Pausing only to secure the torch, Conan moved to the thick, iron-bound door. An iron plate on the outside of the door covered a slot for checking on prisoners. A careful push showed the huge lock was not fastened. Slowly he cracked the door, grimacing at the squeal of the crudely-wrought iron hinges. The stone-walled hallway outside was empty and dark.
“You should have waited,” Akiro panted, scrambling from the shaft. “You had no way to know what lay on this side of that stone.”
“It had to be a dungeon,” Conan said. “Malak’s cousin could hardly have made his escape from the great hall, or from Taramis’ bedchamber.”
The old wizard stared at him, astounded. “Logical. I did not expect such thinking from you. You always seem to go at problems with a sword, rather than logical thought.”
Malak, who was allowing Zula to help him into the cell, muttered, offended, “How do you know my cousin did not escape from Taramis’ bedchamber? All the men of my family have a great attraction for women.”
Zula snorted, and Malak opened his mouth again, but Conan cut short any argument with a sharp gesture. “Do that later,” he said, and slipped into the hall.
A choice of direction was easy. One way lay more darkness, the other a glow of light. Dropping his torch on the bare stone floor of the corridor, Conan drew his sword and moved toward the light. Short of the dim glow that spilled into the hall he stopped in consternation.
This was the jailer’s chamber, a large cube with a rough cot in one corner, well lit by torches in iron sconces. On the far side stairs led upward, and at a table of crude-hewn planks by those stairs sat the jailer, a big balding man with as much hair on his arms and legs as he had once had on his head. He chewed at a joint of beef held in one thick-fingered hand, while the other scratched casually beneath his leather jerkin. He faced the hall where Conan stood hidden onl
y by darkness, and from where he sat he could be halfway up the stairs shouting an alarm before the Cimmerian could reach the table.
As Conan tensed to take the chance, Zula touched him on the arm and shook her head. Swiftly she doffed the strip of cloth that covered her small breasts. Malak licked his lips ostentatiously, but she ignored him, tucking the cloth into the other piece she wore about her loins. Then, with a welcoming smile on her face, she padded into the jailer’s chamber, using her staff as if it were a walking stick.
The balding man froze with the joint half-raised to his mouth. “Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells did you come from?” he growled. “You’re no prisoner of mine.”
Zula did not speak, but the roll of her slim hips increased as she continued toward him.
The jailor tossed the joint onto the table, missing a cracked pottery plate, and scrubbed the back of a broad hand across his greasy mouth as he stood and moved around the table. “If you’re not a prisoner, you’re not supposed to be here,” he said thickly. “And being where you’re not supposed to be can get you put to the question. Painful, that. Why don’t you talk? You got a tongue? No matter. If you want to avoid the hot irons and the strapado, wench, you’re going to treat me like a walking god and the love of your life, all rolled into one.”
He reached for her, then. Zula’s face did not change as her staff, suddenly gripped with two hands, whipped up into the big man’s crotch. A strangled squawk burst from his throat, and his eyes bulged almost out of his fat face. He doubled over, and her staff whirled around to crack the side of his balding head. With a sigh, he crumpled to the floor stones. Calmly Zula donned her halter once more.
“Most effective,” Akiro said with a smile, as the others joined her. Malak studiously avoided looking at her bosom even after she was covered.
Conan did not wait for talk. The coming of night weighed him like massive stones on his shoulders. Sword in hand, he raced up the stairs, barely hearing the clatter as the rest followed behind.
“You sent for me, my aunt?” Jehnna said from the door.
Taramis put on a smile, pleasant and, she believed, familial. One more role the girl had to fill, she thought, and for that Jehnna had been prepared well. Thin black silk covered her to the floor, hugging her slender curves. Her black hair, dressed simply, flowed about her shoulders, and her face was bare of any trace of kohl or rouge. A scrubbed face for innocence, and black silk for the Night. And the girl’s black contrasted well with her own scarlet silk, slashed to show her voluptuous curves to best advantage before the god.
“Yes, child,” Taramis answered. “This is your natal day, and tonight you fulfill your destiny. Come, drink a celebration cup with me.” She filled the second goblet, then held out the first to the girl. “You are a woman, now, and old enough for wine.”
Jehnna took the goblet hesitantly, peering at the dark ruby liquid within. “I have often wondered about wine,” she said.
“Drink,” Taramis told her. “Drink deeply. It is best so.” She held her breath while Jehnna hesitated further, then let it out when the slender girl raised the goblet, drinking as commanded, deeply.
Jehnna gave a little laugh as she lowered the almost empty goblet. “It warms so, swirling all through me it seems.”
“Do you feel lightheaded? That happens, sometimes.”
“I feel … . I feel … .” Jehnna trailed off with a slight giggle.
Tarmis took the golden cup from unresisting fingers and studied the girl’s large eyes. Wine would not act so fast, even on one so unfamiliar with it as Jehnna, but the powder should. It had to have taken effect. “Kneel, child,” she said.
Smiling as if it were the most ordinary thing to be told to do, Jehnna knelt.
The powder worked quite as well as a spell, Taramis thought. There would be no hesitation at a fatal moment. Aloud, she said, “Stand up, child.” Even as Jehnna rose she went on. “Xanteres! She is ready.”
The mild-faced high priest hurried into the room with the golden casket in his hands. He reached to open it himself, but Taramis brushed his thin hand aside. It was her place to do this. When the casket lid was lifted, she barely saw the glowing Heart of Ahriman. On the morrow, when it was safe for her to touch the stone, many wonders of great power could she do with the Heart. Tonight, only the Horn of Dagoth had importance.
“Take up the Horn, child,” Taramis said, then watched jealously as Jehnna’s fingers curled around its curving golden length.
In the courtyard four brazen gongs sounded their rolling tones. Full night drew nigh.