Conan the adaptable, p.64
Conan the Adaptable, page 64
He glanced fearfully through the broken roof at the dark fringe of overhanging fronds on the cliffs above, hanging motionless in the breathless air, and wondered if moonrise, illuminating his refuge, would bring arrows questing down through the roof. Except for the far lone cry of a night-bird, the jungle was silent. There was not so much as the rustle of a leaf. If there were men on the cliffs there was no sign to show it. He was aware of hunger and an increasing thirst; rage gnawed at him, and a fear that was already tinged with panic.
He crouched at the doorway, bow in his hands, naked sword at his knee, and after a while the moon rose, touching the overhanging fronds with silver long before it untangled itself from the trees and rose high enough to pour its light over the cliffs. Its light invaded the ruins, but no arrows came from the cliff, nor was there any sound from beyond the Gateway. Wakim thrust his head through the door and surveyed his retreat.
The ravine, after it passed between the ancient gate-pillars, opened into a broad bowl, walled by cliffs, and unbroken except for the mouth of the gulch. Wakim saw the rim as a continuous, roughly circular line, now edged with the fire of moonlight. The ruins in which he had taken refuge almost filled this bowl, being built against the cliffs on one side. Decay and smothering vines had almost obliterated the original architectural plan. He saw the structure as a maze of roofless chambers, the outer doors opening upon the broad space left between it and the opposite wall of the cliff. This space was covered with low, dense vegetation, which also choked some of the chambers. Wakim saw no way of escape. The cliffs were not like the walls of the ravine. They were of solid rock and sheer, even jutting outward a little at the rim. No vines trailed down them. They did not rise many yards above the broken roofs of the ruins, but they were as far out of his reach as if they had towered a thousand feet. He was caught like a rat in a trap. The only way out was up the ravine, where the blood-lusting warriors waited with grim patience. He remembered Amra’s mocking warning: “–Like the road to Hell: easy to go down; not so easy to go up again!” Passionately he hoped that the Savages had caught the Cimmerian and slain him slowly and painfully. He could have watched Amra flayed alive with intense satisfaction.
Presently, despite hunger and thirst and fear, he fell asleep, to dream of ancient temples where drums muttered and strange figures in parrot-feather mantles moved through the smoke of sacrificial fires; and he dreamed at last of a silent, hideous shape which came to the inner door of his roofless chamber and regarded him with cold, inhuman eyes.
It was from this dream that he awakened, bathed in cold sweat, to start up with an incoherent cry, clutching his bow. Then, fully awake, he stood in the middle of the chamber, trying to gather his scattered wits. Memory of the dream was vague but terrifying. Had he actually seen a shadow sway in the doorway and vanish as he awoke, or had it been only part of his nightmare? The red, lopsided moon was poised on the western rim of the cliffs, and that side of the bowl was in thick shadow, but still an illusive light found its way into the ruins. Wakim peered through the inner doorway, bow readied. Light floated rather than streamed down from above, and showed him an empty chamber beyond. The vegetation on the floor was crushed down, but he remembered having walked back and forth across it several times.
Cursing his nervous imagination he returned to the outer doorway. He told himself that he chose that place the better to guard against an attack from the ravine, but the real reason was that he could not bring himself to select a spot deeper in the gloomy interior of the ancient ruins.
He sat down cross-legged just inside the doorway, his back against the wall, his bow beside him and his sword across his knees. His eyes burned and his lips felt baked with the thirst that tortured him. The sight of the heavy globules of dew that hung on the grass almost maddened him, but he did not seek to quench his thirst by that means, believing as he did that it was rank poison. He drew his belt closer, against his hunger, and told himself that he would not sleep. But he did sleep, in spite of everything.
III
It was a frightful scream close at hand that awakened Wakim. He was on his feet before he was fully awake, glaring wildly about him. The moon had set and the interior of the chamber was dark as Stygia, in which the outer doorway was but a somewhat lighter blur. But outside it there sounded a blood-chilling gurgling, the heaving and flopping of a heavy body. Then silence.
It was a human being that had screamed. Wakim groped for his bow, found his sword instead, and hurried forth, his taut nerves thrumming. The starlight in the bowl, dim as it was, was less Stygian than the absolute blackness of the ruins. But he did not see the figure stretched in the grass until he stumbled over it. That was all he saw, then – just that dim form stretched on the ground before the doorway. The foliage hanging over the cliff rustled a little in the faint breeze. Shadows hung thick under the wall and about the ruins. A score of men might have been lurking near him, unseen. But there was no sound.
After a while Wakim knelt beside the figure, straining his eyes in the starlight. He grunted softly. The dead man was not a savage, but a black man, a brawny ebon giant, clad, like the red men, in a bark loin clout, with a crest of parrot feathers on his kinky head. A murderous copper-headed axe lay near his hand, and a great gash showed in his muscular breast, a lesser wound under his shoulder blade. He had been stabbed so savagely that the blade had transfixed him and come out through his back.
Wakim swore at the accumulated mystery of it. The presence of the black man was not inexplicable. Negro slaves, fleeing from Turanian masters, frequently took to the jungle and lived with the natives. This black evidently did not share in whatever superstition or caution kept the Savages outside the bowl; he had come in alone to butcher the victim they had at bay. But the mystery of his death remained. The blow that had impaled him had been driven with more than ordinary strength. There was a sinister suggestion about the episode, though the mysterious killer had saved Wakim from being brained in his sleep – it was as if some inscrutable being, having claimed the Turanian for its own, refused to be robbed of its prey. Wakim shivered, shaking off the thought.
Then he realized that he was armed only with his sword. He had rushed out of the ruins half asleep, leaving his bow behind him, after a brief fumbling that failed to find them in the darkness. He turned and hurried back into the chamber and began to grope on the floor, first irritably, then with growing horror. The bow was gone.
At this realization panic overwhelmed Wakim. He found himself out in the starlight again without knowing just how he had got there. He was sweating, trembling in every limb, biting his tongue to keep from screaming in hysterical terror.
Frantically he fought for control. It was not imagination, then, which peopled those ghastly ruins with furtive, sinister shapes that glided from room to shadowy room on noiseless feet, and spied upon him while he slept. Something besides himself had been in that room – something that had stolen his bow either while he was fumbling over the dead Negro outside, or – grisly thought! – while he slept. He believed the latter had been the case. He had heard no sound in the ruins while he was outside. But why had it not taken his sword as well? Was it the Savages, after all, playing a horrible game with him? Was it their eyes he seemed to feel burning upon him from the shadows? But he did not believe it was the Savages. They would have no reason to kill their black ally.
Wakim felt that he was near the end of his rope. He was nearly frantic with thirst and hunger, and he shrank from the contemplation of another day of heat in that waterless bowl. He went toward the ravine mouth, grasping his sword in desperation, telling himself that it was better to be speared quickly than haunted to an unknown doom by unseen phantoms, or perish of thirst. But the blind instinct to live drove him back from the rock-buttressed Gateway. He could not bring himself to exchange an uncertain fate for certain death. Faint noises beyond the bend told him that men, many men, were waiting there, and retreated, cursing weakly.
In a futile gust of passion he dragged the black man’s body to the Gateway and thrust it through. At least he would not have it for a companion to poison the air when it rotted in the heat.
He sat down about half-way between the ruins and the ravine-mouth, hugging his sword and straining his eyes into the shadowy starlight, and felt that he was being watched from the ruins; he sensed a Presence there, inscrutable, inhuman, waiting – waiting –
He was still sitting there when dawn flooded jungle and cliffs with grey light, and a brown warrior, appearing in the Gateway, bent his bow and sent an arrow at the figure hunkered in the open space. The shaft cut into the grass near Wakim’s foot, and the white man sprang up stiffly and ran into the doorway of the ruins. The warrior did not shoot again. As if frightened by his own temerity, he turned and hurried back through the Gateway and vanished from sight.
Wakim spat dryly and swore. Daylight dispelled some of the phantom terrors of the night, and he was suffering so much from thirst that his fear was temporarily submerged. He was determined to explore the ruins by each crevice and cranny and bring to bay whatever was lurking among them. At least he would have daylight by which to face it.
To this end he turned toward the inner door, and then he stopped in his tracks, his heart in his throat. In the inner doorway stood a great gourd, newly cut and hollowed, and filled with water; beside it was a stack of fruit, and in another calabash there was meat, still smoking faintly. With a stride he reached the door and glared through. Only an empty chamber met his eyes.
Sight of water and scent of food drove from his mind all thoughts of anything except his physical needs. He seized the water-gourd and drank gulpingly, the precious liquid splashing on his breast. The water was fresh and sweet, and no wine had ever given him such delirious satisfaction. The meat he found was still warm. What it was he neither knew nor cared. He ate ravenously, grasping the joints in his fingers and tearing away the flesh with his teeth. It had evidently been roasted over an open fire, and without salt or seasoning, but it tasted like food of the gods to the ravenous man. He did not seek to explain the miracle, nor to wonder if the food were poisoned. The inscrutable haunter of the ruins which had saved his life that night, and which had stolen his bow, apparently meant to preserve him for the time being, at least, and Wakim accepted the gifts without question.
And having eaten he lay down and slept. He did not believe the Savages would invade the ruins; he did not care much if they did, and speared him in his sleep. He believed that the unknown being which haunted the rooms could slay him any time it wished. It had been close to him again and again and had not struck. It had showed no signs of hostility so far, except to steal his bow. To go searching for it might drive it into hostility.
Wakim, despite his slaked thirst and full belly, was at the point where he had a desperate indifference to consequences. His world seemed to have crumbled about him. He had led his men into a trap to see them butchered; he had seen his prisoner escape; he was caught like a caged rat himself; the wealth he had lusted after and dreamed about had been proved a lie. Worn out with vain ragings against his fate, he slept.
The sun was high when he awoke and sat up with a startled oath. Amra stood looking down at him.
“Damn!” Wakim sprang up, snatching at his sword. His mind was a riot of maddening emotions, but physically he was a new man, and nerved to a rage that was tinged with near-insanity.
“You dog!” he raved. “So the Savages didn’t catch you on the cliffs!”
“Those red dogs?” Amra laughed. ‘“They didn’t follow me past the Gateway. They don’t come on the cliffs overlooking these ruins. They’ve got a cordon of men strung through the jungle, surrounding this place, but I can get through any time I want to. I cooked your breakfast – and mine – right under their noses, and they never saw me.”
“My breakfast!” Wakim glared wildly. “You mean it was you brought water and food for me?”
“Who else?”
“But – but why?” Wakim was floundering in a maze of bewilderment.
Amra laughed, but he laughed only with his lips. His eyes were burning. “Well, at first I thought it would satisfy me if I saw you get an arrow through your guts. Then when you broke away and got in here, I said, ‘Better still! They’ll keep the swine there until he starves, and I’ll lurk about and watch him die slowly.’ I knew they wouldn’t come in after you. When they ambushed me and my crew in the ravine, I cut my way through them and got in here, just as you did, and they didn’t follow me in. But I got out of here the first night. I made sure you wouldn’t get out the way I did that time, and then settled myself to watch you die. I could come or go as I pleased after nightfall, and you’d never see or hear me.”
“But in that case, I don’t see why –”
“You probably wouldn’t understand!” snarled Amra. “But just watching you starve wasn’t enough. I wanted to kill you myself – I wanted to see your blood gush, and watch your eyes glaze!” The Cimmerian’s voice thickened with his passion, and his great hands clenched until the knuckles showed white. “And I didn’t want to kill a man half-dead with want. So I went back up into the jungle on the cliffs and got water and fruit, and knocked a monkey off a limb with a stone, and roasted him. I brought you a good meal and set it there in the door while you were sitting outside the ruins. You couldn’t see me from where you were sitting, and of course you didn’t hear anything. You Turanian are all dull-eared.”
“And it was you who stole my bow last night!” muttered Wakim, staring at the butts jutting from Amra’s Turanian girdle.
“Aye! I took them from the floor beside you while you slept. I learned stealth from the Savages of North America. I didn’t want you to shoot me when I came to pay my debt. While I was getting them I heard somebody sneaking up outside, and saw a black man coming toward the doorway. I didn’t want him to be robbing me of my revenge, so I stuck my cutlass through him. You awakened when he howled, and ran out, as you’ll remember, but I stepped back around the corner and in at another door. I didn’t want to meet you except in broad open daylight and you in fighting trim.”
“Then it was you who spied on me from the inner door,” muttered Wakim. “You whose shadow I saw just before the moon sank behind the cliffs.”
“Not I!” Amra’s denial was genuine. “I didn’t come down into the ruins until after moonset, when I came to steal your bow. Then I went back up on the cliffs, and came again just before dawn to leave your food.”
“But enough of this talk!” he roared gustily, whipping out his cutlass. “I’m mad with thinking of the Galway coast and dead men kicking in a row, and a rope that strangled me! I’ve tricked you, trapped you, and now I’m going to kill you!”
Wakim’s face was a ghastly mask of hate, livid, with bared teeth and glaring eyes.
“Dog!” with a screech he lunged, trying to catch Amra off-guard.
But the cutlass met and deflected the straight blade, and Wakim bounded back just in time to avoid the decapitating sweep of the pirate’s steel. Amra laughed fiercely and came on like a storm, and Wakim met him with a drowning man’s desperation.
Like most officers of the British navy, Wakim was proficient in the use of the long straight sword he carried. He was almost as tall as Amra, and though he looked slender beside the powerful figure of the pirate, he believed that his skill would offset the sheer strength of the Cimmerian.
He was disillusioned within the first few moments of the fight. Amra was neither slow nor clumsy. He was as quick as a wounded panther, and his sword-play was no less crafty than Wakim’s. It only seemed so, because of the pirate’s furious style of attack, showering blow on blow with what looked like sheer recklessness. But the very ferocity of his attack was his best defense, for it gave his opponent no time to launch a counter-attack.
The power of his blows, beating down on Wakim’s blade, rocked and shook the Turanian to his heels, numbing his wrist and arm with their impact. Blind fury, humiliation, naked fright combined to rob the captain of his poise and cunning. A stamp of feet, a louder clash of steel, and Wakim’s blade whirred into a corner. The Turanian reeled back, his face livid, his eyes like those of a madman.
“Pick up your sword!” Amra was panting, not so much from exertion as from rage. Wakim did not seem to hear him.
“Bah!” Amra threw aside his cutlass in a spasm of disgust. “Can’t you even fight? I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
He slapped Wakim viciously first on one side of the face and then on the other. The Turanian screamed wordlessly and launched himself at the pirate’s throat, and Amra checked him with a buffet in the face and knocked him sprawling with a savage smash under the heart. Wakim got to his knees and shook the blood from his face, while Amra stood over him, his brows black and his great fists knotted.
“Get up!” muttered the Cimmerian thickly. “Get up, you hangman of peasants and children!”
Wakim did not heed him. He was groping inside his shirt, from which he drew out something he stared at with painful intensity.
“Get up, damn you, before I set my boot-heels on your face –”
Amra broke off, glaring incredulously. Wakim, crouching over the object he had drawn from his shirt, was weeping in great, racking sobs.
“What in Crom's name!” Amra jerked it away from him, consumed by wonder to learn what could bring tears from Wakim. It was a skillfully painted miniature. The blow he had struck Wakim had cracked it, but not enough to obliterate the soft gentle faces of a pretty young woman and child which smiled up at the scowling Cimmerian.
“Well, I’m damned!” Amra stared from the broken drawing in his hand to the man crouching miserably on the floor. “Your wife and daughter?”
Wakim, his bloody face sunk in his hands, nodded mutely. He had endured much within the last night and day. The breaking of the portrait he always carried over his heart was the last straw; it seemed like an attack on the one soft spot in his hard soul, and it left him dazed and demoralized.
