theZembabwan emissaries holding the sack.
Conan believed that this consulting of the oracle was but a ruse topersuade the king of Keshan to accede to Thutmekri's wishes--for henever for a moment doubted that Gorulga was as subtle and devious as allthe rest mixed up in this grand swindle. Conan had not approached thehigh priest himself, because in the game of bribery he would have nochance against Thutmekri, and to attempt it would be to play directlyinto the Stygian's hands. Gorulga could denounce the Cimmerian to thepeople, establish a reputation for integrity, and rid Thutmekri of hisrival at one stroke. He wondered how Thutmekri had corrupted the highpriest, and just what could be offered as a bribe to a man who had thegreatest treasure in the world under his fingers.
At any rate he was sure that the oracle would be made to say that thegods willed it that Keshan should follow Thutmekri's wishes, and he wassure, too, that it would drop a few pointed remarks concerning himself.After that Keshia would be too hot for the Cimmerian, nor had Conan hadany intention of returning when he rode away in the night.
The oracle chamber held no clue for him. He went forth into the greatthrone-room and laid his hands on the throne. It was heavy, but he couldtilt it up. The floor beneath, a thick marble dais, was solid. Again hesought the alcove. His mind clung to a secret crypt near the oracle.Painstakingly he began to tap along the walls, and presently his tapsrang hollow at a spot opposite the mouth of the narrow corridor. Lookingmore closely he saw that the crack between the marble panel at thatpoint and the next was wider than usual. He inserted a dagger-point andpried.
Silently the panel swung open, revealing a niche in the wall, butnothing else. He swore feelingly. The aperture was empty, and it did notlook as if it had ever served as a crypt for treasure. Leaning into theniche he saw a system of tiny holes in the wall, about on a level witha man's mouth. He peered through, and grunted understandingly. That wasthe wall that formed the partition between the alcove and the oraclechamber. Those holes had not been visible in the chamber. Conan grinned.This explained the mystery of the oracle, but it was a bit cruder thanhe had expected. Gorulga would plant either himself or some trustedminion in that niche, to talk through the holes, and the credulousacolytes would accept it as the veritable voice of Yelaya.
Remembering something, the Cimmerian drew forth the roll of parchment hehad taken from the mummy and unrolled it carefully, as it seemed readyto fall to pieces with age. He scowled over the dim characters withwhich it was covered. In his roaming about the world the giantadventurer had picked up a wide smattering of knowledge, particularlyincluding the speaking and reading of many alien tongues. Many asheltered scholar would have been astonished at the Cimmerian'slinguistic abilities, for he had experienced many adventures whereknowledge of a strange language had meant the difference between lifeand death.
These characters were puzzling, at once familiar and unintelligible, andpresently he discovered the reason. They were the characters of archaicPelishtim, which possessed many points of difference from the modernscript, with which he was familiar, and which, three centuries ago, hadbeen modified by conquest by a nomad tribe. This older, purer scriptbaffled him. He made out a recurrent phrase, however, which herecognized as a proper name: Bit-Yakin. He gathered that it was the nameof the writer.
Scowling, his lips unconsciously moving as he struggled with the task,he blundered through the manuscript, finding much of it untranslatableand most of the rest of it obscure.
He gathered that the writer, the mysterious Bit-Yakin, had come fromafar with his servants, and entered the valley of Alkmeenon. Much thatfollowed was meaningless, interspersed as it was with unfamiliar phrasesand characters. Such as he could translate seemed to indicate thepassing of a very long period of time. The name of Yelaya was repeatedfrequently, and toward the last part of the manuscript it becameapparent that Bit-Yakin knew that death was upon him. With a slightstart Conan realized that the mummy in the cavern must be the remains ofthe writer of the manuscript, the mysterious Pelishtim, Bit-Yakin. Theman had died, as he had prophesied, and his servants, obviously, hadplaced him in that open crypt, high up on the cliffs, according to hisinstructions before his death.
It was strange that Bit-Yakin was not mentioned in any of the legends ofAlkmeenon. Obviously he had come to the valley after it had beendeserted by the original inhabitants--the manuscript indicated asmuch--but it seemed peculiar that the priests who came in the old daysto consult the oracle had not seen the man or his servants. Conan feltsure that the mummy and this parchment were more than a hundred yearsold. Bit-Yakin had dwelt in the valley when the priests came of old tobow before dead Yelaya. Yet concerning him the legends were silent,telling only of a deserted city, haunted only by the dead.
Why had the man dwelt in this desolate spot, and to what unknowndestination had his servants departed after disposing of their master'scorpse?
Conan shrugged his shoulders and thrust the parchment back into hisgirdle--he started violently, the skin on the backs of his handstingling. Startlingly, shockingly in the slumberous stillness, there hadboomed the deep strident clangor of a great gong!
He wheeled, crouching like a great cat, sword in hand, glaring down thenarrow corridor from which the sound had seemed to come. Had the priestsof Keshia arrived? This was improbable, he knew; they would not have hadtime to reach the valley. But that gong was indisputable evidence ofhuman presence.
Conan was basically a direct-actionist. Such subtlety as he possessedhad been acquired through contact with the more devious races. Whentaken off guard by some unexpected occurrence, he reverted instinctivelyto type. So now, instead of hiding or slipping away in the oppositedirection as the average man might have done, he ran straight down thecorridor in the direction of the sound. His sandals made no more soundthan the pads of a panther would have made; his eyes were slits, hislips unconsciously asnarl. Panic had momentarily touched his soul at theshock of that unexpected reverberation, and the red rage of theprimitive that is wakened by threat of peril always lurked close to thesurface of the Cimmerian.
He emerged presently from the winding corridor into a small open court.Something glinting in the sun caught his eye. It was the gong, a greatgold disk, hanging from a gold arm extending from the crumbling wall. Abrass mallet lay near, but there was no sound or sight of humanity. Thesurrounding arches gaped emptily. Conan crouched inside the doorway forwhat seemed a long time. There was no sound or movement throughout thegreat palace. His patience exhausted at last, he glided around the curveof the court, peering into the arches, ready to leap either way like aflash of light, or to strike right or left as a cobra strikes.
He reached the gong, stared into the arch nearest it. He saw only a dimchamber, littered with the debris of decay. Beneath the gong thepolished marble flags showed no footprints, but there was a scent in theair--a faintly fetid odor he could not classify; his nostrils dilatedlike those of a wild beast as he sought in vain to identify it.
He turned toward the arch--with appalling suddenness the seemingly solidflags splintered and gave way under his feet. Even as he fell he spreadwide his arms and caught the edges of the aperture that gaped beneathhim. The edges crumbled off under his clutching fingers. Down into utterdarkness he shot, into black icy water that gripped him and whirled himaway with breathless speed.