgalun as a spy for the pirates, and that a pirate navy was waiting off the coast for word from Amra to march overland against the city. But, though they combed the whole town over, no sign did the searchers find of Amra and his doxy.
North from Asgalun, through the meadowlands of western Shem, ran the long road to Koth. Along this road, as the sun rose, Conan and Rufia rode at a canter. Conan bestrode his own horse; the Ophirean woman, a riderless horse which Conan had caught on the streets of Asgalun that night. She wore clothes from the chests of Zeriti— tight for her full figure, but adequate.
Rufia said: “If you had stayed in Asgalun, Conan, you could have risen high under Mazdak.”
“And who begged me not to turn her back to him?”
“I know. He was a cold, unfeeling master. But …”
“Besides, I rather liked the fellow. If I had stayed there, sooner or later one of us would have had to kill the other over you.” The Cimmerian chuckled and slapped the bag of loot from Zeriti’s house, so that the coins and ornaments jingled. “I shall do as well in the North. Come on there, beat some speed out of that nag!”
“But I’m still sore where she beat me …”
“If you don’t hurry, I’ll see that you get even sorer. Do you want Mazdak’s Hyrkanians to catch us before we’ve even had breakfast?”