Madesus moved his amulet over the dark pit, while Kailash peered down into the shaft, craning his neck for a better view. "The stairs lead down as far as I can see-ugh!" A reeking stench of decay washed over his nose, causing him to gag. It was worse than the sickly sweet odor of rotting carca.s.ses strewn thickly about a sunbaked battlefield.
Kailash pulled back to exhale.
As strong as the smell was, Madesus was struck more by the increasing feel of evil. It was so overpowering that he felt he could almost touch it in the air about him. "She is down there," he said.
Kailash lowered himself to descend, pausing to plant his feet squarely on the steps. Madesus continued holding the amulet over him, illuminating the stairway. The Kezankian stood on the first step, his body visible from the knees up, then proceeded carefully. Soon he was at shoulder level with the edges of the pit, only his head and shoulders visible from above. At that moment, Conan heard a barely audible click from somewhere under the floor, near the base of the altar. Before he could yell a warning, a finely honed, gleaming metal blade swept out across the opening of the shaft, aiming straight at Kailash"s exposed neck.
The hillman"s battle-sharpened reflexes and iron cap saved him. He ducked into the shaft, almost beneath the blade, which bit deeply into the forge-hardened iron of his helm and struck it from Kailash"s head.
The blade, designed to reset in the base, jammed on the helm and snapped off. A foot-long piece of metal jutted from the cap. Kailash looked at it in horror, blood rushing in his ears from his close brush with death. He pounded the cap against the stone until the blade popped loose, then set the cap back on his head.
"Mitra take this accursed place!" A stream of even more colorful curses issued from him before Conan and Madesus could urge him to move on.
Conan was taking no chances. Ripping another piece of bronze loose from the bench, he wedged it between the altar and the floor to prevent the block from swinging closed. Madesus went behind Kailash into the shaft, to keep the light in the center. Conan followed closely, his nostrils wrinkling at the pungent stench.
Madesus fished a small philter out of his belt pouch and shook some powder from it. The smell cleared, and Conan felt somehow refreshed just by breathing the powder. The clean smell traveled with them as they descended further into the tunnel. The stairs went on for several dozen paces, spiral-ing straight down and slightly to the left. The ceiling was high; even Conan did not have to hunch forward.
At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor took on an entirely new appearance. A thick red carpet, woven with strange patterns, covered the gray stone floor; torches of black iron hung along the walls. They did not burn, but radiated a peculiar light nonetheless, giving the pa.s.sage a greenish cast. Madesus called them to a halt when Kailash reached the bottom stair.
"Targolian torches," he murmured, gesturing at the walls. "Many have sought the secret of their making, but the art is lost. They burn without heat and last for centuries before winking out. Incredible that these are still lit."
Kailash prodded the carpet with his sword, expecting another trap of some kind. This time, nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped onto the carpet. Madesus and Conan followed, spreading out in the wide corridor. The priest took the lead, with Kailash and Conan an arm"s length behind him. The deep pile of the carpet cloaked the sounds of their footfalls as they walked carefully down the winding pa.s.sage.
The walls were simple and unadorned, with torches s.p.a.ced two or three paces apart on either side. Madesus bent down and perused the carpet, suppressing a shudder at what he found. The evenly woven fibers were actually human hair, the variance in shades of red accounting for the pattern. He kept this to himself, deeming it unnecessary to disclose this unpleasant detail to Conan and Kailash.
Conan counted the torches along the wall, trying to estimate how far they had gone. He found the green glow unsettling, and being underground in this tunnel reminded him of his recent encounter with the hideous beast in the sewers. His eyes flickered back and forth, and he frequently glanced over his shoulder, just to be certain that nothing was creeping up from behind. The silence in the corridor unnerved him, and he reckoned that the plush carpet would m.u.f.fle the sound of anyone approaching unbeknownst.
Kailash was more uneasy than Conan. Unlike the barbarian, he had little experience in this sort of situation. Although he was easily a dozen years older than the Cimmerian, he had seen fewer battles and had seldom traveled beyond the borders of his native Brythunia. Nervously, he rubbbed his neck and silently thanked Mitra for sparing it. He envied Conan"s apparent calm; in an effort to appear as composed as the Cimmerian, he steeled himself and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. The corridor was not at all warm, but another bead of sweat rolled down his nose before falling soundlessly to the carpet.
Conan had counted fewer than thirty torches when Madesus paused, holding his hand up to signal a stop, but not looking back. Conan could see nothing, and wondered why the priest had halted.
"May Mitra guard our souls from the evil that awaits us," the priest whispered. "Around that bend-" he pointed to the far end of the corridor, which took a sharp turn to the right "-her presence is so strong that every bone in my body cries out from the chill of her decadent malice. She has most likely detected our intrusion, for she can sense my nearness just as I sense hers. Remember, do not let her escape!"
Conan breathed out, forcing himself to relax and be loose, ready for whatever was to come next. Madesus gripped his amulet firmly, while Kailash raised his sword. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bend in the pa.s.sage. In the next few moments, events became a simultaneous blur.
First, the three stared dumbfounded at what they saw around the bend.
Hoping and yet dreading to find the priestess, they instead saw a huge bronze double door, filling the corridor and appearing more impervious than the gates of a fortress. Next, they heard a m.u.f.fled thud several paces behind them. Conan glanced over his shoulder and saw with dismay that a heavy bronze portcullis had slammed down, barring their retreat.
The st.u.r.dy bronze bars were twice the thickness of his thumbs, and much less pitted and tarnished than the bronze backs of the benches in the temple above.
As Conan glanced over his shoulder, he felt an unpleasant dampness on the sides of his sandaled feet, and a familiar, pungent odor a.s.saulted his nostrils. After watching the portcullis cut off their retreat, he looked down. Rising up through the carpet, filling the entire corridor, was a warm flood of crimson: thick, coppery human blood.
Kailash bellowed in terror at the sight, making a futile attempt to shake the red droplets from his boots, then regaining his composure.
Conan fought back the overpowering urge to retch. Desperately, he racked his brain for a way out of their horrifying predicament. The sanguine tide had already risen above his ankles; it felt grotesquely warm and sticky against his exposed flesh.
The Cimmerian could tell that in a matter of minutes, the flow of crimson would rise above their heads, drowning them in its suffocating warmth.
Eleven.
The Crimson Corridor --------------------.
Die, fools! Your puny swords and sniveling G.o.ds cannot save you now!"
Azora cackled wickedly to herself. Through her Augur, she watched the corridor beneath Targol"s temple fill with blood. The Augur was an orb no larger than an apple, but powerful enough to display images of events occurring thousands of leagues distant. Many years ago, she had stolen the instrument from a Stygian necromancer. The arrogant, self-centered dotard had believed that only he was powerful enough to evoke its magic.
At present, Azora had focused it on the events taking place in the corridor outside of her former altar room. Her red eyes glinted with cruel gratification as she watched the three doomed men, struggling to free themselves from her trap. Fear and despair flowed from them; she soaked it up like rainwater on hot desert sand.
Before her three victims had reached the temple, Lamici had paid her a visit. At first she had been livid over his unbidden arrival, but as he related the events that had transpired, her anger had dissipated. She had already been forewarned of the priest"s presence; his interference with her invocation of death had revealed his nearness to her, like a bonfire blazing in the night sky.
Her awareness of him had awakened an ancient hatred in her. His kind was stronger than most b.u.mbling, cowardly half-wits who const.i.tuted the laughable priesthood of Mitra. She had not known that any of his Order still existed, but she had quickly resolved to crush this one. At first she had not known his name. She could only see him and feel him, since the Augur conveyed no sounds to its bearer.
Fortunately, the unscrupulous Lamici had told her their names, and of their simplistic plan to challenge her. The eunuch amused her; he was refreshingly corrupt for a human. Earlier, she had planned a slow, agonizing death for him, eagerly antic.i.p.ating the pain and fear she would wring from his dying body. Now she supposed that in grat.i.tude for his services, she would kill him quickly when he had outlived his usefulness.
When Azbra had learned of Madesus"s intentions, she had quickly conceived a scheme to ensnare the unsuspecting priest, and the ineffectual dolts who accompanied him out of misguided loyalty. Honor and loyalty were the refuge of slack-witted weaklings.
She watched the image in the Augur with amus.e.m.e.nt. Balberoth, the Demon Lord she had bidden to carry out her lethal scheme, had done so with a delightfully h.e.l.lish ingenuity. She would have to use him in the future, to entertain her with the deaths of others who sought to defy her.
Even if the slow-witted blunderers had gotten past the bronze doors, they would have found nothing. Azora was now far, far away from the temple. She was confident of her ability to destroy Madesus, but she had no time to waste in doing so personally. After making her pact with the Demon Lord, she had begun the rite of translocation. The pathetic city of Pirogia and the mindless human insects who infested it had begun to bore her, anyway. Her business there was nearly concluded.
There was one more secret she sought, a secret that would make her invincible. Already she was powerful, but she was irked by the thought that an insignificant priest and a thick-skulled barbarian had interfered with her plot to destroy the king. She needed more power, and she craved the long-lost secret of invincibility.
According to a vague pa.s.sage in a dusty grimoire she had perused, this secret had been known to only one being: Skauraul. Centuries ago, he had been the most powerful of the Mutare. By piecing together information from numerous obscure and dire tomes, she had divined the location of his long-deserted stronghold. Even its memory had pa.s.sed from the minds of living men, but she had found it through her Augur.
When Conan and his companions had stood upon the outer steps of the Targolian temple, Azora had completed the rite of translocation, arriving on the path leading into Skauraul"s stronghold. Once inside, she would learn Skauraul"s secret and become impervious to any contrivances of Madesus or his Order of simpletons.
Unfortunately, translocation was difficult, even for her. The rite had taken all the power she could muster; she would need several days to regain it fully. When she had recuperated and added Skauraul"s powers to her own, she would return to Pirogia and turn the city into a ma.s.s grave. The hapless dwellers there would have the honor of being among the first victims in a spree of chaos and carnage she would embark upon.
Azora now stood before the outer walls of the stronghold. Monumental gates sagged in ruins on broken hinges. All around her were the vast, impa.s.sable steppes of Shem"s parched, lifeless desert. She stepped through a huge gap in the shattered portals.
Ahead, the ancient stronghold rose from the arid wasteland like the stump of a long-dead tree. Its walls were greenish-black, sandblasted by hot, desert winds. Cracked and chipped, they stood defiantly, facing the reddish-yellow desert like silent sentries of stone. They were roughly circular, made up of eleven immense stone slabs. They tapered near the top, several hundred feet from the ground. The stronghold had no windows, and only one door: a tall, narrow portal of black iron.
Weathered stone steps led up to this door, flanked on both sides by large statues, whose only recognizable features were heads, legs, and wings; the wind had worn everything else away. Knee-high drifts of sand had piled up on the steps, where they partially blocked the door. Even the most stubborn of desert life forms had forsaken the place.
As she walked up the steps to the iron door, Azora took one last look into the Augur. She smiled cruelly at what she saw there. Tucking the orb carefully into her cloak, she pushed the black doors open and stepped within.
Beneath the Targolian temple, Madesus remained outwardly calm, but inwardly his mind was a turbulent sea of thought. "Conan!" he said urgently, ignoring his previous warning regarding the use of names, "can you bend the bars of the portcullis?"
Wordlessly, the brawny Cimmerian seized the portcullis and heaved mightily, bracing himself against the bronze doors for leverage. Sweat broke out on his furrowed brow, and his ropelike muscles bulged in knots beneath his skin. Even Conan"s superhuman strength was no match for the inch-thick bars of bronze. He released his grip, flexing his fingers to loosen them. The blood continued to fill the corridor with frightening speed; it lapped greedily at his knees.
Kailash had begun to hurl himself against the bronze doors, but he was faring no better than Conan had fared with the bars. The double doors gave slightly, but they were held securely by an oversized bronze padlock clamped around each of their outer handles.
"Madesus!" the hillman called out breathlessly. "If there is anything you can do with your amulet to get us out of this, do it now! In a few minutes, the blood will rise over our heads!"
Madesus shook his head despondently. "The amulet has power to heal, but- it cannot save us from this trap!"
Kailash pounded the bronze doors with his fists. "Then we are beaten!
The priestess has won!" He looked down dejectedly, where the crimson flood had crept up past his knees.
Only Conan refused to give up hope. In desperation, he pulled one of the black metal torches from its wall moorings. He reasoned that the clublike torches might be strong enough to smash the bronze padlock.