The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (3 page)

The Cimmerian, engrossed in these thoughts, shrank quickly
against the wall. Within the garden someone was passing, who walked
with a measured stride. The listener heard the clink of steel. So, after
all, a guard did pace those gardens. The Cimmerian waited, expecting
to hear him pass again on the next round; but silence rested over the
mysterious gardens.

At last curiosity overcame him. Leaping lightly, he grasped the
wall and swung himself up to the top with one arm. Lying flat on the
broad coping, he looked down into the wide space between the walls.
No shrubbery grew near him, though he saw some carefully trimmed
bushes near the inner wall. The starlight fell on the even sward, and
somewhere a fountain tinkled.

The Cimmerian cautiously lowered himself down on the inside and
drew his sword, staring about him. He was shaken by the nervousness
of the wild at standing thus unprotected in the naked starlight, and
he moved lightly around the curve of the wall, hugging its shadow,
until he was even with the shrubbery he had noticed. Then he ran
quickly towards it, crouching low, and almost tripped over a form that
lay crumpled near the edges of the bushes.

A quick look to right and left showed him no enemy, in sight at
least, and he bent close to investigate. His keen eyes, even in the dim
starlight, showed him a strongly built man in the silvered armour and
crested helmet of the Zamorian royal guard. A shield and a spear lay
near him, and it took but an instant’s examination to show that he
had been strangled. The barbarian glanced about uneasily. He knew
that this man must be the guard he had heard pass his hiding place by
the wall. Only a short time had passed, yet in that interval nameless
hands had reached out of the dark and choked out the soldier’s life.

Straining his eyes in the gloom, he saw a hint of motion through
the shrubs near the wall. Thither he glided, gripping his sword. He
made no more noise than a panther stealing through the night, yet
the man he was stalking heard. The Cimmerian had a dim glimpse
of a huge bulk close to the wall, felt relief that it was at least human;
then the fellow wheeled quickly with a gasp that sounded like panic,
made the first motion of a forward plunge, hands clutching, then
recoiled as the Cimmerian’s blade caught the starlight. For a tense
instant neither spoke, standing ready for anything.

“You are no soldier,” hissed the stranger at last. “You are a thief
like myself.”

“And who are you?” asked the Cimmerian in a suspicious whisper.

“Taurus of Nemedia.”

The Cimmerian lowered his sword.

“I’ve heard of you. Men call you a prince of thieves.”

A low laugh answered him. Taurus was tall as the Cimmerian,
and heavier; he was big-bellied and fat, but his every movement
betokened a subtle dynamic magnetism, which was reflected in the
keen eyes that glinted vitally, even in the starlight. He was barefooted
and carried a coil of what looked like a thin, strong rope, knotted at
regular intervals.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“Conan, a Cimmerian,” answered the other. “I came seeking a way
to steal Yara’s jewel, that men call the Elephant’s Heart.”

Conan sensed the man’s great belly shaking in laughter, but it was
not derisive.

“By Bel, god of thieves!” hissed Taurus. “I had thought only
myself had courage to attempt
that
poaching. These Zamorians call
themselves thieves—bah! Conan, I like your grit. I never shared an
adventure with anyone; but, by Bel, we’ll attempt this together if
you’re willing.”

“Then you are after the gem, too?”

“What else? I’ve had my plans laid for months; but you, I think,
have acted on a sudden impulse, my friend.”

“You killed the soldier?”

“Of course. I slid over the wall when he was on the other side of
the garden. I hid in the bushes; he heard me, or thought he heard
something. When he came blundering over, it was no trick at all to
get behind him and suddenly grip his neck and choke out his fool’s
life. He was like most men, half blind in the dark. A good thief should
have eyes like a cat.”

“You made one mistake,” said Conan.

Taurus’s eyes flashed angrily.

“I? I, a mistake? Impossible!”

“You should have dragged the body into the bushes.”

“Said the novice to the master of the art. They will not change the
guard until past midnight. Should any come searching for him now
and find his body, they would flee at once to Yara, bellowing the news,
and give us time to escape. Were they not to find it, they’d go beating
up the bushes and catch us like rats in a trap.”

“You are right,” agreed Conan.

“So. Now attend. We waste time in this cursed discussion. There are
no guards in the inner garden—human guards, I mean, though there
are sentinels even more deadly. It was their presence which baffled me
for so long, but I finally discovered a way to circumvent them.”

“What of the soldiers in the lower part of the tower?”

“Old Yara dwells in the chambers above. By that route we will
come—and go, I hope. Never mind asking me how. I have arranged
a way. We’ll steal down through the top of the tower and strangle old
Yara before he can cast any of his accursed spells on us. At least we’ll
try; it’s the chance of being turned into a spider or a toad, against the
wealth and power of the world. All good thieves must know how to
take risks.”

“I’ll go as far as any man,” said Conan, slipping off his sandals.

“Then follow me.” And turning, Taurus leaped up, caught the wall
and drew himself up. The man’s suppleness was amazing, considering
his bulk; he seemed almost to glide up over the edge of the coping.
Conan followed him, and lying flat on the broad top, they spoke in
wary whispers.

“I see no light,” Conan muttered. The lower part of the tower
seemed much like that portion visible from outside the garden—a
perfect, gleaming cylinder, with no apparent openings.

“There are cleverly constructed doors and windows,” answered
Taurus, “but they are closed. The soldiers breathe air that comes
from above.”

The garden was a vague pool of shadows, where feathery bushes
and low, spreading trees waved darkly in the starlight. Conan’s wary
soul felt the aura of waiting menace that brooded over it. He felt
the burning glare of unseen eyes, and he caught a subtle scent that
made the short hairs on his neck instinctively bristle as a hunting dog
bristles at the scent of an ancient enemy.

“Follow me,” whispered Taurus; “keep behind me, as you value
your life.”

Taking what looked like a copper tube from his girdle, the
Nemedian dropped lightly to the sward inside the wall. Conan was
close behind him, sword ready, but Taurus pushed him back, close to
the wall, and showed no inclination to advance, himself. His whole
attitude was of tense expectancy, and his gaze, like Conan’s, was fixed
on the shadowy mass of shrubbery a few yards away. This shrubbery
was shaken, although the breeze had died down. Then two great eyes
blazed from the waving shadows, and behind them other sparks of fire
glinted in the darkness.

“Lions!” muttered Conan.

“Aye. By day they are kept in subterranean caverns below the
tower. That’s why there are no guards in this garden.”

Conan counted the eyes rapidly.

“Five in sight; maybe more back in the bushes. They’ll charge in
a moment—”

“Be silent!” hissed Taurus, and he moved out from the wall,
cautiously as if treading on razors, lifting the slender tube. Low
rumblings rose from the shadows, and the blazing eyes moved
forward. Conan could sense the great slavering jaws, the tufted tails
lashing tawny sides. The air grew tense—the Cimmerian gripped
his sword, expecting the charge and the irresistible hurtling of giant
bodies. Then Taurus brought the mouth of the tube to his lips and
blew powerfully. A long jet of yellowish powder shot from the other
end of the tube and billowed out instantly in a thick green-yellow
cloud that settled over the shrubbery, blotting out the glaring eyes.

Taurus ran back hastily to the wall. Conan glared without
understanding. The thick cloud hid the shrubbery, and from it no
sound came.

“What is that mist?” the Cimmerian asked uneasily.

“Death!” hissed the Nemedian. “If a wind springs up and blows
it back upon us, we must flee over the wall. But no, the wind is still,
and now it is dissipating. Wait until it vanishes entirely. To breathe it
is death.”

Presently only yellowish threads hung ghostily in the air; then they
were gone, and Taurus motioned his companion forward. They stole
toward the bushes, and Conan gasped. Stretched out in the shadows
lay five great tawny shapes, the fire of their grim eyes dimmed for
ever. A sweetish, cloying scent lingered in the atmosphere.

“They died without a sound!” muttered the Cimmerian. “Taurus,
what was that powder?”

“It was made from the black lotus, whose blossoms wave in the
lost jungles of Khitai, where only the yellow-skulled priests of Yun
dwell. Those blossoms strike dead any who smell of them.”

Conan knelt beside the great forms, assuring himself that they
were indeed beyond power of harm. He shook his head; the magic
of the exotic lands was mysterious and terrible to the barbarians of
the north.

“Why can you not slay the soldiers in the tower in the same way?”
he asked.

“Because that was all the powder I possessed. The obtaining of it
was a feat which in itself was enough to make me famous among the
thieves of the world. I stole it out of a caravan bound for Stygia, and
I lifted it, in its cloth-of-gold bag, out of the coils of the great serpent
which guarded it, without waking him. But come, in Bel’s name! Are
we to waste the night in discussion?”

They glided through the shrubbery to the gleaming foot of the tower, and there, with a motion enjoining silence, Taurus unwound his knotted cord, on one end of which was a strong steel hook. Conan saw his plan and asked no questions, as the Nemedian gripped the line a short distance below the hook and began to swing it about his head. Conan laid his ear to the smooth wall and listened, but could hear nothing. Evidently the soldiers within did not suspect the presence of intruders, who had made no more sound than the night wind blowing through the trees. But a strange nervousness was on the barbarian; perhaps it was the lion smell which was over everything.

Taurus threw the line with a smooth, rippling motion of his mighty arm. The hook curved upward and inward in a peculiar manner, hard to describe, and vanished over the jewelled rim. It apparently caught firmly, for cautious jerking and then hard pulling did not result in any slipping or giving.

“Luck the first cast,” murmured Taurus. “I—”

It was Conan’s savage instinct which made him wheel suddenly;
for the death that was upon them made no sound. A fleeting glimpse
showed the Cimmerian the giant tawny shape, rearing upright against
the stars, towering over him for the death stroke. No civilized man
could have moved half so quickly as the barbarian moved. His sword
flashed frostily in the starlight with every ounce of desperate nerve
and thew behind it, and man and beast went down together.

Cursing incoherently beneath his breath, Taurus bent above the
mass and saw his companion’s limbs move as he strove to drag himself
from under the great weight that lay limply upon him. A glance
showed the startled Nemedian that the lion was dead, its slanting
skull split in half. He laid hold of the carcass and, by his aid, Conan
thrust it aside and clambered up, still gripping his dripping sword.

“Are you hurt, man?” gasped Taurus, still bewildered by the
stunning swiftness of that touch-and-go episode.