Shadows in Zamboula Chapter 3: Part 3

air; the headless body took three staggering steps, spurting blood and clawing horribly at the air with groping hands, and then slumped to the dust. The remaining cannibal gave back with a strangled yell, hurling his captive from him. She tripped and rolled in the dust, and the black fled in blind panic toward the city. Conan was at his heels. Fear winged the black feet, but before they reached the easternmost hut, he sensed death at his back, and bellowed like an ox in the slaughter-yards. 'Black dog of hell!' Conan drove his sword between the dusky shoulders with such vengeful fury that the broad blade stood out half its length from the black breast. With a choking cry the black stumbled headlong, and Conan braced his feet and dragged out his sword as his victim fell. Only the breeze disturbed the leaves. Conan shook his head as a lion shakes its mane and growled his unsatiated blood-lust. But no more shapes slunk from the shadows, and before the huts the starlit road stretched empty. He whirled at the quick patter of feet behind him, but it was only the girl, rushing to throw herself on him and clasp his neck in a desperate grasp, frantic from terror of the abominable fate she had just escaped. 'Easy, girl,' he grunted. 'You're all right. How did they catch you?' She sobbed something unintelligible. He forgot all about Aram Baksh as he scrutinized her by the light of the stars. She was white, though a very definite brunette, obviously one of Zamboula's many mixed breeds. She was tall, with a slender, supple form, as he was in a good position to observe. Admiration burned in his fierce eyes as he looked down on her splendid bosom and her lithe limbs, which still quivered from fright and exertion. He passed an arm around her flexible waist and said, reassuringly: 'Stop shaking, wench; you're safe enough.' His touch seemed to restore her shaken sanity. She tossed back her thick, glossy locks and cast a fearful glance over her shoulder, while she pressed closer to the Cimmerian as if seeking security in the contact. 'They caught me in the streets,' she muttered, shuddering. 'Lying in wait, beneath a dark arch--black men, like great, hulking apes! Set have mercy on me! I shall dream of it!' 'What were you doing out on the streets this time of night?' he inquired, fascinated by the satiny feel of her sleek skin under his questing fingers. She raked back her hair and stared blankly up into his face. She did not seem aware of his caresses. 'My lover,' she said. 'My lover drove me into the streets. He went mad and tried to kill me. As I fled from him I was seized by those beasts.' 'Beauty like yours might drive a man mad,' quoth Conan, running his fingers experimentally through her glossy tresses. She shook her head, like one emerging from a daze. She no longer trembled, and her voice was steady. 'It was the spite of a priest--of Totrasmek, the high priest of Hanuman, who desires me for himself--the dog!' 'No need to curse him for that,' grinned Conan. 'The old hyena has better taste than I thought.' She ignored the bluff compliment. She was regaining her poise swiftly. 'My lover is a--a young Turanian soldier. To spite me, Totrasmek gave him a drug that drove him mad. Tonight he snatched up a sword and came at me to slay me in his madness, but I fled from him into the streets. The negroes seized me and brought me to this--_what was that?_' Conan had already moved. Soundlessly as a shadow he drew her behind the nearest hut, beneath the straggling palms. They stood in tense stillness, while the low mutterings both had heard grew louder until voices were distinguishable. A group of negroes, some nine or ten, were coming along the road from the direction of the city. The girl clutched Conan's arm and he felt the terrified quivering of her supple body against his. Now they could understand the gutturals of the black men. 'Our brothers have already assembled at the pit,' said one. 'We have had no luck. I hope they have enough for us.' 'Aram promised us a man,' muttered another, and Conan mentally promised Aram something. 'Aram keeps his word,' grunted yet another. 'Many a man we have taken from his tavern. But we pay him well. I myself have given him ten bales of silk I stole from my master. It was good silk, by Set!' The blacks shuffled past, bare splay feet scuffing up the dust, and their voices dwindled down the road. 'Well for us those corpses are lying behind these huts,' muttered Conan. 'If they look in Aram's death-room they'll find another. Let's begone.' 'Yes, let us hasten!' begged the girl, almost hysterical again. 'My lover is wandering somewhere in the streets alone. The negroes may take him.' 'A devil of a custom this is!' growled Conan, as he led the way toward the city, paralleling the road but keeping behind the huts and straggling trees. 'Why don't the citizens clean out these black dogs?' 'They are valuable slaves,' murmured the girl. 'There are so many of them they might revolt if they were denied the flesh for which they lust. The people of Zamboula know they skulk the streets at night, and all are careful to remain within locked doors, except when something unforeseen happens, as it did to me. The blacks prey on anything they catch, but they seldom catch anybody but strangers. The people of Zamboula are not concerned with the strangers that pass through the city. 'Such men as Aram Baksh sell these strangers to the blacks. He would not dare attempt such a thing with a citizen.' Conan spat in disgust, and a moment later led his companion out into the road which was becoming a street, with still, unlighted houses on each side. Slinking in the shadows was not congenial to his nature. 'Where do you want to go?' he asked. The girl did not seem to object to his arm about her waist. 'To my house, to rouse my servants,' she answered. 'To bid them search for my lover. I do not wish the city--the priests--anyone--to know of his madness. He--he is a young officer with a promising future. Perhaps we can drive this madness from him if we can find him.' 'If _we_ find him?' rumbled Conan. 'What makes you think I want to spend the night scouring the streets for a lunatic?' She cast a quick glance into his face, and properly interpreted the gleam in his blue eyes. Any woman could have known that he would follow her wherever she led--for a while, at least. But being a woman, she concealed her knowledge of that fact. 'Please,' she began with a hint of tears in her voice, 'I have no one else to ask for help--you have been kind--' 'All right!' he grunted. 'All right! What's the young reprobate's name?' 'Why--Alafdhal. I am Zabibi, a dancing-girl. I have danced often before the satrap, Jungir Khan, and his mistress Nafertari, and before all the lords and royal ladies of Zamboula. Totrasmek desired me, and because I repulsed him, he made me the innocent tool of his vengeance against Alafdhal. I asked a love potion of Totrasmek, not suspecting the depth of his guile and hate. He gave me a drug to mix with my lover's wine, and he swore that when Alafdhal drank it, he would love me even more madly than ever, and grant my every wish. I mixed the drug secretly with my lover's wine. But having drunk, my lover went raving mad and things came about as I have told you. Curse Totrasmek, the hybrid snake--ahhh!' She caught his arm convulsively and both stopped short. They had come into a district of shops and stalls, all deserted and unlighted, for the hour was late. They were passing an alley, and in its mouth a man was standing, motionless and silent. His head was lowered, but Conan caught the weird gleam of eery eyes regarding them unblinkingly. His skin crawled, not with fear of the sword in the man's hand, but because of the uncanny suggestion of his posture and silence. They suggested madness. Conan pushed the girl aside and drew his sword. 'Don't kill him!' she begged. 'In the name of Set, do not slay him! You are strong--overpower him!' 'We'll see,' he muttered, grasping his sword in his right hand and clenching his left into a mallet-like fist. He took a wary step toward the alley--and with a horrible moaning laugh the Turanian charged. As he came he swung his sword, rising on his toes as he put all the power of his body behind the blows. Sparks flashed blue as Conan parried the blade, and the next instant the madman was stretched senseless in the dust from a thundering buffet of Conan's left fist. The girl ran forward. 'Oh, he is not--he is not--' Conan bent swiftly, turned the man on his side and ran quick fingers over him. 'He's not hurt much,' he grunted. 'Bleeding at the nose, but anybody's likely to do that, after a clout on the jaw. He'll come to after a bit, and maybe his mind will be right. In the meantime I'll tie his wrists with his sword-belt--so. Now where do you want me to take him?' 'Wait!' She knelt beside the senseless figure, seized the bound hands and scanned them avidly. Then, shaking her head as if in baffled disappointment, she rose. She came close to the giant Cimmerian, and laid her slender hands on his arching breast. Her dark eyes, like wet black jewels in the starlight, gazed up into his. 'You are a man! Help me! Totrasmek must die! Slay him for me!' 'And put my neck into a Turanian noose?' he grunted. 'Nay!' The slender arms, strong as pliant steel, were around his corded neck. Her supple body throbbed against his. 'The Hyrkanians have no love for Totrasmek. The priests of Set fear him. He is a mongrel, who rules men by fear and superstition. I worship Set, and the Turanians bow to Erlik, but Totrasmek sacrifices to Hanuman the accursed! The Turanian lords fear his black arts and his power over the hybrid population, and they hate him. If he were slain in his temple at night, they would not seek his slayer very closely.' 'And what of his magic?' rumbled the Cimmerian. 'You are a fighting-man,' she answered. 'To risk your life is part of your profession.' 'For a price,' he admitted. 'There will be a price!' she breathed, rising on