rh.conanthewarrior-第25节

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ok　like　Yelaya；　face　hair；　figure；　and　all！　If　you　act　the　goddess　with　the　priests　as　well　as　you　did　with　me；　you'll　fool　them　easily。〃
　　〃I'll　try；〃　she　shivered。
　　〃Good；　I'm　going　to　find　Zargheba。〃
　　At　that　she　became　panicky　again。
　　〃No！　Don't　leave　me　alone！　This　place　is　haunted！〃
　　〃There's　nothing　here　to　harm　you；〃　he　assured　her　impatiently。　〃Nothing　but　Zargheba；　and　I'm　going　to　look　after　him。　I'll　be　back　shortly。　I'll　be　watching　from　close　by　in　case　anything　goes　wrong　during　the　ceremony；　but　if　you　play　your　part　properly；　nothing　will　go　wrong。〃
　　And　turning；　he　hastened　out　of　the　oracle　chamber；　behind　him　Muriela　squeaked　wretchedly　at　his　going。
　　Twilight　had　fallen。　The　great　rooms　and　halls　were　shadowy　and　indistinct；　copper　friezes　glinted　dully　through　the　dusk。　Conan　strode　like　a　silent　phantom　through　the　great　halls；　with　a　sensation　of　being　stared　at　from　the　shadowed　recesses　by　invisible　ghosts　of　the　past。　No　wonder　the　girl　was　nervous　amid　such　surroundings。
　　He　glided　down　the　marble　steps　like　a　slinking　panther；　sword　in　hand。　Silence　reigned　over　the　valley；　and　above　the　rim　of　the　cliffs；　stars　were　blinking　out。　If　the　priests　of　Keshia　had　entered　the　valley　there　was　not　a　sound；　not　a　movement　in　the　greenery　to　betray　them。　He　made　out　the　ancient　broken…paved　avenue；　wandering　away　to　the　south；　lost　amid　clustering　masses　of　fronds　and　thick…leaved　bushes。　He　followed　it　warily；　hugging　the　edge　of　the　paving　where　the　shrubs　massed　their　shadows　thickly；　until　he　saw　ahead　of　him；　dimly　in　the　dusk；　the　clump　of　lotus…trees；　the　strange　growth　peculiar　to　the　black　lands　of　Kush。　There；　according　to　the　girl；　Zargheba　should　be　lurking。　Conan　became　stealth　personified。　A　velvet…footed　shadow；　he　melted　into　the　thickets。
　　He　approached　the　lotus　grove　by　a　circuitous　movement；　and　scarcely　the　rustle　of　a　leaf　proclaimed　his　passing。　At　the　edge　of　the　trees　he　halted　suddenly；　crouched　like　a　suspicious　panther　among　the　deep　shrubs。　Ahead　of　him；　among　the　dense　leaves；　showed　a　pallid　oval；　dim　in　the　uncertain　light。　It　might　have　been　one　of　the　great　white　blossoms　which　shone　thickly　among　the　branches。　But　Conan　knew　that　it　was　a　man's　face。　And　it　was　turned　toward　him。　He　shrank　quickly　deeper　into　the　shadows。　Had　Zargheba　seen　him？　The　man　was　looking　directly　toward　him。　Seconds　passed。　The　dim　face　had　not　moved。　Conan　could　make　out　the　dark　tuft　below　that　was　the　short　black　beard。
　　And　suddenly　Conan　was　aware　of　something　unnatural。　Zargheba；　he　knew；　was　not　a　tall　man。　Standing　erect；　he　head　would　scarcely　top　the　Cimmerians　shoulders；　yet　that　face　was　on　a　level　with　Conan's　own。　Was　the　man　standing　on　something？　Conan　bent　and　peered　toward　the　ground　below　the　spot　where　the　face　showed；　but　his　vision　was　blocked　by　undergrowth　and　the　thick　boles　of　the　trees。　But　he　saw　something　else；　and　he　stiffened。　Through　a　slot　in　the　underbrush　he　glimpsed　the　stem　of　the　tree　under　which；　apparently；　Zargheba　was　standing。　The　face　was　directly　in　line　with　that　tree。　He　should　have　seen　below　that　face；　not　the　tree…trunk；　but　Zargheba's　body…but　there　was　no　body　there。
　　Suddenly　tenser　than　a　tiger　who　stalks　his　prey；　Conan　glided　deeper　into　the　thicket；　and　a　moment　later　drew　aside　a　leafy　branch　and　glared　at　the　face　that　had　not　moved。　Nor　would　it　ever　move　again；　of　its　own　volition。　He　looked　on　Zargheba's　severed　head；　suspended　from　the　branch　of　the　tree　by　its　own　long　black　hair。
　　
　　
　　　3。　　The　Return　of　the　Oracle
　　
　　Conan　wheeled　supplely；　sweeping　the　shadows　with　a　fiercely　questing　stare。　There　was　no　sign　of　the　murdered　man's　body；　only　yonder　the　tall　lush　grass　was　trampled　and　broken　down　and　the　sward　was　dabbled　darkly　and　wetly。　Conan　stood　scarcely　breathing　as　he　strained　his　ears　into　the　silence。　The　trees　and　bushes　with　their　great　pallid　blossoms　stood　dark；　still；　and　sinister；　etched　against　the　deepening　dusk。
　　Primitive　fears　whispered　at　the　back　of　Conan's　mind。　Was　this　the　work　of　the　priests　of　Keshan？　If　so；　where　were　they？　Was　it　Zargheba；　after　all；　who　had　struck　the　gong？　Again　there　rose　the　memory　of　Bit…Yakin　and　his　mysterious　servants。　Bit…Yakin　was　dead；　shriveled　to　a　hulk　of　wrinkled　leather　and　bound　in　his　hollowed　crypt　to　greet　the　rising　sun　for　ever。　But　the　servants　of　Bit…Yakin　were　unaccounted　for。　There　was　no　proof　they　had　ever　left　the　valley。
　　Conan　thought　of　the　girl；　Muriela；　alone　and　unguarded　in　that　great　shadowy　palace。　He　wheeled　and　ran　back　down　the　shadowed　avenue；　and　he　ran　as　a　suspicious　panther　runs；　poised　even　in　full　stride　to　whirl　right　or　left　and　strike　death　blows。
　　The　palace　loomed　through　the　trees；　and　he　saw　something　else…the　glow　of　fire　reflecting　redly　from　the　polished　marble。　He　melted　into　the　bushes　that　lined　the　broken　street；　glided　through　the　dense　growth　and　reached　the　edge　of　the　open　space　before　the　portico。　Voices　reached　him；　torches　bobbed　and　their　flare　shone　on　glossy　ebon　shoulders。　The　priests　of　Keshan　had　e。
　　They　had　not　advanced　up　the　wide；　overgrown　avenue　as　Zargheba　had　expected　them　to　do。　Obviously　there　was　more　than　one　secret　way　into　the　valley　of　Alkmeenon。
　　They　were　filing　up　the　broad　marble　steps；　holding　their　torches　high。　He　saw　Gorulga　at　the　head　of　the　parade；　a　profile　chiseled　out　of　copper；　etched　in　the　torch　glare。　The　rest　were　acolytes；　giant　black　men　from　whose　skins　the　torches　struck　highlights。　At　the　end　of　the　procession　there　stalked　a　huge　Negro　with　an　unusually　wicked　cast　of　countenance；　at　the　sight　of　whom　Conan　scowled。　That　was　Gwarunga；　whom　Muriela　had　named　as　the　man　who　had　revealed　the　secret　of　the　pool…entrance　to　Zargheba。　Conan　wondered　how　deeply　the　man　was　in　the　intrigues　of　the　Stygian。
　　He　hurried　toward　the　portico；　circling　the　open　space　to　keep　in　the　fringing　shadows。　They　left　no　one　to　guard　the　entrance。　The　torches　streamed　steadily　down　the　long　dark　hall。　Before　they　reached　the　double…valved　door　at　the　other　end；　Conan　had　mounted　the　outer　steps　and　was　in　the　hall　behind　them。　Slinking　swiftly　along　the　column…lined　wall；　he　reached　the　great　door　as　they　crossed　the　huge　throne　room；　their　torches　driving　back　the　shadows。　They　did　not　look　back。　In　single　file；　their　ostrich　plumes　nodding；　their　leopardskin　tunics　contrasting　curiously　with　the　marble　and　arabesqued　metal　of　the　ancient　palace；　they　moved　across　the　wide　room　and　halted　momentarily　at　the　golden　door　to　the　left　of　the　throne…dais。
　　Gorluga's　voice　boomed　eerily　and　hollowly　in　the　great　empty　space；　framed　in　sonorous　phrases　unintelligible　to　the　lurking　listener；　then　the　high　priest　thrust　open　the　golden　door　and　entered；　bowing　repeatedly　from　the　waist　and　behind　him　the　torches　sank　and　rose；　showering　flakes　of　flame；　as　the　worshippers　imitated　their　master。　The　gold　door　closed　behind　them；　shutting　out　sound　and　sight；　and　Conan　darted　across　the　throne…chamber　and　into　the　alcove　behind　the　throne。　He　made　less　sound　than　a　wind　blowing　across　the　chamber。
　　Tiny　beams　of　light　streamed　through　the　apertures　in　the　wall；　as　he　pried　open　the　secret　panel。　Gliding　into　the　niche；　he　peered　through。　Muriela　sat　upright　on　the　dais；　her　arms　folded；　her　head　leaning　back　against　the　wall；　within　a　few　inches　of　his　eyes。　The　delicate　perfume　of　her　foamy　hair　was　in　his　nostrils。　He　could　not　see　her　face；　of　course；　but　her　attitude　was　as　if　she　gazed　tranquilly　into　some　far　gulf　of　space；　over　and　beyond　the　shaven　heads　of　the　black　giants　who　knelt　before　her。　Conan　grinned　with　appreciation。　〃The　little　slut's　an　actress；〃　he　told　himself。　He　knew　she　was　shriveling　with　terror；　but　she　showed　no　sign。　In　the　uncertain　flare　of　the　torches　she　looked　exactly　like　the　goddess　he　had　seen　lying　on　that　same　dais；　if　one　could　imagine　that　goddess　imbued　with　vibrant　life。
　　Gorulga　was　booming　forth　some　kind　of　a　chant　in　an　accent　unfamiliar　to　Conan；　and　which　was　probably　some　invocation　in　the　ancient　tongue　of　Alkmeenon；　handed　down　from　generation　to　generation　of　high　priests。　It　seemed　interminable。　Conan　grew　restless。　The　longer　the　thing　lasted；　the　more　terrific　would　be　the　strain　on　Muriela。　If　she　snapped…he　hitched　his　sword　and　dagger　forward。　He　could　not　see　the　little　trollop　tortured　and　slain　by　black　men。
　　But　the　chant…deep；　low…pitched；　and　indescribably　ominous…came　to　a　conclusion　at　last；　and　a　shouted　acclaim　from　the　acolytes　marked　its　period。　Lifting　his　head　and　raising　his　arms　toward　the　silent　form　on　the　dais；　Gorulga　cried　in　the　deep；　rich　resonance　that　was　the　natural　attribute　of　the　Keshani　priest：　〃O　great　goddess；　dweller　with　the　great　one　of　darkness；　let　thy　heart　be　melted；　thy　lips　opened　for　the　ears　of　thy　slave　whose　head　is　in　the　dust　beneath　thy　feet！　Speak；　great　goddess　of　the　holy　valley！　Thou　knowest　the　paths　before　us；　the　darkness　that　vexes　us　is　as　the　light　of　the　midday　sun　to　thee。　Shed　the　radiance　of　thy　wisdom　on　the　paths　of　thy　servants！　Tell　us；　O　mouthpiece　of　the　gods：　what　is　their　will　concerning