THE BLOODSTAINED GOD
L. Sprague de Camp and Robert E. Howard
It was dark as the Pit in that stinking alley down which Conan of Cimmeria groped on a quest as blind as the darkness around him. Had there been anyone to witness, they would have seen a tall and enormously powerful man clad in a flowing Zuagir khilat, over that a mail shirt of fine steel mesh, and over that a Zuagir cloak of camel's hair. His mane of black hair and his broad, somber, youthful face, bronzed by the desert sun, were hidden by the Zuagir kaffia.
A sharp, pain-edged cry smote his ears.
Such cries were not uncommon in the twisting alleys of Arenjun, the City of Thieves, and no cautious or timid man would think of interfering in an affair that was none of his business. But Conan was neither cautious nor timid. His ever-lively curiosky would not let him pass by a cry for help; besides, he was searching for certain men, and the disturbance might be a clue to their whereabouts.
Obeying his quick barbarian instincts, he turned toward a beam of light that lanced the darkness close at hand. An instant later he peered through a crack in the close-drawn shutters of a window in a thick stone wall.
He was looking into a spacious room hung widi velvet tapestries and littered with cosdy rugs and couches. About one of these couches a group of men clustered - six brawny Zamorian bravos and two more who eluded identification. On that couch another man was stretched out, a Kezankian tribesman naked to die waist. Though he was a powerful man, a ruffian as muscular as himself gripped each wrist and ankle. Between the four of them they had him spread-eagled on the couch, unable to move, though the muscles stood out in quivering knots on his limbs and shoulders. His eyes gleamed redly and his broad chest glistened with sweat. As Conaii looked, a supple man in a turban of red silk lifted a glowing coal from a smoking brazier with a pair of tongs and poised it over the quivering breast, already scarred from similar torture.
Another man, taller than the one with die red turban, snarled a question Conan could not understand. The Kezankian shook his head violently and spat savagely at the questioner. The red-hot coal dropped full on the hairy breast, wrenching an inhuman bellow Item the sufferer. In that instant Conan launched his full weight against the shutters.
The Cimmerian's action was not so impulsive as it looked. For his present purposes he needed a friend among the hillmen of the Kezankian range, a people notoriously hostile to all strangers. And here was з chance to get one. The shutters splintered inward with a crash, and he hit the floor inside feet-first, scimitar in one hand and Zuagir sword-knife in the other. The torturers whirled and yelped in astonishment.
They saw a tall, massive figure clad in the garments of a Zuagir, with a fold of his flowing kaffia drawn about his face. Over his mask his eyes blazed a volcanic blue. For an instant the scene held, frozen, then melted into ferocious action.
The man in the red turban snapped a quick word, and a hairy giant lunged to meet the oncoming intruder. The Zamorian held a three-foot sword low, and as he charged he ripped murderously upward. But the down-lashing scimitar met the rising wrist. The hand, still gripping the knife, flew from that wrist in a shower of blood, and the long narrow blade in Conan's left hand sliced through the man's throat, choking the grunt of agony.
Over the crumpling corpse the Cimmerian leaped at Red Turban and his tall companion. Red Turban drew a knife, the tall man a saber.
“Cut him down, Jfllad!” snarled Red Turban, retreating before the Cimmerian's impetuous onslaught. “Zal, help here!”
The man called Jillad parried Conan's slash and cut back. Conan avoided the swipe with a shift that would have shamed the leap of a starving panther, and the same movement brought him within reach of Red Turban's knife. The knife shot out; the point struck Conan's side but failed to pierce the shut of black ring mail. Red Turban leaped back, so narrowly avoiding Conan's knife that the lean blade slit his silken vest and the skin beneath. He tripped over a stool and fell sprawling, but before Conan could follow up his advantage, Jillad was pressing him, raining blows with his saber.
As he parried, the Cimmerian saw that the man called Zal was advancing with a heavy poleax, while Red Turban was scrambling to his feet.
Conan did not wait to be surrounded. A swipe of his scimitar drove Jillad back on his heels. Then, as Zal raised the poleax, Conan darted in under the blow, and the next instant Zal was down, writhing in his own blood and entrails. Conan leaped for the men who still gripped the prisoner. They let go of the man, shouting and drawing their tulwars. One struck at the Kezankian, who evaded the blow by rolling off the bench. Then Conan was between him and them. He retreated before their blows, snarling at the Kezankiaa:
“Get out! Ahead of me! Quickly!”
“Dogs!” screamed Red Turban. “Don't let them escape!”
“Come and taste of death yourself, dog!” Conan laughed wildly, speaking Zamorian with a barbarous accent.
The Kezankian, weak from torture, slid back a bolt and threw open a door giving upon a small court. He stumbled across the court while behind him Conan faced his tormentors in the doorway, where in the confined space their very numbers hindered them. He laughed and cursed diem as he parried and thrust. Red Turban was dancing behind the mob, shrieking curses. Conan's scimitar licked out like the tongue of a cobra, and a Zamorian shrieked and fell, clutching his belly. Jillad, lunging, tripped over him and fell. Before the cursing, squirming figures that jammed the doorway could untangle themselves, Conao turned and ran across the yard toward a wall over which the Kezankian had already disappeared.
Sheathing his weapons, Conan leaped and caught the coping, swung himself up, and had one glimpse of the black, winding street outside. Then something smashed against his head, and limply he toppled from the wall into the shadowy street below.
The tiny glow of a taper in his face roused Conan. He sat up, blinking and cursing, and groped for his swonl, Then the light was blown out and a voice spoke in the darkness.
“Be at ease, Conan of Cimmeria. I am your friend.”
“Who in Crom's name are you?” demanded Conan. He had found his scimitar on the ground nearby, and he stealthily gathered his legs under him for a spring. He was in the street at the foot of the wall from which he had fallen, and the other man was but a dim bulk looming over him in the shadowy starlight.
“Your friend,” repeated the other in a soft Iranistanian accent. “Call me Sassan.”
Conan rose, scimitar in hand. The Iranistani extended something toward him. Cona caught the glint of steel in the starlight, but before he could strike he saw that it was his own knife, hilt first.
“You're as suspicious as a starving wolf, Conan,” laughed Sassan. “But save your steel for your enemies.”
“Where are they ?” Conan took the knife.
“Gone. Into the mountains, on the trail of the bloodstained god.”
Conan stared and caught Sassan's khilat in an iron grip and glared into the man's dark eyes, mocking and mysterious in the starlight.
“Damn you, what know you of the bloodstained god?” Conan's knife touched the Iranistani's side below his ribs.
“I know this,” said Sassan. “You came to Arenjun following thieves who stole from you the map of a treasure greater than Yildiz's hoard. I, too, came seeking something. I was hiding nearby, watching through a hole in the wall, when you burst into the room where the Kezankian was being tortured. How did you know it was they who stole your map?”
“I didn't,” muttered Conan. “I heard a man cry out and thought it a good idea to interfere. If I had known they were the men I sought. . . how much do you know?”
“This much. Hidden in the mountains near here is an ancient temple which the folk fear to enter. It is said to go back to Pre-Cataclysmic times, though the wise men disagree as to whether it is Grondarian or was built by the unknown pre-human folk who ruJed the Hyrkanians just after the Cataclysm. The Kezankians forbid the region to all outsiders, but a Nemedian named Ostorio did find the temple. He entered it and discovered a golden idol crusted with red jewels, which he called the bloodstained god. He could not bring it away with him, as it was bigger than a man, but he made a map, intending to return. Although he got safely away, he was stabbed by some ruffian in Shadizar and died there. Before he died be gave the map to you, Conan.”