Yrdihz flashed upward, caught in the chilling grip of the ghostly form upon whose heels swarmed others of its kind. The atlas, for which many had perished to find this desolate place, fluttered to the floor, forgotten now that it was no longer needed.

Like a wintry blast, the specters poured into the chamber, revolving rapidly about the two men, darting in with swords of otherworldly make in their ghostly grips. The Cimmerian ran into them thinking to rend them but found his blade was useless. It was only the great strength of his thews giving him the speed wherewith to evade their thrusts which saved him, for he quickly learned his blade wasn't equal to the task.

As if through a vapor his blade passed harmlessly through theirs while, after he received a bloody furrow across both his forearms, he saw that his flesh was not so lucky. From every angle their spectral forms flashed toward him. Their wraithlike robes, which at first obscured their features, no longer hid their hideous visage now that they were darting about the chamber.

Peering into the dark recesses of their hoods Conan saw they faced an army of serpent spirits, ghostly images of the fabled serpent men of the past. From whence they were summoned, or what dark sorcery made possible their presence, he did not know, only that they were here with the very real threat of their spectral blades speeding toward his vitals.

"Crom's beard!" he swore in frustration. He retreated but they pursued him hotly.

Yrdihz hung suspended in the air while the ghostly entity, its cloaked face thrust close to his, whispered sibilantly. In the specter's fist was gripped an unearthly blade whose fine point was held over the Hyrkanian's heart. Lifted from the floor by supernatural means, for the creature into whose clutches he had fallen was not corporeal, the archer was held in the merciless grip of a creature that caused the hairs at Conan's nape to stand on end.

"Korma!" The Hyrkanian, still clueless as to Conan's identity, choked from where he was held in the clutches of the specter. "Quick—take it!"

"Take what, you fool?" ripped the Cimmerian, not daring to take his eyes off the swirling serpents. The entities were relentless, haranguing him with their swords while his own was ineffectual to deflect their blades, let alone pierce their hides.

He was by now covered in gashes. But although painful, he began to suspect their cuts were not designed to kill by cutting flesh alone. An insidious chill had begun to invade his veins, creeping along his limbs—a chill that should not be there from these shallow scratches. He guessed their cuts were drawing out his life into those ensorcelled blades… the way they glowed now…

"It wants to know of the map . . . who's seen it . . . it wants me . . . to release the stone . . ."

He knew his last moments were upon him. Wishing, as might most vagabonds, to exact some form of revenge on his enemy, Yrdihz tore his gaze from the hideous and hypnotic visage staring at him from deep within the cloak to seek out the Cimmerian who was confronted by a brood of the beasts. Fading fast, his sight darkening, the Hyrkanian tossed an object at Conan.

The barbarian caught it, immediately receiving several fresh cuts along his outstretched arm as he did so. But whereas before each painful gash would send a burst of cold lethargy along his limbs, this time their blades had no such effect, as if the jewel were an elixir against such. "It's mine, by Crom! The green gem of the serpent men—the wizard was right."

"What wiz—" The Hyrkanian never finished his sentence. The specter shoved its spirit blade through him until it protruded out his back. Bright, red gore ran down the fist and elbow of the haunt gripping the sword upon which Yrdihz was impaled, his blood pooling in an ever widening puddle beneath him.

Now the entity holding Yrdihz aloft turned its cowled head to face Conan. From deep within the veil of its cloak he saw slitted eyes more inhuman than any living beast's. Without any perceptible effort it lowered its sword arm, allowing the body of Yrdihz to slide from its blade where his corpse dropped gruesomely to the floor. Now it drifted toward the Cimmerian who stood holding the glaring, green gem.

Reflexively Conan palmed the gem as he eyed the entrance to the chamber, the distance swarming with spectral serpent men. Something in the shape of the gem caused him to glance at it. The dagger of Gallardo instantly came to mind. This stone wasn't an uncarved piece of rough shaped ore—it was part of a setting! He had a hunch based on his quick examination of the dagger days before, yet it was a hunch based on the calculating eye of a master thief.

The entity drew back its blade, it taking nearly all of Conan's self-control not to run, his hillsman's nerves being easily shattered in the face of the weird and the uncanny. From his leathern satchel he withdrew the mysterious blade Gallardo must have discovered along with the map. There was the pommel with the void he'd noticed earlier with the missing capstone. It took Conan but a glance to note it was similar in shape and size as the base of the gem. He inserted it without delay, grunting as he felt it snap into place.

Now to his ear the sibilant whisperings and hissings in which the ghosts fought became the curses of the guardians of the serpent cavern. No longer were their forms so ghostly. Whatever glamour or spell had summoned them no longer held Conan's senses in captivity. Before him they recoiled at sight of the blade from whose pommel the green stone glowed promiscuously. Conan, roaring a wordless cry, leapt at the foremost serpent-ghost.