The Conan Chronology, page 662
V
The Skull Throne
On the height of Old Zembabwei rose the citadel, the heart of the city, ringed about with those strangely shapen and topless towers. At the summit of the hill, the royal palace and the temple of Damballah frowned at each other across a stone-paved plaza.
As the wyverns bearing Conan and Conn sank with thunderbeating wings to deposit their captives, the plaza was ringed by a host of stalwart blacks armed with iron-bladed spears and shields of rhinoceros hide. Gorgeous plumes of ostrich, ibis, flamingo, and other birds nodded from their shaven pates. The wind of the wyverns' wings whipped these plumes like a gale, and the blacks squinted against the dust thus stirred up.
The flying reptiles dropped their burdens to the stony pave and then, in obedience to their drivers' commands, rose once more into the air. They alighted on the rims of two of the doorless towers, where more blacks seized their reins and led them out of sight below the rims. As Conan climbed stiffly to his feet and helped Conn up, he realised that the mysterious towers were nought but stables for the Zembabwans' scaly flying steeds.
Conan and the boy stared about them at the motionless ranks of black warriors who watched with impassive faces like masks of cavern ebony.
'We meet again, dog of Cimmeria,' said a smooth, heavy voice.
Conan turned to face the dark, burning eyes of his old enemy.
'For the last time, jackal of Stygia,' he said grimly.
Thoth-Amon stood near a great throne made of human skulls mortared together with some dark, tarry substance. The Stygian sorcerer was still a tall, powerful, commanding figure, but Conan's keen eye thought he saw signs of encroaching age in the swarthy, hawklike features of his greatest adversary. That visage was graven with many fine lines, and there was an expression of fatigue—even of exhaustion—in the droop of the firm mouth. The feverish glitter in those black eyes was unlike their usual catlike, unwinking concentration. The powerful body under the emerald-green robe seemed a little shrunken, stooped, and paunchy.
Conan wondered if Thoth-Amon's mighty powers were at last on the wane. The unnatural vitality which had for generations animated the prince of the world's black magicians seemed to have guttered low. Perhaps the dark gods he worshiped had withdrawn their support after the debacle at Nebthu, when the White Druid, with the help of the Heart of Ahriman, had broken the Black Ring. Or, perhaps, the magical powers that had so long enabled Thoth-Amon, like a few other great magicians, to hold age at bay, had at last become exhausted, and the earthly term of the sorcerer's life was at last approaching. In any case, Thoth-Amon had begun to look old.
'For the last time, you say?' came Thoth-Amon's sonorous voice, speaking Aquilonian with scarcely a trace of accent. 'So be it! From this encounter, but one shall emerge alive, and that will be myself. Nor shall we fence with words. I will slay you where you stand, and your cub beside you. Your demoralized army will be scattered by the hordes of blacks that I can summon. The West shall yet fall, and Set shall again extend his beneficent rule over the earth, when I sit as emperor in Tarantia. Prepare for death!'
Then a ringing voice broke the spell of Thoth-Amon's words: 'By the spawn of Damballah, Stygian, do you forget who kings it here?'
Conan raised his eyes to the Skull Throne, whose occupant he had had time to note only briefly. It was Nenaunir, wizard-king of Zembabwei, the last of Thoth-Amon's allies. Nenaunir was a towering black whose mighty-muscled breast gleamed in the ruddy rays of dawn like oiled and polished ebony. His cold eyes stared down at them like the ice from some frozen hell.
The Stygian halted, and Conan thought that he visibly paled under his dusky hue. He faltered for words, and Conan sensed a tension between the two mighty princes of black magic. A rivalry for supremacy had emerged from the smashing of the worldwide league of sorcerers which Thoth-Amon had forged with his cunning and Conan had broken with his strength.
The Stygian wilted. 'I—of course, brother, you are supreme here. But… our minds hold the same great scheme of empire. You shall rule the South; I, the West.
We shall divide the world, which shall henceforth grovel before Father Set…'
'Before Lord Damballah, whose prophet and vicar on this plane I am!' thundered the majestic black. 'Remember your place, Stygian. The Slithering God has forsaken you at last. Your day is done, and I see no reason to share the empire of the world with such as you. Mayhap I will appoint you regent or governor of one of the provinces my armies will carve—if you behave yourself. But walk softly! I alone will decree the death of this white devil.'
The deep voice of Nenaunir, speaking the simplified Shemitish that was the trade language among the northerly black nations, ceased. A thousand blacks broke their silence to ring the butts of their spears against the stone.
In the ensuing silence, the witch-king of Zembabwei turned his icy gaze from the wasted form of Thoth-Amon to where Conan stood with arms folded calmly on his mighty breast, his young son standing brave-faced beside him.
'As for you, white dog,' intoned the black king, 'you have indeed erred by entering my realm. We met in Louhi's castle in Hyperborea. You won free because Louhi hesitated to have you slain, hoping to use you as a weapon against this Stygian and thus to rise to supreme command of the world's magicians. While she spun her web of guile, you won free and destroyed her. You also destroyed Thoth-Amon's power in Stygia. But I shall not repeat their errors, for I have naught to fear from the Stygian and little to gain from his friendship. I am king here, and I alone shall pronounce your doom. Think not to escape again.'
Conan said nothing, but his blazing eyes boldly met the chill glare of Nenaunir.
'We shall look upon each other one last time,' continued the other grimly, 'on the Night of the Red Moon. When the moon turns red, your blood shall run scarlet on the altars of the Slithering God, whilst your soul goes shrieking forth to feed the hunger of Damballah.'
'When is all this to take place?' asked Conan calmly.
Nenaunir turned his head. 'Rimush!' he boomed.
'Aye, Your Majesty?' a small, stooped, elderly Shemite in an astrologer's worn, patched robe, embroidered with faded symbols of his craft, stepped out of the ranks and bowed low.
'When comes the Night of the Red Moon?'
'According to my calculations, it will occur—if some god interfere not—twelve nights from the one just past, sire.'
'There is your answer, white dog. Now take them away to the pits!'
VI
The Pits of Zembabwei
The pits of Zembabwei were dungeon cells cut deeply into the bedrock below the ancient city. A party of black warriors escorted Conan and the boy thither through narrow, winding corridors lit only by the guttering flare of oil-soaked torches. From the curious angles and proportions of the passage, Conan guessed that the old myths were true; that it had indeed been the mysterious serpent-folk of prehuman times who had first raised the city of Old Zembabwei—or at least had laid the foundations on which the present city was built. He had seen that strangely angled masonry twice before in his long career: once in a ruined castle on the grassy plains of Kush; and again, years later, on the Nameless Isle in the uncharted Western Ocean, far to the south of the usual tracks of merchantmen, naval fleets, and piratical marauders.
The cell that Conan and his son were to share was narrow and damp. Moisture leaked from the mould-crusted walls of black, age-pitted stone. The floor was strewn with filthy, moldy straw. A large rat squeaked and scuttled out the door between the feet of the men entering the cell. The air was heavy with the stench of decay.
Into this cubicle they were thrust, and a barred grille of heavy bronze clanged shut behind them. The officer of the squad of black warriors locked the door with a great key, and the escort departed with a soft padding of naked feet.
As soon as the warriors had gone, Conan prowled the cage, searching the pitted stones of the walls with probing fingers, testing the bronze bars, green with age, with surge of his powerful thews. There was no window; the only light was a feeble one from a torch in a wall bracket at the last bend in the corridor.
Young Conn slumped in the driest corner and tried not to show his fatigue and despondency. He was also tormented by hunger and thirst; but, imitating his father, he set his face into an impassive mask of grim determination. Conan's thirteen-year-old son would rather have gone to the stake than show fear before his sire.
Having examined the cell and found no means of exit, Conan kicked the driest straw together in a corner and stretched out with a huge yawn beside his son. He wrapped an arm around the lad for warmth and comfort.
After a little while, Conn asked: 'What will they do with us, Father?'
Conan shrugged. 'I know what they think to do with us, boy; but what may come to pass might be somewhat different. Remember, half the army of Aquilonia is on its way here at this very moment. I doubt not that Pallantides is pushing his men through the jungle at a pace that would slay less sturdy wights. The Night of the Red Moon is nearly a fortnight away, and much may happen ere then.'
Conn whispered: 'They're going to sacrifice us to Set, aren't they?'
'So they think,' Conan grunted. 'But it is not up to them, damn their black hides. Tis up to the gods, as the yammering priests would say—or to that shadowy Fate, which, some philosophers tell us, rules gods and mortals alike. As for me…'
'Yes, Father?'
'I dozed poorly in the claws of that wyvern-monster, and I could do with a bit of rest.' Conan yawned and stretched out his long legs.
Conn sighed and smiled a little in the darkness. It was impossible to feel fearful or gloomy for long in the presence of his father. It was not that his mighty sire was an optimist, but that he did not brood at length on dangers to come. Instead, he adjusted himself to circumstances as they arose and made the best of things, trusting to the future to bring a more favorable turn of fortune. Besides, Conan was already snoring loudly.
Conn's head drooped on his father's massive shoulder. Before long he, too, slept as deeply as his sire.
A deep, sepulchral groan aroused the huge Cimmerian from his exhausted slumbers. Instantly he came to full alertness, like a beast of the jungle aroused by the approach of an animal of a hostile species.
Sliding his arm out from under his son, Conan rose and glided across the cell. There he stood, listening keenly at the barred door. Again sounded that despairing groan, followed by laboured breathing. At this repetition of the sound, Conn also awoke. He lay still, searching the gloom with keen young eyes. The boy had too much presence of mind to speak aloud.
From the edge of his barred door, Conan could see a little way down the corridor and into the nearest cell across the way. As his eyes fathomed the gloom, he made out the form of a gigantic black trussed to the farther wall. Stripped naked, his body striped with the weals of a recent flogging, the black hung from the wall in his chains as if crucified.
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.
VII
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 neighbouring 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 favour 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 civilised 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.
VIII
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 grey 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 moustache, 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.
