
Conan the Unconquered
By Robert Jordan
Storm winds howling off the midnight-shrouded Vilayet Sea clawed at the granite-walled compound ofthe Cult of Doom. The compound gave the appearance of a small city, though there were no people onits streets at that hour. More than the storm and the lateness kept them fast in their beds, praying forsleep, though but a bare handful of them could have put a finger to the real reason, and those that coulddid not allow themselves to think on it. The gods uplift, and the gods destroy. But no one ever believesthe gods will touch them.
The man who was now called Jhandar did not know if gods involved themselves in the affairs of mortals,or indeed if gods existed, but he did know there were Powers beneath the sky. There were indeedPowers, and one of those he had learned to use, even to control after a fashion. Gods he would leave tothose asleep in the compound, those who called him their Great Lord.
Now he sat crosslegged in saffron robes before such a Power. The chamber was plain, its pearly marblewalls smooth, its two arched entrances unadorned. Simple round columns held the dome that rose abovethe shallow pool, but ten paces across, that was the room's central feature. There was no ornamentation,for friezes or sculptures or ornate working of stone could not compete with that pool, and the Powerwithin.
Water, it might seem at first glance, but it was not. It was sharply azure and flecked with argentphosphorescence. Jhandar meditated, basking in the radiance of Power, and the pool glowed silver-blue,brighter and brighter until the chamber seemed lit with a thousand lamps. The surface of the pool bubbledand roiled, and mists rose, solidifying. But only so far. The mists formed a dome, as if a mirror image ofthe pool below, delineating the limits that contained the Power, both above and below. Within ultimatedisorder was bound, Chaos itself confined. Once Jhandar had seen such a pool loosed from its bonds,and fervently did he wish never to see such again. But that would not happen here. Not now. Not ever.
Now he could feel the Power seeping into his very bones. It was time. Smoothly he rose and made hisway through one of the archways, down a narrow passage lit by bronze lamps, bare feet padding on coolmarble. He prided himself on his lack of ostentation, even to so small a thing as not wearing sandals. He,like the pool, needed no adornment.
The passage let into a circular sanctorum, its albescent walls worked in intricate arabesques, its highvaulted ceiling held aloft by fluted alabaster columns. Light came from golden cressets suspended aloft onsilver chains. Massive bronze doors barred the chamber's main entrance, their surfaces within andwithout worked in a pattern of Chaos itself, by an artist under the influence of the Power, before madnessand death had taken him. The Power was not for all.
The forty men gathered there, a fifth part of his Chosen, did need this show of splendor to reflect theglory of their cause. Yet the most important single item in that chamber, an altar set in the exact center ofthe circle formed by the room, was of unornamented black marble.
Two-score men turned silently as Jhandar entered, saffron robed and shaven of head as the laws of thecult demanded, just as it forbade its women to cut their tresses. Eager eyes watched him; ears strained tohear his words.
"I am come from the Pool of the Ultimate," he intoned, and a massive sigh arose, as if he had come fromthe presence of a god. Indeed, he suspected they considered it much the same, for though they believedthey knew the purposes and meanings of the Cult, in truth they knew nothing.
Slowly Jhandar made his way to the black altar, and all eyes followed him, glowing with the honor ofgazing on one they considered but a step removed from godhead himself. He did not think of himself so,for all his ambitions. Not quite.
Jhandar was a tall man, cleanly muscled but slender. Bland, smooth features combined with his shavenhead to make his age indeterminate, though something in his dark brown eyes spoke of years beyondknowing. His ears were square, but set on his head in such a fashion that they seemed slightly pointed,giving him an other-worldly appearance. But it was the eyes that oft convinced others he was a sage erehe even opened his mouth. In fact he was not yet thirty.
He raised his arms above his head, letting the folds of his robes fall back. "Attend me!"
"We attend, Great Lord!" forty throats spoke as one.
"In the beginning was nothingness. All came from nothingness."
"And to nothingness must all return."
Jhandar allowed a slight smile touch his mouth. That phrase, watchword of his followers, always amusedhim. To nothingness, indeed, all must return. Eventually. But not soon. At least, not him.
While he was yet a boy, known by the first of many names he would bear, fate had carried him beyondthe Vilayet Sea, beyond even far Vendhya, to Khitai of near fable. There, at the feet of a learnedthaumaturge, an aged man with long, wispy mustaches and a skin the color of luteous ivory, he hadlearned much. But a lifetime spent in the search for knowledge was not for him. In the end he had beenforced to slay the old man to gain what he wanted, the mage's grimoire, his book of incantations andspells. Then, before he had mastered more than a handful, the murder was discovered, and heimprisoned. Yet he had known enough to free himself of that bare stone cell, though he had of necessityto flee Khitai. There had been other flights in his life, but those were long past. His errors had taught him.Now his way was forward, and upward, to heights without end.
"In the beginning all of totality was inchoate. Chaos ruled."
"Blessed be Holy Chaos," came the reply.
"The natural state of the universe was, and is, Chaos. But the gods appeared, themselves but children ofChaos, and forced order-unnatural, unholy order-upon the very Chaos from which they sprang." Hisvoice caressed them, raised their fears, then soothed those fears, lifted their hopes and fanned theirfervor. "And in that forcing they gave a foul gift to plan, the impurity that forever bars the vast majority ofhumankind from attaining a higher order of consciousness, from becoming as gods. For it is from Chaos,from ultimate disorder, that gods come, and man has within him the taint of enforced order."
He paused then, spreading his arms as if to embrace them. Ecstasy lit their eyes as they waited for him togive the benediction they expected, and needed.
"Diligently," he said, "have you labored to rid yourselves of the impurities of this world. Your worldly
goods you have cast aside. Pleasures of the flesh you have denied yourselves. Now," his voice rose to athunder, "now you are the Chosen!"
"Blessed be Holy Chaos! We are the Chosen of Holy Chaos!"
"Let the woman Natryn be brought forth," Jhandar commanded.
From a cubicle where she had been kept waiting the Lady Natryn, wife of Lord Tariman, was led intothe columned chamber. She did not look now the wife of one of the Seventeen Attendants, the advisorsto King Yildiz of Turan. Naked, she stumbled in the hobble that confined her ankles, and would havefallen had not two of the Chosen roughly held her erect. Her wrists, fastened behind her with tight cords,lay on the swell of her buttocks. Her large brown eyes bulged in terror, and her lips worked franticallyaround a leather gag. Slender, yet full-breasted and well-rounded of hip, her body shone with the sweatof fear. No eyes there but Jhandar's looked on her as a woman, though, for the Chosen had forsakensuch things.
"You have attempted to betray me, Natryn."
The naked woman shook at Jhandar's words as if pierced with needles. She had dabbled in the teachingsof the cult as did many bored women of the nobility, but her husband made her different, and necessaryto Jhandar's great plan. With his necromancies he had learned every dark and shameful corner of her life.Most noblewomen of Turan had secrets they would kill to hide, and she, with lovers and vices almostbeyond listing, was no different. Natryn had wept at his revelations, and rebelled at his commands, butseemingly at the last she had accepted her duty to place certain pressures on her husband. Instead, thesorcerous watch he kept on her revealed that she intended to go to her husband, to reveal all and throwherself on his mercy. Jhandar had not slain her where she lay in the supposed safety of her chambers inher husband's palace, but had had her brought hither to serve her purpose in his grand design. It wasdeath she feared, but he intended worse for her.
"Prepare her," the necromancer commanded.
The woman flung herself about futilely in the grasp of the men who fastened her by wrists and ankles tothe black altar stone. The gag was removed; she licked fear-dried lips. "Mercy, Great Lord!" shepleaded. "Let me serve you!"
"You do," Jhandar replied.
From a tray of beaten gold proffered by one of the Chosen, the mage took a silver-bladed knife andlifted it high above the woman's body. His follower hastily set the tray on the floor by the altar andbacked away. Natryn's screams blended with Jhandar's chant as he invoked the Power of Chaos. Hiswords rang from the walls, though he did not shout; he had no wish to drown her wails. He could feel thePower flowing in him, flowing through him. Silvery-azure, a dome appeared, enveloping altar, sacrificeand necromancer. The Chosen fell to their knees, pressed their faces to the marble floor in awe.Jhandar's knife plunged down. Natryn convulsed and shrieked one last time as the blade stabbed to thehilt beneath her left breast.
Quickly Jhandar bent to take a large golden bowl from the tray. Blade and one quillon of that knife werehollow, so that a vivid scarlet stream of heart's blood spurted into the bowl. Swiftly the level rose. Thenthe flow slowed, stopped, and only a few drops fell to make carmine ripples.
Withdrawing the blade, Jhandar held knife and bowl aloft, calling on the Power in words of ice, calling onlife that was not life, death that was not death. Still holding the bowl on high, he tilted it, pouring outNatryn's heart blood. That sanguinary stream fell, and faded into nothingness, and with it faded the
glowing dome.
A senile of satisfaction on his face, Jhandar let the implements of his sorcery clatter to the floor. Nolonger did a wound mar Natryn's beauty. "Awake, Natryn," he commanded, undoing her bonds.
The eyes of the woman who had just been stabbed to the heart fluttered open, and she stared at Jhandar,her gaze filled with horror and emptiness. "I... I was dead," she whispered. "I stood before Erlik'sThrone." Shivering, she huddled into a ball on the altar. "I am cold."
"Certainly you are cold," Jhandar told her cruelly. "No blood courses in your veins, for you are no longeralive. Neither are you dead. Rather you stand between, and are bound to utter obedience until true deathfinds you."
"No," she wept. "I will not-"
"Be silent," he said. Her protests died on the instant.
Jhandar turned back to his followers. The Chosen had dared now to raise their faces, and they watchedhim expectantly. "For what do you strike?" he demanded.
From beneath their robes the Chosen produced needle-sharp daggers, thrusting them into the air. "Fordisorder, confusion and anarchy, we strike!" they roared. "For Holy Chaos, we strike! To the death!"
"Then strike!" he commanded.
The daggers disappeared, and the Chosen filed from the chamber to seek those whose names Jhandarhad earlier given them.
It was truly a pity, the necromancer thought, that the old mage no longer lived. How far his pupil hadoutstripped him, and how much greater yet that pupil was destined to become!
He snapped his fingers, and she who was now only partly Lady Natryn of Turan followed him meeklyfrom the sacrificial chamber.
Many cities bore appellations, 'the Mighty' or 'the Wicked,' but Aghrapur, that great city of ivory towersand golden domes, seat of the throne of Turan and center of her citizens' world, had no need of such.The city's wickedness and might were so well known that an appellation would have been gilt laid upongold.
One thousand and three goldsmiths were listed in the Guild Halls, twice so many smiths in silver, halfagain that number dealers in jewelry and rare gems. They, with a vast profusion of merchants in silks andperfumes, catered to hot-blooded, sloe-eyed noblewomen and sleek, sensuous courtesans who oftseemed more ennobled than their sisters of proper blood. Every vice could be had within Aghrapur'slofty alabaster walls, from the dream-powders and passion-mists peddled by oily men from Iranistan tothe specialized brothels of the Street of Doves.
Turanian triremes ruled the cerulean expanse of the Vilayet Sea, and into Aghrapur's broad harbordromonds brought the wealth of a dozen nations. The riches of another score found its way to themarkets by caravan. Emeralds and apes, ivory and peacocks, whatever people wanted could be found,no matter whence it came. The stench of slavers from Khawarism was drowned in the wafted scent oforanges from Ophir, of myrrh and cloves from Vendhya, of attar of roses from Khauran and subtleperfumes from Zingara. Tall merchants from Argos strode the flagstones of her broad streets, and dark
men from Shem. Fierce Ibars mountain tribesmen rubbed shoulders with Corinthian scholars, andKothian mercenaries with traders from Keshan. It was said that no day passed in Aghrapur without themeeting of men, each of whom believed the other's land to be a fable.
The tall youth who strode those teeming streets with the grace of a hunting cat had no mind for thewonders of the city, however. Fingers curled lightly on the well-worn leather hilt of his broadsword, hepassed marble palaces and fruit peddlers' carts with equal unconcern, a black-maned lion unimpressedby piles of stone. Yet if his agate-blue eyes were alert, there was yet travel weariness on his sun-bronzedface, and his scarlet-edged cloak was stained with sweat and dust. It had been a hard ride fromSultanapur, with little time before leaving for saying goodbye to friends or gathering possessions, if hewas to avoid the headsman's axe. A small matter of smuggling, and some other assorted offenses againstthe King's peace.
He had come far since leaving the rugged northern crags of his native Cimmerian mountains, and not onlyin distance. Some few years he had spent as a thief, in Nemedia and Zamora and the Corinthiancity-states, yet though his years still numbered fewer than twenty-five the desire had come on him tobetter himself. He had seen many beggars who had been thieves in their youth, but never had he seen arich thief. The gold that came from stealing seemed to drip away like water through a sieve. He wouldfind better for himself. The failure of his smuggling effort had not dimmed his ardor in the least. All thingscould be found in Aghrapur, or so it was said. At the moment he sought a tavern, the Blue Bull. Its namehad been given him in haste as he left Sultanapur as a place where information could be gotten. Goodinformation was always the key to success.
The sound of off-key music penetrated his thoughts, and he became aware of a strange processionapproaching him down the thronging street. A wiry, dark-skinned sergeant of the Turanian army, in widebreeches and turban-wrapped spiral helmet, curved tulwar at his hip, was trailed by another soldierbeating a drum and two others raggedly blowing flutes. Behind them came half a score more, bearinghalberds and escorting, or guarding, a dozen young men in motley garb who seemed to be trying tomarch to the drum. The sergeant caught the big youth's glance and quickly stepped in front of him.
"The gods be with you. Now I can see that you are a man seeking-" The sergeant broke off with a grunt."Mitra! Your eyes!"
"What's wrong with my eyes?" the muscular youth growled.
"Not a thing, friend," the sergeant replied, raising a hand apologetically. "But never did I see eyes thecolor of the sea before."
"Where I come from there are few with dark eyes."
"Ah. A far traveler come to seek adventure. And what better place to find it than in the army of KingYildiz of Turan? I am Alshaam. And how are you called?"
"Conan," the muscular youth replied. "But I've no interest in joining your army."
"But think you, Conan," the sergeant continued with oily persuasiveness, "how it will be to return fromcampaign with as much booty as you can carry, a hero and conqueror in the women's eyes. How they'llfall over you. Why, man, from the look of you, you were born for it."
"Why not try them?" Conan said, jerking his head toward a knot of Hyrkanian nomads in sheepskin coatsand baggy trousers of coarse wool. They wore fur caps pulled tightly over grease-laced hair, and eyedeveryone about them suspiciously. "They look as if they might want to be heroes," he laughed.
The sergeant spat sourly. "Not a half-weight of discipline in the lot of them. Odd to see them here. Theygenerally don't like this side of the Vilayet Sea. But you, now. Think on it. Adventure, glory, loot,women."
"Why." Conan shook his head. "I've no desire to be a soldier."
"Mayhap if we had a drink together? No?" The sergeant sighed. "Well, I've a quota to fill. King Yildizmeans to build his army larger, and when an army's big enough, it's used. You mark my words, there willbe loot to throw away." He motioned to the other soldiers. "Let us be on our way."
"A moment," Conan said. "Can you tell me where to find the tavern called the Blue Bull?"
The soldier grimaced. "A dive on the Street of the Lotus Dreamers, near the harbor. They'll cut yourthroat for your boots as like as not. Try the Sign of the Impatient Virgin, on the Street of Coins. The wineis cheap and the girls are clean. And if you change your mind, seek me out. Alshaam, sergeant in theregiment of General Mundara Khan."
Conan stepped aside to let the procession pass, the recruits once more attempting unsuccessfully tomarch to the drum. As he turned from watching the soldiers go he found himself about to trample intoanother cortege, this a score in saffron robes, the men with shaven heads, the women with braidsswinging below their buttocks, their leader beating a tambourine. Chanting softly, they walked as if theysaw neither him nor anyone else. Caught off balance, he stumbled awkwardly aside, straight into themidst of the Hyrkanian nomads.
Muttered imprecations rose as thick as the rank smell of their greased hair, and black eyes glared at himas dark leathery hands were laid to the hilts of curved sword-knives. Conan grasped his own sword hilt,certain that he was in for a fight. The Hyrkanian's eyes swung from him to follow the saffron-robedprocession continuing down the crowded street. Conan stared in amazement as the nomads ignored himand hurried after the yellow-robed marchers.
Shaking his head, Conan went on his way. No one had ever said that Aghrapur was not a city ofstrangeness, he thought.
Yet, as he approached the harbor, it was in his mind that for all its oddities the city was not so verydifferent from the others he had seen. Behind him were the palaces of the wealthy, the shops ofmerchants, and the bustle of prosperous citizens. Here dried mud stucco cracked from the brick ofdecaying buildings, occupied for all their decay. The peddlers offered fruits too bruised or spoiled to besold elsewhere, and the hawkers' shiny wares were gilded brass, if indeed there was even any gilding.Beggars here were omnipresent, whining in their rags to the sailors swaggering by. The strumpetsnumbered almost as many as the beggars, in transparent silks that emphasized rather than concealedswelling breasts and rounded buttocks, wearing peridot masquerading as emeralds and carbuncle passingfor ruby. Salt, tar, spices, and rotting offal gave off a thick miasma that permeated everything. Thepleadings of beggars, the solicitations of harlots, and the cries of hawkers hung in the air like a solidsheet.
Above the cacophony Conan heard a girl's voice shout, "If you will be patient, there will be enough to goaround."
Curious, he looked toward the sound, but could see only a milling crowd of beggars in front of a rottingbuilding, all seeming to press toward the same goal. Whatever, or whoever, that goal was, it was againstthe stone wall of the building. More beggars ran to join the seething crowd, and a few of the doxiesjoined in, elbowing their way to the front. Suddenly, above the very forefront of the throng, a girlappeared, as if she had stepped up onto a bench.
"Be patient," she cried. "I will give you what I have." In her arms she carried an engraved and florentinedcasket, almost as large as she could manage. Its top was open, revealing a tangled mass of jewelry. Oneby one she removed pieces and passed them down to eagerly reaching hands. Greedy cries were raisedfor more.
Conan shook his head. This girl was no denizen of the harbor. Her robes of cream-colored silk wereexpensively embroidered with thread-of-gold, and cut neither to reveal nor emphasize her voluptuouscurves, though they could not conceal them from the Cimmerian's discerning eye. She wore no kohl orrouge, as the strumpets did, yet she was lovely. Waist-length raven hair framed an oval face with skin thecolor of dark ivory and melting brown eyes. He wondered what madness had brought her here.
"Mine," a voice shouted from the shoving mass of mendicants and doxies, and another voice cried, "Iwant mine!"
The girl's face showed consternation. "Be patient. Please."
"More!"
"Now!"
Three men with the forked queues of sailors, attracted by the shouting, began to push their way throughthe growing knot of people toward the girl. Beggars, their greed vanquishing their usual ingratiatingmanner, pushed back. Muttered curses were exchanged, then loud obscenities, and the snood of thecrowd darkened and turned angry. A sailors horny fist sent a ragged, gap-toothed beggar sprawling.Screams went up from the strumpets, and wrathful cries from the beggars.
Conan knew he should go on. This was none of his affair, and he had yet to find the Blue Bull. Thismatter would resolve itself very well without him. Then why, he asked himself, was he not moving?
At that instant a pair of bony, sore-covered hands reached up and jerked the casket from the girl's arms.She stared helplessly as a swirling fight broke out, the casket jerked from one set of hands to another, itscontents spilling to the paving stones to be squabbled over by men and women with clawed fingers.Filth-caked beggars snarled with avaricious rage; silk-clad harlots, their faces twisted with hideousrapacity, raked each other with long, painted nails and rolled on the street, legs flashing nakedly.
Suddenly one of the sailors, a scar across his broad nose disappearing beneath the patch that covered hisright eye, leaped up onto the bench beside the girl. "This is what I want," he roared. And sweeping herinto his arms, he tossed her to his waiting comrades.
"Erlik take all fool women," Conan muttered.
The roil of beggars and harlots, lost in their greed, ignored the massive young Cimmerian as he movedthrough them like a hunting beast. Scarface and his companions, a lanky Kothian with a gimlet eye and asharp-nosed Iranistani, whose dirty red-striped head cloth hid all but the tips of his queues, were toobusy with the girl to notice his approach. She yelped and wriggled futilely at their pawings. Her flailinghands made no impression on shoulders and chests hardened by the rigors of stormy, violent Vilayet Sea.The sailors' cheap striped tunics were filthy with fish oils and tar, and an odor hung about them of sour,over-spiced ship's cooking.
Conan's big hand seized the scruff of the Kothian's neck and half hurled him into the scuffle near thecasket. The Iranistani's nose crunched and spurted blood beneath his fist, and a backhand blow sentScarface to join his friends on the filthy stones of the street.
"Find another woman," the Cimmerian growled. "There are doxies enough about."
The girl stared at him wide-eyed, as if she was not sure if he was a rescuer or not.
"I'll carve your liver and lights," Scarface spat, "and feed what's left to the fish." He scrambled to his feet,a curved Khawarismi dagger in his fist.
The other two closed in beside him, likewise clutching curved daggers. The man in the headcloth wascontent to glare threateningly, ruining it somewhat by scrubbing with his free hand at the blood that ranfrom his broken nose down over his mouth. The Kothian, however, wanted to taunt his intended victim.He tossed his dagger from hand to hand, a menacing grin on his thin mouth.
"We'll peel your hide, barbar," he sneered, "and hang it in the rigging. You'll scream a long time beforewe let you-"
Among the lessons Conan had learned in his life was that when it was time to fight, it was well to fight,not talk. His broadsword left its worn shagreen scabbard in a draw that continued into an upward swing.The Kothian's eyes bulged, and he fumbled for the blade that was at that moment in mid-toss. Then thefirst fingerlength of the broadsword clove through his jaw, and up between his eyes. The dagger clatteredto the paving stones, and its owner's body fell atop.
The other two were not men to waste time over a dead companion. Such did not long survive on the sea.Even as the lanky man was falling, they rushed at the big youth. The Iranistani's blade gashed alongConan's forearm, but he slammed a kick into the dark man's midsection that sent him sprawling. Scarfacedropped to a crouch, his dagger streaking up toward Conan's ribs. Conan sucked in his stomach, felt thedagger slice through his tunic and draw a thin, burning line across his midriff. Then his own blade wasdescending. Scarface screamed as steel cut into the joining of his neck and shoulder and continued twohandspans deeper. He dropped his dagger to paw weakly at the broadsword, though life was alreadydraining from him. Conan kicked the body free-for it was a corpse before it struck the pavement andspun to face the third sailor.
The Iranistani had gotten to his feet yet again, but instead of attacking he stood staring at the bodies of hisfriends. Suddenly he turned and ran up the street. "Murder!" he howled as he ran, heedless of the bloodydagger he was waving. "Murder!" The harlots and mendicants who had so recently been lost in theirfighting scattered like leaves before a high wind.
Hastily Conan wiped his blade on Scarface's tunic and sheathed it. There were a few things worse thanto be caught by the City Guard standing over a corpse. Most especially in Turan, where the Guard had ahabit of following arrest with torture until the prisoner confessed. Conan grabbed the girl's arm and joinedthe exodus, dragging her behind him.
"You killed them," she said incredulously. She ran as if unsure whether to drag her heels or not. "They'dhave run away, an you threatened them."
"Mayhap I should have let them have you," he replied. "They would have ridden you like a post horse.Now be silent and run!"
Down side streets he pulled her, startling drunks staggering from seafarers' taverns, down cross-alleyssmelling of stale urine and rotting offal. As soon as they had put some distance between themselves andthe bodies, he slowed to a walk-running people were too well noticed-but yet kept moving. He wanted avery goodly distance between himself and the Guardsmen who would be drawn to the corpses like flies.He dodged between highwheeled pushcarts, carrying goods from harbor warehouses deeper into thecity. The girl trailed reluctantly at his heels, following only because his big hand engulfed her slender wrist
as securely as an iron manacle.
Finally he turned into a narrow alley, pushing the girl in ahead of him, and stopped to watch hisback-path. There was no way that the Guard could have followed him, but his height and his eyes madehim stand out, even in a city the size of Aghrapur.
"I thank you for your assistance," the girl said suddenly in a tone at once haughty and cool. She movedtoward the entrance of the alley. "I must be going now."
He put out an arm to bar her way. Her breasts pressed pleasurably against the hardness of his forearm,and she backed hastily away, blushing in confusion.
"Not just yet," he told her.
"Please," she said without meeting his eye. There was a quaver in her voice. "I... I am a maiden. Myfather will reward you well if you return me to him in the same... condition." The redness in her cheeksdeepened.
Conan chuckled deep in his throat. "It's not your virtue I want, girl. Just the answers to a question orthree."
To his surprise her eyes dropped. "I suppose I should be glad," she said bitterly, "that even killers preferslender, willowy women. I know I am a cow. My father has often told me I was made to bear many sonsand... and to nurse all of them," she finished weakly, coloring yet again.
Her father was a fool, Conan thought, eyeing her curves. She was a woman made for more than bearingsons, though he did not doubt that whoever she was wed to would find the task of giving them to her apleasurable one.
"Don't be silly," he told her gruffly. "You'd give joy to any man."
"I would?" she breathed wonderingly. Her liquid eyes caressed his face, innocently, he was certain."How," she asked falteringly, "is a post horse ridden?"
He had to think to remember why she asked, and then he could barely suppress a smile. "Long andhard," he said, "with little time for rest, if any."
She went scarlet to the neck of her silken robe, and he chuckled. The girl blushed easily, and prettily.
"What is your name, little one?"
"Yasbet. My father calls me Yasbet." She looked past him to the street beyond, where pushcartsrumbled by. "Do you think the casket, at least, would be there if we went back? It belonged to mymother, and Fatima will be furious at its loss. More furious than for the jewels, though she'll be madenough at those."
He shook his head. "That casket has changed hands at least twice by now, for money or blood. And thejewels as well. Who is Fatima?"
"My amah," she replied, then gasped and glared at him as if he had tricked her into revealing the fact.
"Your amah!" Conan brayed with laughter. "Are you not a little old to have a nursemaid?"
"My father does not think so," Yasbet replied in a sullen voice. "He thinks I must have an amah until I amgiven to my husband. It is none of my liking. Fatima thinks I am still five years of age, and father sides
with her decisions always." Her eyes closed and her voice sank to a weary whisper. She spoke as if nolonger realizing she spoke aloud. "I shall be locked in my room for this, at the least. I shall be lucky ifFatima does not...." Her words drifted off with a wince, and her hands stole back to cover her buttocksprotectively.
"You deserve it," Conan said harshly.
Yasbet started, eyes wide and flushing furiously. "Deserve what? What do you mean? Did I saysomething?"
"You deserve to have an amah, girl. After this I shouldn't be surprised if your father takes two or three ofthem in service." He smiled inwardly at the relief on her face now. In truth, he thought she deserved aspanking as well, but saying so would be no way to gain satisfaction for his curiosity. "Now tell me,Yasbet. What were you doing alone on a street like that, giving your jewels to beggars? It was madness,girl."
"It was not madness," she protested. "I wanted to do something significant, something on my own. Youhave no idea what my life is like. Every moment waking or sleeping is ruled and watched by Fatima. I amallowed to make not the smallest decision governing my own life. I had to climb over the garden wall toleave without Fatima's permission."
"But giving jewels to beggars and strumpets?"
"The... the women were not part of my plan. I wanted to help the poor, and who can be poorer thanbeggars?" Her face firmed angrily. "My father will know I am no longer a child. I do not regret giving upthe pretties he believes mean so much to me. It is noble to help the poor."
"Perhaps he'll hire six amahs," Conan muttered. "Girl, did it never occur to you that you might be hurt? Ifyou had to help someone, why not ask among your own servants? Surely they know of people in need?Then you could have sold a few of your jewels for money to help."
Yasbet snorted. "Even if all the servants were not in league with Fatima, where would I find a dealer ingems who would give me true value? More likely he would simply pretend to deal with me while he sentfor my father! And he would no doubt send Fatima to bring me home. That humiliation I can do without,thank you."
"Gem dealers would recognize you," he said incredulously, "and know who your father is? Who is he?King Yildiz?"
Suddenly wary, she eyed him like a fawn on the edge of flight. "You will not take me back to him, willyou?"
"And why should I not? You are not fit to walk the streets without a keeper, girl."
"But then I'll never keep him from discovering what happened today," She shuddered. "Or Fatima."
Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she moved closer. "Just listen to me for a moment. Please? I-"
Abruptly she darted past him into the street.
"Come back here, you fool girl," he roared, racing after her.
She dashed almost under the wheels of a heavy, crate-filled cart, and was immediately hidden from view.Two more carts pressed close behind. There was no room to squeeze between them. He ran to get
ahead of the carts and to the other side of the street. When he got there, Yasbet was nowhere in sight. Apotter's apprentice was setting out his master's crockery before their shop. A rug dealer unrolled hiswares before his. Sailors and harlots strolled in and out of a tavern. But of the girl there was no sign.
"Fool girl," he muttered.
Just then the tavern sign, painted crudely, creaked in the breeze and caught his eye. The Blue Bull. Allthat had happened, and he had come right to it. Aghrapur was going to be a lucky city. Giving hisswordbelt a hitch and settling his cloak about his broad shoulders, he sauntered into the stone-frontedinn.
The interior of the Blue Bull was poorly lit by guttering rush torches stuck in crude black iron sconces onthe stone walls. A dozen men, hunched over their mugs, sat scattered among the tables that dotted theslate floor, which was swept surprisingly clean for a tavern of that class. Three sailors took turns flingingtheir daggers at a heart crudely painted on a slab of wood and hung on a wall. The rough stones aroundthe slab were pocked from ten thousand near misses. A pair of strumpets, one with multi-hued beadsbraided in her hair, the other wearing a tall wig in a bright shade of red, circulated among the patronsquietly hawking the wares they displayed in diaphanous silk. Serving girls, their muslin covering little morethan the harlots' garb, scurried about with pitchers and mugs. An odor of sour wine and stale ale,common to all such places, competed with the stench of the street.
When he saw the innkeeper, a stout, bald man scrubbing the bar with a bit of rag, Conan understood thecleanliness of the floors. He knew the man, Ferian by name. This Ferian had a passion for cleanlinessuncommon among men of his profession. It was said he had fled from Belverus, in Nemedia, after killinga man who vomited on the floor of his tavern. But as a source of information he had always beenunsurpassed. Unless he had changed his ways he would know all the news in Aghrapur, not only thegossip of the streets.
Ferian smiled as Conan leaned an elbow on the bar, though his small black eyes remained watchful, andhe did not cease his wiping. "Hannuman's Stones, Cimmerian," he said quietly. "They say all roads lead toAghrapur-at least, they say it in Aghrapur-and seeing you walk in here, I believe it. A year more, and allof Shadizar will be here."
"Who else from Shadizar is in the city?" Conan asked.
"Rufo, the Kothian coiner. Old Sharak, the astrologer. And Emilio, too."
"Emilio!" Conan exclaimed. Emilio the Corinthian had been the best thief in Zamora, next to Conan. "Healways swore he'd never leave Shadizar."
Ferian chuckled, a dry sound to come from one so plump. "And before that he swore he would neverleave Corinthia, but he left both for the same reason-he was found in the wrong woman's bed. Herhusband was after him, but her mother wanted him even more. Seems he'd been bedding her as well, andlifting bits of her jewelry. The older wench hired a bevy of knifemen to see that Emilio would have nothingto offer another woman. I hear he left the city disguised as an old woman and did not stop sweating forhalf a year. Ask him about it, an you want to see a man turn seven colors at once, the while swallowinghis tongue. He's upstairs with one of the girls now, though likely too drunk to do either of them anygood."
"Then they'll be there till the morrow," Conan laughed, "for he'll never admit to failure." He laid twocoppers on the bar. "Have you any Khorajan ale? My throat is dusty."
"Do I have Khorajan ale?" Ferian said, rummaging under the bar. "I have wines and ales you have neverheard of. Why, I have wines and ales I have never heard of." He drew out a dusty clay crock, filled aleathern jack, and made the coppers disappear as he pushed the mug in front of Conan. "Khorajan ale.How stand affairs in the Gilded Bitch of the Vilayet? You had to leave in a hurry, did you?"
Conan covered his surprise by drinking deeply on the dark, bitter ale, and wiped white froth from hismouth with the back of his hand before he spoke. "How knew you I have been in Sultanapur? And whythink you I left hurriedly?"
"You were seen there these ten days gone," Ferian smirked, "by Zefran the Slaver, who came throughhere on his way back to Khawarism." It was the tavernkeeper's major fault that he liked to let men knowhow much he knew of what they had been about. One day it would gain him a knife between his ribs."As for the rest, I know naught save that you stand there with the dust of hard riding on you, and youwere never the one to travel for pleasure. Now, what can you tell me?"
Conan drank again, pretending to think on what he could tell. The fat man was known to tradeknowledge for knowledge, and Conan had one piece of it he knew was not yet in Aghrapur, unlesssomeone had grown wings to fly it there ahead of him.
"The smuggling is much abated in Sultanapur," the Cimmerian said finally. "The Brotherhood of the Coastis in disarray. They sweat in the shadows, and stir not from their dwellings. 'Twill be months before somuch as a bale of silk passes through that city without the customs paid."
Ferian grunted noncommittally, but his eyes lit. Before the sun next rose, men who would try to fill thevoid in Sultanapur would pay him well.
"And what can you tell me of Aghrapur?"
"Nothing," Ferian replied flatly.
Conan stared. It was not the tapster's way to give less than value. His scrupulousness was part andparcel of his reputation. "Do you doubt the worth of what I've told you?"
"'Tis not that, Cimmerian." The tavernkeeper sounded faintly embarrassed. "Oh, I can tell you what youcan learn for yourself in a day's listening in the street. Yildiz casts his eyes beyond the border, and buildsthe army accordingly. The Cult of Doom gains new members every day. The-"
"The Cult of Doom!" Conan exclaimed. "What in Mitra's name is that?"
Ferian grimaced. "A foolishness, is what it is. They're all over the streets, in their saffron robes, the menwith shaven heads."
"I saw some dressed so," Conan said, "chanting to a tambourine."
"'Twas them. But there's naught to them, despite the name. They preach that all men are doomed, andbuilding up earthly treasures is futile." He snorted and scrubbed at his piggish nose with a fat hand. "Asfor earthly treasure, the cult itself has built up quite a store. All who join give whatever they possess to theCult. Some young sons and daughters of wealthy merchants, and even of nobles, have given quite a bit.Not to mention an army of rich widows. There've been petitions to the throne about it, from relatives andsuch, but the cult pays its taxes on time, which is more than can be said of the temples. And it givesgenerous gifts to the proper officials, though that is not well known." He brightened. "They have acompound, almost a small city, some small distance north, on the coast. Could I find where within theirtreasures are kept... well, you are skillful enough to make your fortune in a single night."
"I'm a thief no more," Conan said. Ferian's face fell. "What else can you tell me of the city?"
The fat man sighed heavily. "These days I know less than the harlots, whose customers sometimes talk intheir sleep. In these three months past, two thirds of those who have given me bits and pieces, servants ofnobles and of those high in the Merchant's Guild, have been murdered. What you have told me is the bestpiece of intelligence I have had in a month. I owe you," he added reluctantly. He was not one to enjoyindebtedness. "The first thing I hear that you might use to advantage, I will place in your hands."
"And I will hear it before anyone else? Let us say two days before?"
"Two days! As well as a year. Knowledge spoils faster than milk under a hot sun."
"Two days," Conan said firmly.
"Two days, then," the other man muttered.
Conan smiled. Breaking his word was not among Ferian's faults. But this matter of the murders, now...."It seems beyond mere chance that so many of your informants should die in so short a time."
"No, friend Conan." To the Cimmerian's surprise, Ferian refilled his mug without asking payment. Thatwas not like him. Perhaps he hoped to pay off his debt in free drink, Conan thought. "Many more havedied than those who had a connection to me. There is a plague of murder on Aghrapur. More killings inthese three months than in the whole year before. Were it not for the sorts who die, I might think someplot was afoot, but who would plot against servants and Palace Guards and the like? 'Tis the hand ofchance playing fickle tricks, no more."
"Conan!" came a shout from the stairs at the rear of the common room. The big Cimmerian lookedaround.
Emilio stood on the bottom step with his arm around a slender girl in gauds of brass and carnelian and along, narrow strip of red silk wound about her in such a way as almost to conceal her breasts and hips.She half supported him as he swayed drunkenly, which was no easy task. He was a big man, as tall asConan, though not so heavily muscled. He was handsome of face, with eyes almost too large for a man.His eyes and his profile, he would tell anyone who would listen, drew women as honey drew flies.
"Greetings, Emilio," Conan called back. "No longer dressing as an old woman, I see." To Ferian headded, "We'll talk later." Taking his mug, he strolled to the staircase.
Emilio sent the girl on her way with a swat across her pert rump, and eyed Conan woozily. "Who toldyou that tale? Ferian, I'll wager. Fat old sack of offal. Not true, I tell you. Not true. I simply left Zamorato seek rich-" he paused to belch "-richer pastures. You're just the man I want to see, Cimmerian."
Conan could sense an offer of cooperation coming. "We no longer follow the same trade, Emilio," hesaid.
Emilio did not seem to hear. He grabbed the arm of a passing serving girl, ogling her generous breasts ashe did. "Wine, girl. You hear?" She nodded and sped off, deftly avoiding his attempted pinch; he totteredand nearly fell. Still staggering, he managed to fall onto a stool at an empty table and gestured drunkenlytoward another. "Sit, Conan. Sit, man. Wine'll be here before you know it."
"Never before have I seen you so drunk," Conan said as he took the stool. "Are you celebrating, ordrowning sorrows?"
The other man's eyes had drifted half shut. "Do you know," he said dreamily, "that a blonde is worth her
weight in rubies here? These Turanian men will kill to have a fair-haired mistress. Does she have blueeyes, they'll kill their mothers for her."
"Have you turned to slaving, then, Emilio? I thought better of you."
Instead of answering, the other man rambled on.
"They have more heat in them than other women. I think it's the hair. Gods put color in a woman's hair,they must have to take some of her heat to do it. Stands to reason. Davinia, now, she's hotter thanforge-fire. That fat general can't take care of her. Too much army business." Emilio's snicker was at oncebesotted and lascivious. Conan decided to let him run out of wind. "So I take care of her. But she wantsthings. I tell her she doesn't need any necklace, beautiful as she is, but she says a sorcerer laid a spell onit for a queen. Centuries gone this happened, she claims. Woman wears it, and she's irresistible. Thirteenrubies, she says, each as big as the first joint of a man's thumb, each set on a moonstone-crusted seashellin gold. Now that's worth stealing." He snickered and leaned toward Conan, leering. "Thought she'd payme for it with her body. Set her straight on that. I already have her body. Hundred gold pieces, I told her.Gold, like her hair. Softest ever I tangled my hand in. Softest skin, too. Buttery and sleek."
The serving girl returned to set a mug and wine-jar on the table, and stood waiting. Conan made no moveto pay. He had no hundred gold pieces coming to him. The girl poked Emilio in the ribs with her fist. Hegrunted, and stared at her blearily.
"One of you pays for the wine," she said, "or I take it back."
"No way to treat a good customer," Emilio muttered, but he rooted in his pouch until he came up with thecoins. When she had gone he stared at the Cimmerian across the table. "Conan! Where did you comefrom? Thought I saw you. It's well you are here. We have a chance to work together again, as we usedto."
"We never worked together," Conan said levelly, "And I thieve no more."
"Nonsense. Now listen you close. North of the city a short distance is an enclosure containing muchwealth. I have a commission to steal a-to steal something from there. Come with me; you could stealenough to keep you for half a year."
"Is this enclosure by any chance the compound of the Cult of Doom?"
Emilio rocked back on his seat. "I thought you were fresh come to the city. Look you, those seven whosupposedly entered the compound and were never seen again were Turanians. These local thieves haveno skill, not like us. They'd last not a day in Shadizar or Arenjun. Besides, I think me they did not go tothe compound at all. They hid, or died, or left the city, and men made up this story. People will do that,to make a place they do not know, or do not like, seem fearful."
Conan said nothing.
Ignoring his mug, Emilio swept up the clay wine-jar, not lowering it until it was nearly drained. He leanedacross the table, pleading in his voice. "I know exactly where the-the treasure is to be found. On the eastside of the compound is a garden containing a single tower, atop which is a room where jewelry andrarities are kept. Those fools go there to look at them. The display is supposed to show them howworthless gold and gems are. You see, I know all about it. I've asked questions, hundreds of them."
"If you've asked so many questions, think you that no one knows what you intend? Give it over, Emilio."
A furcapped Hyrkanian stepped up to the table, the rancid odor of his lank, greased hair overpowering
the smells of the tavern. A scar led from the missing lower lobe of his left ear to the corner of his mouth,pulling that side of his face into a half-smile. From the corner of his eye the Cimmerian saw four morewatching from across the room. He could not swear to it, but he thought he had encountered these fiveearlier in the day.
The Hyrkanian at the table spared only a glance to Conan. His attention was on Emilio. "You are Emiliothe Corinthian," he said gutturally. "I would talk with you."
"Go away," Emilio said without looking at him. "I know no Emilio the Corinthian. Listen to me, Conan. Iwould be willing to give you half what I get for the necklace. Twenty pieces of gold."
Conan almost laughed. Dead drunk Emilio might be, but he still thought to cheat his hoped-for partner.
"I would talk with you," the Hyrkanian said again.
"And I said go away!" Emilio shouted, his face suddenly suffusing with red. Snatching the wine-jar, heleaped to his feet and smashed it across the Hyrkanian's head. With the last dregs of the wine rollingdown his face, the scarred nomad collapsed in a welter of clay fragments.
"Crom!" Conan muttered; a deluge of rank-smelling men in fur caps was descending on them.
Conan pivoted on his buttocks, his foot rising to meet a hurtling nomad in the stomach. With a gagginggasp the man stopped dead, black eyes goggling as he bent double. The Cimmerian's massive fistcrashed against the side of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
Emilio was wallowing on the floor beneath two of the Hyrkanians. Conan seized one by the back of hissheepskin coat and pulled him off of the Corinthian thief. The nomad spun, a dagger in his streaking hand.Surprise crossed his face as his wrist slapped into Conan's hand. The Cimmerian's huge fist traveled nomore than three handspans, but the furcapped nomad's bootheels lifted from the floor, and then hecollapsed beside his fellow.
Conan scanned the room for the fifth Hyrkanian, but could not find the remaining nomad anywhere.Emilio was getting shakily to his feet while examining a bloody gash on his shoulder. Ferian was headingback toward the bar, carrying a heavy bungstarter. Another instant and Conan saw a pair of booted feetstretched out from behind a table. "You get them out of here," Ferian shouted as he reached the bar andthrust the heavy mallet out of sight. "You dirtied my floor, now you clean it. Get them out of here, I say!"
Conan seized one of the unconscious men by the heels. "Come on, Emilio," he said, "unless you want tofight Ferian this time."
The Corinthian merely grunted, but he grabbed another of the nomads. Together they dragged theunconscious men into the street, shadowed with night, now, and left them lying against the front of the rugdealer's shop.
As they laid out the last of the sleeping men-Conan had checked each to make sure he stillbreathed-Emilio stared up at the waxing pearlescent moon and shivered.
"I've an evil feeling about this, Conan," he said. "I wish you would come with me."
"You come with me," Conan replied. "Back inside where we'll drink some more of Ferian's wine, andperhaps try our luck with the girls."
"You go, Conan. I-" Emilio shook his head. "You go." And he staggered off into the night.
"Emilio!" Conan called, but only the wind answered, whispering down shadowed streets. Muttering tohimself, the Cimmerian returned to the tavern.
When Conan came down to the common room of the Blue Bull the next morning, the wench with thebeads in her hair accompanied him, clutching his arm to her breast, firm and round through its thin silkcovering, letting her swaying hip bump into his thigh at every step.
Brushing her lips against his massive shoulder, she looked up at him smokily through her lashes."Tonight?" She bit her lip and added, "For you, half price."
"Perhaps, Zasha," he said, though even at half price his purse would not stand many nights of her. Andthose accursed beads had quickly gotten to be an irritation. "Now be off with you. I've business." Shedanced away with a saucy laugh and a saucier roll of her hips. Mayhap his purse could stand one morenight.
The tavern was almost empty at that early hour. Two men with sailors' queues tried to kill the pain of thepast night's drink with still more drink, while morosely fingering nearly flat purses. A lone strumpet, herworknight done at last and her blue silks damp with sweat, sat in a corner with her eyes closed, rubbingher feet.
At the bar Ferian filled a mug with Khorajan ale before he was asked.
"Has aught of worth come to your ear?" Conan asked as he wrapped one big hand around the leathernjack. He was not hopeful, since the fat tavernkeeper had once more failed to demand payment.
"Last night," the stout man said, concentrating on the rag with which he rubbed the wood of the bar, "itwas revealed that Temba of Kassab, a dealer in gems who stands high in the Merchant's Guild, has beenfeaturing Hammaram Temple Virgins at his orgies, with the result that fourteen former virgins and fivepriestesses have disappeared from the Temple, likely into a slaver's kennels. Temba will no doubt beordered to give a large gift to the Temple. Last night also twenty-odd murders took place, that I haveheard of so far, and probably twice so many that have not reached my ears. Also, the five daughters ofLord Barash were found by their father entertaining the grooms of his stable and have been packed offinto the Cloisters of Vara, as has the Princess Esmira, or so 'tis rumored."
"I said of worth," the Cimmerian cut off. "What care I for the virgins or princesses? Of worth!"
Ferian gave a half-hearted laugh and studied his bit of scrub cloth. "The last is interesting, at least. Esmirais the daughter of Prince Roshmanli, closest to Yildizs ear of the Seventeen Attendants. In a city of slutsshe is said to be a virgin of purest innocence, yet she is being sent away to scrub floors and sleep on ahard mat until a husband can be found." Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the bar and spat. Thespittle landed on the wood, but he seemed not to see it. "Mitra's Mercies, Cimmerian, what expect you?Its been but one night since I told you I know nothing. Am I a sorcerer to conjure knowledge wherethere was none? An you want answers from the skies, ask old Sharak over there. He-" Suddenly his eyelit on the gobule of spit. With a strangled cry he scrubbed at it as if it would contaminate the wood.
Conan looked about for the astrologer he had known in Shadizar. The bent old man, wearing whatseemed to be the same frayed and patched brown tunic he had worn in Shadizar, was lowering himselfcreakily to a stool near the door. His white hair was thinner than ever, and as always he leaned on a longblackwood staff, which he claimed was a staff of power, though no one had ever seen any magicksperformed with it. Wispy mustaches hung below his thin mouth and narrow chin, and he clutched a rat'snest of scrolls in his bony fingers.
Ferian gave the bar one more scrub and eyed it suspiciously. "I like not this owing, Cimmerian," hemuttered.
"I like not being owed." Conan's icy blue eyes peered into the fulvous ale. "After a time I begin to think Iwill not be repaid, and I like that even less."
"I pay my debts," the other protested. "I'm a fair man. 'Tis known from Shahpur to Shadizar. FromKuthchemes to-"
"Then pay me."
"Black Erlik's Throne, man! What you told me may be worth no more than the wind blowing in thestreets!"
Conan spoke as quietly as a knife leaving its scabbard. "Do you call me a liar, Ferian?"
Ferian blinked and swallowed hard. Of a sudden, the Cimmerian seemed to fill his vision. And heremembered with a sickly sinking of his stomach that among the muscular youth's more uncivilized traitswas a deadly touchiness about his word.
"No, Conan," he laughed shakily. "Of a certainty not. You misunderstand. I meant just that I do not knowits value. Nothing more than that."
"An you got no gold for that information last night," Conan laughed scornfully, "I'll become a priest ofAzura."
Ferian scowled, muttered under his breath, and finally said, "Mayhap I have some slight idea of itsworth."
A smile showed the big Cimmerian's strong white teeth. The tavern keeper shifted uncomfortably.
"An you know its worth, Ferian, we can set some other payment than what was first agreed."
"Other payment?" Despite his plump cheeks the innkeeper suddenly wore a look of rat-like suspicion."What other payment?" Conan took a long pull of ale to let him steep. "What other payment,Cimmerian?"
"Lodgings, to begin."
"Lodgings" Ferian gaped like a fish in surprise and relief. "Is that all? Of course. You can have room for...for ten days."
"A fair man," Conan murmured sardonically "Your best room. Not the sty I slept in last night."
The fat man snickered greasily. "Unless I misread me the look on Zasha's face, you did little sleeping." Hecleared his throat heavily at the look on Conan's face. "Very well. The best room."
"And not for ten days. For a month."
"A month!"
"And some small information."
"This is in place of the information!" Ferian howled.
"Information," Conan said firmly. "I'll not ask to be the only one to get it, as we first spoke of, but for thatmonth you must keep me informed, and betimes."
"I have not even agreed to the month!"
"Oh, yes. Food and drink must be included. I have hearty appetites," he laughed. Tipping up his mug, heemptied it down his throat. "I'll have more of that Khorajan."
Ferian clutched at his shiny scalp as if wishing he had hair to pull out by the roots. "Do you want anythingelse? This tavern? My mistress? I have a daughter somewhere-in Zamora, I think. Do you want me tofind her and bring her to your bed?"
"Is she pretty?" Conan asked. He paused as if considering, then shook his head. "No, the lodgings andthe rest will be enough." Ferian sputtered, his beady eyes bulging in his fat face. "Of course," theCimmerian continued, "you could continue in my debt. You do understand I'd just want the right piece ofinformation, do you not? 'Twas good value I gave, and I'll expect the same in return. It would be well ifyou found it quickly." A growl had entered his voice, and his face had slowly darkened. "You know webarbars are not so understanding as you civilized men. Why, if a tenday or two passed with you silent, Imight think you wished to take advantage of me. Such would make me angry. I might even-" His bighands abruptly clutched the bar as if he intended to vault it.
Ferian's mouth worked for a moment before he managed to shout "No!" and seized Conan's hand in his."Done," he cried. "It's done. The moll and the rest. Done!"
"Done," Conan said.
The fat innkeeper stared at him. "A month," he moaned. "My wenches will spend the whole time in yourbed. You keep your hands off them, Cimmerian, or I'll get not a lick of work from the lot of them.You've taken advantage of me. Of my good nature."
"I knew not that you had one, Ferian. Mayhap if you take a physic it will go away."
"Mitra be thanked that most of you Cimmerians like your god-forsaken frozen wastes. Did any more ofyour accursed blueeyed devils come south, you would own the world."
"Be not so sour," Conan said chidingly. "I'll wager you got twenty times so much for what I told you aswhat my staying here will cost."
Ferian grunted. "Just keep your hands off my serving wenches, Cimmerian. Go away. An I to make upwhat you cost me, I cannot stand here all day talking to you. Go talk to Sharak."
The young Cimmerian laughed, scooping up his mug of dark ale. "At least he can tell me what the starssay." When he left the bar, Ferian was still sputtering over that.
The astrologer peered at Conan dimly as he approached the table where the old man sat; then a smilecreased his thin features. The skin of his visage was stretched taut over his skull. "I thought I saw you,Conan, but these eyes .... I am no longer the man I was twenty years ago, or even ten. Sit. I wish that Icould offer you a goblet of wine, but my purse is as flat as was my wife's chest. May the gods guard herbones," he added in the careless way of a man who has said a thing so many times that he no longerhears the words.
"No matter, Sharak. I will buy the wine."
But as Conan turned to signal, one of the wenches bustled to the table and set a steaming bowl of lentil
stew, a chunk of coarse bread and a pannikin of wine before the astrologer. The food set out, she turnedquestioningly toward the muscular youth. Abruptly her dark, tilted eyes went wide with shock, and sheleaped into the air, emitting a strangled squawk. Sharak began to cackle. The wench glared at the agedman then, rubbing one buttock fitfully, darted away.
Sharak's crowing melded into a fit of coughing, which he controlled with difficulty. "It never does," hesaid when he could speak, "to let them start thinking you're too old to be dangerous."
Conan threw back his black-maned head and roared with laughter. "You'll never get old," he managedfinally.
"I'm a dotard," Sharak said, digging a horn spoon into the stew. "Ferian says so, and I begin to think he isright. He gives me a bowl of stew twice a day, else I would eat only what I scavenge in the garbage, asmany must in age. He is almost my only patron, as well. In return for the stew I read his stars. Every dayI read them, and a more boring tale they could not tell."
"But why no patrons? You read the stars as a scribe reads marks on parchment. Never once did you tellme wrong, though your telling was at times none too clear to me."
"'Tis these Turanians," the old man snorted. "Ill was the day I journeyed here. Half the stars they namewrongly, and they make other errors. Important errors. Those fools in this city who call themselvesastrologers had the gall to charge me with unorthodoxy before the Guild. 'Twas no more than luck I didnot end at the stake. The end result is the same, though. Without the Guild's imprimatur, I would bearrested if I opened a shop. The few who deal with me are outlanders, and they come merely because Iwill tell their stars for a mug of wine or a loaf of bread instead of the silver piece the others charge. Did Ihave a silver piece, I would return to Zamora on the instant." With a rueful grunt he returned to spooningthe stew into his mouth.
Conan was silent a moment. Slowly he dug into his pouch and drew out a silver piece, sliding it acrossthe rough boards. "Tell my horoscope, Sharak."
The gaunt old man froze with his spoon half raised to his face. He peered at the coin, blinking then atConan. "Why?"
"I would know what this city holds for me," the young Cimmerian said gruffly. "I hold you better than anyGuildsman of Aghrapur, and so worth at least the footing they demand. Besides," he lied, "my purse isheavy with coin."
Sharak hesitated, then nodded. Without touching the coin, he fumbled through his scrolls with his lefthand, all the while absently licking traces of stew from the fingers of his right. When those scrolls hewanted were spread out atop the table; he produced a wax tablet from beneath his patched tunic. Theside of a stylus scraped the wax smooth. Nose almost touching the parchments, he began to copy arcanesymbols with deft strokes.
"Do you not need to know when I was born, and such?" Conan asked.
"I remember the details of your natal chart," the other replied with his eyes on the parchment, "as if itwere drawn on the insides of my eyelids. A magnificent chart. Unbelievable. Hmm. Mitra's Chariot is inretrograde."
"Magnificent? You have never told me of any magnificence before."
Sighing, Sharak swiveled his head to gaze at the big youth. "Unbelievable, I called it as well, and you
would not believe did I tell you. Then you did not believe anything else I told you, either, and I could doyou no good. Therefore I do not tell you. Now, will you allow me to do what you have paid me for?" Hedid not wait for a reply before turning his eyes back to the scrolls. "Aha. The Bloodstar enters the Houseof the Scorpion this very night. Significant."
Conan shook his head and quaffed deeply on his ale. Was Sharak attempting to inflate his payment?Perhaps the habit of trying to do so was too deeply ingrained to lose.
He busied himself with drinking. The common room was beginning to fill, with queued sailors andhalf-naked trulls for the most part. The wenches were the most interesting, by far. One, short,round-breasted and large-eyed in her girdle of coins and gilded wristlets and torque, made him think ofYasbet. He wished he could be certain she was safe at home. No, in truth he wished her in his bedupstairs, but, failing that, it was best if she were at home, whatever her greeting from Fatima. Could hefind her again, it would of a certainty brighten his days in Aghrapur. Let Emilio talk of his blonde-whatwas her name? Davinia?-as if she were the exotic these Turanians thought her. In his own opinion it waswomen with large eyes who had the fires smoldering within, even when they did not know it themselves.Why-
"I am done," Sharak said.
Conan blinked, pulled from his reverie. "What?" He looked at the wax tablet, now covered withscribbled symbols. "What does it say?"
"It is unclear," the old astrologer replied, tugging at one of his thin mustaches with bony fingers. "Thereare aspects of great opportunity and great danger. See, the Horse and the Lion are in conjunction in theHouse of Dramath, while the Three Virgins are-"
"Sharak, I would not know the House of Dramath from the house of a rugmaker. What does it mean?"
"What does it mean?" Sharak mimicked. "Always 'what does it mean?' No one wants to know the trulyinteresting part, the details of how. . . Oh, very well. First of all: there is a need to go back in order to goforward. To become what you will become, you must become again what you once were."
"That's little help," Conan muttered. "I have been many things."
"But this is most important. This branching here, indicates that if you fail to do so, you will never leaveAghrapur alive. You have already set events in motion."
The air in the tavern seemed suddenly chill. Conan wished the old man had not been right so oftenbefore. "How can I have set events in motion? I've been here barely a day."
"And spoken to no one? Done nothing?"
Conan breathed heavily. "Does it speak of gold?"
"Gold will come into your hands, but it does not seem to be important, and there is danger attached."
"Gold is always important, and there is always danger attached. What of women?"
"Ah, youth," Sharak murmured caustically. "You will soon be entangled with women-two, it seemshere-but there is danger there as well."
"Women are always at least as dangerous as gold," Conan replied, laughing.
"One is dark of hair, and one pale-haired."
The Cimmerian's laughter faded abruptly. Pale haired? Emilio's Davinia? No! That would almost certainlymean aiding Emilio in his theft, and that had been left behind. But he was to 'become what he had been.'He forced the thought away. He was done with thieving. The astrologer's reading must mean somethingelse.
"What more?" he asked harshly.
"'Tis not my fault if you like it not, Conan. I merely read what is writ in the stars."
"What more, I said!"
Sharak sighed heavily. "You cannot blame me if.... There is danger here connected in some fashion to ajourney. This configuration," he pointed to a row of strangely bent symbols scribed in the wax, "indicatesa journey over water, but these over here indicate land. It is unclear."
"'Tis all unclear, an you ask me of it." Conan muttered.
"It becomes less clear. For instance, here the color yellow is indicated as of great importance."
"The gold-"
"-is of small import, no matter your feeling on it. And there is more danger tied to this than to the gold."
The big Cimmerian ground his teeth audibly. "There is danger to breathing, to hear you tell it."
"I can well believe it so, to look at this chart. As to the rest, the number thirteen and the color red are ofsome significance, and are linked. Additionally, this alignment of the Monkey and the Viper indicates theneed of acting quickly and decisively. Hesitate, and the moment will be lost to you. And that will meanyour death."
"What will come, will come, old man," Conan snapped. "I'll not be affrighted by stars, gods or demons."
Sharak scowled, then pushed the silver piece back across the table. "If my reading is so distasteful toyou, I cannot take payment."
The muscular youth's anger dropped to a simmer instantly. "'Tis no blame of yours whether I like thereading you give or no. You take the money, and I'll take your advice."
"I am four score and two-years of age," the astrologer said, suddenly diffident, "and never in all that timehave I had an adventure." He gripped his knobbly staff, leaning against the table. "There is power in this,Cimmerian. I could be of aid."
Conan hid a smile. "I've no doubt of it, Sharak. When I need such help, I will call on you, have no fear.There is one thing you might do for me now. Know you where I might find Emilio at this hour?"
"That cankerous boaster?" Sharak said disdainfully. "He frequents many places of ill repute, each worsethan the last." He reeled off the names of a dozen taverns and as many brothels and gaming halls. "I couldhelp you look for him, if you really think he's needed, though what use he could be I do not know."
"When you finish supping you can search the halls."
"I would rather search the brothels," the old man leered.
"The halls," Conan laughed, getting to his feet. Sharak returned grumbling to his stew.
As he turned toward the door, the Cimmerian's eyes met those of a man just entering, hard black eyes ina hard black face beneath the turban-wrapped spiral helmet of the Turanian army. Of middling height, hemoved with the confidence of a larger man. The striping on his tunic marked him as a sergeant. Ferianhurried, frowning, to meet the dark man. Soldiers were not usually habitues of the Blue Bull.
"I am seeking a man called Emilio the Corinthian," the sergeant said to Ferian.
Conan walked out without waiting for the innkeeper's reply. It had nothing to do with him. He hoped.
Conan entered the seventh tavern with never so much as a wobble of his step, despite the quantity ofwine and ale he had ingested. The large number of wenches lolling about the dim, dank common room,roughed and beringed, their silks casually disarrayed, told him that a brothel occupied the upper floorsof the squat stone building. Among the long tables and narrow trestle-boards crowding the slate floor,sailors rubbed shoulders with journeymen of the guilds. Scattered through the room were others whoselanguid countenances and oiled mustaches named them high-born no less than their silk tunicsembroidered in gold and silver. Their smooth fingers played as free with the strumpets as did the sailors'callused hands.
The Cimmerian elbowed a place at the bar and tossed two coppers on the boards. "Wine," hecommanded.
The barkeeper gave him a rough clay mug, filled to the brim with sour-smelling liquid, and scooped upthe coins. The man was wiry and snakefaced, with heavy-lidded, suspicious eyes and a tight, narrowmouth. He would not be one to answer questions freely. Another drinker called, and the tapster movedoff, wiping his hands on a filthy apron that dangled about his spindly shanks.
Conan took a swallow from his mug and grimaced. The wine was thin, and tasted as sour as it smelled.
As he eyed the common room, a strangely garbed doxy caught his gaze. Sleek and sinuous, she hadclimbed upon a trestle-board to dance for half a dozen sailors who pawed her with raucous shouts,running their hands up her long legs. Her oiled breasts were bare, and for garb she wore but a single stripof silk, no wider than a man's hand, run through a narrow gilded girdle worn low on the roundness of herhips, to fall to her ankles before and behind. The strangeness was that an opaque veil covered her fromjust below her hot, dark eyes to her chin. The sisterhood of the streets might paint their faces heavily, butthey never covered them, for few men would take well to the discovery that their purchase was less fairof visage than they had believed. But not only was this woman veiled, he now saw no less than threeothers so equipped.
Conan caught the tavernkeeper's tunic sleeve as he passed again. "I've never seen veiled strumpetsbefore. Do they cover the marks of the pox?"
"New come to Aghrapur, are you?" the man said, a slight smile touching his thin mouth.
"A short time past. But these women?"
"'Tis rumored," the other smirked, "that some women highly born, bored with husbands whose vigor hasleft them, amuse themselves by disporting as common trulls, wearing veils so those same husbands, whofrequent the brothels as oft as any other men, will not recognize them. As I say, 'tis but a rumor, yet whatman will pass the chance to have a lord's wife beneath him for a silver piece?"
"Not likely," Conan snorted. "There would be murder done when one of those lords discovered that thedoxy he'd bought was his own wife."
"Nay. Nay. The others flock about them, but not the lordlings. What man would risk the shame ofknowing his wife had been bought?"
It was true, Conan saw. Each veiled woman was the center of a knot of sailors or dockworkers ortradesman, but the nobles ignored them, looking the other way rather than acknowledge their existence.
"Try one," the snakefaced man urged. "One silver piece, and you can see for yourself if she movesbeneath you like a noblewoman."
Conan drank deeply, as if considering. Had he been interested in dalliance, it was in his mind that bettervalue would come from an honest strumpet than from a nobly-born woman pretending to be such. Thetapster had none of the fripperies of the panderer about him-he did not sniff a perfumed pomander orwear more jewelry than any three wenches-but no doubt he took some part of what was earned on themats above the common room. He might talk more easily if he thought Conan a potential patron. TheCimmerian lowered his mug.
"It's a thing to think on," he chuckled, eyeing a girl nearby. A true daughter of the mats, this one, in anorange-dyed wig with her face as bare as her wiggling buttocks. "But I seek a friend who was supposedto meet me. I understand he frequents this place betimes."
The tavernkeeper drew back half a step, and his voice cooled noticeably. "Look around you. An he ishere, you will see him. Otherwise...." He shrugged and turned to walk away, but Conan reached acrossthe bar and caught his arm, putting on a smile he hoped was friendly. "I do not see him, but I still mustneeds find him. He is called Emilio the Corinthian. For the man who can tell me where to find him, I couldspare the price of one of these wenches for the night." If Sharak was correct-and he always was-Conanhad to find Emilio, and what word he had thus far garnered was neither copious nor good.
The tapster's face became even more snake-like, but his lidded eyes had flickered at Emilio's name."Few men must pay for the whereabouts of a friend. Mayhap this fellow-Emilio, did you say his nameis?-is no friend of yours. Mayhap he does not wish to meet you. Ashra! Come rid me of this pale-eyedfool!"
"I can prove to you that I know him. He is-"
A massive hand landed on the Cimmerian's broad shoulder, and a guttural voice growled, "Out withyou!"
Conan turned his head enough to look coldly at the wide hand, its knuckles sunken and scarred. His icyazure gaze traveled back along a hairy arm as big around as most men's legs. And up. This Ashra stoodhead and shoulders taller even than Conan himself, and was half again as broad with no bit of fat on him.For all the scarring of his hands, the huge man's broadnosed face was unmarked. Conan thought fewcould reach high enough to strike it.
He attempted to keep his tone reasonable. Fighting seldom brought information. "I seek a man this skinnyone knows, not trouble. Now unhand me and-"
For an answer the big man jerked at Conan's shoulder. Sighing, the Cimmerian let himself be spun, butthe smile on Ashra's face lasted only until Conan's fist hooked into his side with a loud crack of splinteringribs. Shouting drinkers scrambled out of the way of the two massive men. Conan's other fist slammedinto the tall man, and again he felt ribs break beneath his blow.
With a roar Ashra seized the Cimmerian's head in both of his huge hands and lifted Conan clear of thefloor, squeezing as if to crush the skull he held, but a wolfish battle-light shone in Conan's eyes. He forcedhis arms between Ashra's and gripped the other's head in turn, one hand atop it, the other beneath theheavy chin. Slowly he twisted, and slowly the bull neck gave. Panting, Ashra suddenly loosed his hold,yet managed to seize Conan about the chest before he could fall. Hands locked, he strained to snap theCimmerian's spine.
The smile on Conan's face was enough to chill the blood. In the time it took three grains of sand to fall inthe glass, he knew, he could break Ashra's neck, yet a killing would of a certainty gag the tapster'smouth. Abruptly he released his grip. Ashra laughed, thinking he had the victory. Conan raised his handshigh, then smashed them, palms flat, across the other's ears.
Ashra screamed and staggered back, dropping the Cimmerian to clutch at his bleeding ears. Conanbored after him, slamming massive fists to the ribs he had already broken, then a third blow to the hugeman's heart. Ashra's eyes glazed, and his knees bent, but he would not fall. Once more Conan struck.That never-struck nose fountained blood, and Ashra slowly turned, toppling into a table that splinteredbeneath him. Once the prostrate man stirred as if to rise, then was still.
A murmuring crowd gathered around the fallen man. Two mere grabbed his ankles, grunting as theydragged the massive weight away. More than one wench eyed Conan warmly, licking her lips and puttingan extra sway in her walk, among them those with veiled faces. He ignored them and turned back to thebusiness at hand, to the tapster.
The snakefaced innkeeper stood behind the bar wearing an expression almost as stunned as Ashra's. Abung-starter dangled forgotten in his ham.
Conan took the heavy mallet from the slack grip and held it up before the man's eyes, fists touching in themiddle of the thick handle. The muscles of his arms and shoulders knotted and bunched; there was asharp crack, and he let the two pieces fall to the bar.
The tavernkeeper licked his thin lips. He stared at Conan as if at a wonderment. "Never before have Iseen the man Ashra could not break in two with his bare hands," he said slowly. "But then, even hecouldn't have...." His gaze dropped to the broken mallet, and he swallowed hard. "Have you a mind toemployment? The job held by that sack of flesh they're hauling off is open. A silver piece a day, plus aroom, food, drink, and your choice of any wench who has not a customer. My name is Manilik. How areyou called?"
"I am no hauler of tosspots," Conan said flatly. "Now tell me what you know of Emilio."
Manilik hesitated, then gave a strained laugh. "Mayhap you do know him. I'm careful of my tongue, yousee. Talk when you shouldn't, and you're apt to lose your tongue. I don't waggle mine."
"Waggle it now. About Emilio."
"But that is the problem, stranger. Oh, I know of Emilio," he said quickly, as Conan's massive fist knottedatop the bar, "but I know little. And I've not seen him these three days past."
"Three days," Conan muttered despondently. Thus far he had found many who knew Emilio, but nonewho had seen the Corinthian these three days past. "That boasting idiot is likely gazing into a mirror orrolling with that hot-blooded Davinia of his," he growled.
"Davinia?" Manilik sounded startled. "If you know of her, perhaps you truly do know...." He trailed offwith a nervous laugh under Conan's icy eyes.
"What do you know of Davinia, Manilik?"
The innkeeper shivered, so quietly was that question asked. It seemed to him the quiet of the tomb,mayhap of his tomb an he answered not quickly. Words bubbled from him as water from a spring.
"General Mundara Khan's mistress, bar-, ah, stranger, and a dangerous woman for the likes of Emilio,not just for who it is that keeps her, but for her ambition. 'Tis said lemans have bodies, but not names.This Davinia's name is known, though. Not two years gone, she appeared in Aghrapur on the arm of anivory trader from Punt. The trader left, and she remained. In the house of a minor gem merchant. Sincethen she's managed to change her leash from one hand to another with great dexterity. A rug merchant ofmoderate wealth, the third richest ship owner in the city, and now Mundara Khan, a cousin of King Yildizhimself, who would be a prince had his mother not been a concubine."
The flow of talk slowed, then stopped. Greed and fear warred on Manilik's face, and his mouth wastwisted with the pain of giving away what he might, another time, have sold.
Conan laughed disparagingly and lied. "Can you not tell me more than is known on every street corner?Why, I've heard strumpets resting their feet wager on whether the next bed Davinia graces will be that ofYildiz." He searched for a way to erase the doubt that still creased the tavernkeeper's face. "Next," hesaid, "you'll tell me that as she chooses her patrons only to improve herself, she must risk leaving hermaster's bed for her own pleasures." How else to explain Emilio, and this Davinia so clearly a womanintent on rising?
Manilik blinked. "I had no idea so much was so widely known. It being so, there are those who will wantto collect what the Corinthian owes before Mundara Khan has him gelded and flayed. He had betterhave the gold he has bragged of, or he'll not live to suffer the general's mercies."
"He mentioned gold, did he?" Conan prompted.
"Yes, he...." The heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. "Mean you to say it's a lie? Four or five days, heclaimed, and he would have gold dripping from his fingers. An you are a friend of the Corinthian, warnhim clear most particularly of one Narxes, a Zamoran. His patience with Emilio's excuses is gone, and hisway with a knife will leave your friend weeping that he is not dead. Narxes likes well to make examplesfor others who might fail to pay what they owe. Best you tell him to keep quiet about my warning,though. I've no wish for the Zamoran to come after me before Emilio finishes him."
"I will tell him," Conan said drily. Manilik was licking his narrow lips, avarice personified. As soon as hecould, the tavernkeeper would have a messenger off to this Narxes. Whether it was Narxes or Emiliowho survived, Manilik would claim it was his warning that tipped the balance, But Conan did not mean toadd to the Corinthian thief's troubles. "So far an I know, the gold will be his, as he claims."
The innkeeper shrugged. "If you say it, then I believe it, stranger." But his voice carried a total lack ofconviction.
Conan left with a wry smile, but just outside he stopped and leaned against the doorjamb. The loweringsun was a bloody ball on the rooftop, Moments later a slender, dark-haired serving wench darted fromthe inn, pulling a cloak of coarse brown wool about her. He caught the girl's am pulling her aside. Thewench stared up at him, dark eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
"You are the one Manilik is sending to Narxes," he said.
She straightened defiantly-she came no higher than Conan's chest-and glared. "I'll tell you naught. Looseme."
Releasing his grip, he half pushed her toward the street. "Go then. Never before have I seen anyone runto have her throat slit."
The girl hesitated, rubbing her arm and eyeing the passing carts rumbling over the cobblestones. Sailorsand tradesmen thronged between the highwheeled vehicles. A quick dash and she could be lost amongthem. Instead she said, "Why should Narxes wish to harm me? I've never had a copper to wager at histables. The likes of me'd never get past the door."
"You mean you don't know?" Conan said incredulously. "That alters matters."
"Know what? What matters?"
"I heard Manilik say he was sending a girl to Narxes for...." He let his voice trail off, shaking his head."No, it's no use. Better you do not know. You couldn't escape, anyway."
She laughed shakily. "You're trying to frighten me. I am just to tell Narxes that Manilik has word for him.What did you hear?" Conan was silent, frowning as if in thought, until she stepped closer and laid atrembling hand on his arm. "You must tell me! Please?"
"Not that it will do you any good," Conan said, feigning reluctance. "Narxes will find you no matter howfar you run."
"My parents have a farm far from the city. He'd never find me there. Tell me!"
"Narxes had been selling young girls to the Cult of Doom for sacrifices," he lied, and invented somedetail. "You'll be strapped to an altar, and when your throat is cut the blood will be gathered in a chalice,then-"
"No!" She staggered back, one hand to her mouth. Her face had a greenish cast, as if she were about tobe sick. "I've never heard that the Cult of Doom makes such sacrifices. Besides, the use of freeborn forsacrifices is forbidden by law."
"How will anyone ever know, once you're safely dead and your body tossed to the sea?" He shrugged."But if you do not believe me, then seek out Narxes. Perhaps he will explain it to you on your way to thecompound of the Cult."
"What am I to do?" she moaned, taking quick steps first in one direction then another. "I have no money,nothing but what I stand in. How am I to get to my parents' farm?" Sighing, Conan dug a fistful ofcoppers from his pouch. Emilio would repay him, or he would know the reason why. "Here, girl. This willsee you there."
"Thank you. Thank you." Half-sobbing, she snatched the coins from his outstretched hand and ran.
Not even a kiss for gratitude, Conan thought grumpily as he watched her disappear down the teemingstreet. But with luck Manilik would not discover for at least a day that his plans had gone awry. A day tofind Emilio without worrying about finding him dead. The story he had concocted for the girl had soundedeven more convincing than he had hoped. With a satisfied smile he started down the street.
In the dimnesses that foreshadowed dusk he did not notice the shavenheaded man in saffron robes,standing in the mouth of an alley beside the inn he had just left, a man who watched his going withinterest.
Night filled the ivory-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. No dimmest flicker of light showed, forthose of the Cult rose, worked, ate and slept only by command. No coppers were wasted on tapers. Inan inner room, though, where Jhandar met with those who followed him most faithfully, bronze lion lampsillumined walls of alabaster bas-relief and floors mosaicked in a thousand colors.
The forty saffron-robed men who waited beneath the high vaulted ceiling knelt as Jhandar entered, eachtouching a dagger to his forehead. "Blessed be Holy Chaos," they intoned. "Blessed be disorder,confusion, and anarchy."
"Blessed be Holy Chaos," the mage replied perfunctorily. He was, as always, robed as they.
He eyed the lacquered tray of emerald and gold that had been placed on a small tripod table before thewaiting men. His hands moved above the two-score small, stone bottles on the tray, fingers waving likequesting snakes' tongues, as if they could sense the freshness of the blood within those stopperedcontainers.
One of the men shifted. "The kills were all made within the specified hours, Great Lord."
Jhandar acknowledged him only with an irritated flick of an eyelid. Of course those killed had died as hehad commanded, at the hour he had commanded. Those who knelt before him did not know why thedeaths must occur so, nor even why they must collect the blood while their victims' hearts still beat. Theybelieved that they knew a great deal, but what they knew was how to obey. For Jhandar's purposes, thatwas enough.
"Go," the necromancer commanded. "Food and drink await you. Then sleep. Go."
"Blessed be Holy Chaos," they chanted and, rising, filed slowly from the room.
Jhandar waited until the heavy bronze door had clanged shut behind them before speaking again. "CheFan," he said. "Suitai. Attend me."
Two men, tall, lean, and robed in black, appeared as if materializing from air. It would have taken a quickeye to see the turning panel of stone in the wall from behind which they had stepped. But then, even aquick eye would have stared so at the men as to miss everything else. Even in Aghrapur, they wereunusual. Their black eyes seemed to slant, and their skin was the color of parchment left in the sun till ityellowed, yet so smooth that it gave no hint of age. Like as twins they were, though, the man called CheFan was perhaps a fingerbreadth the taller. By birth and training they were assassins, able to kill with nomore than the touch of a hand.
Suitai took the tray, while Che Fan hurried to open a small wooden door, lacquered and polished tomirror brightness. Jhandar swept through, followed by the two men. The passage beyond was narrow,brightly lit by gold lamps dangling from wall sconces, and empty. The shavenheaded mage kept his tamekillers out of sight, for there might be those who would know them for what they were. Even the Chosensaw them but rarely.
The narrow corridor led to a chamber in the center of which was a large circle of bare dirt, with deadsterility. Great fluted columns supported the domed alabaster ceiling, and surrounding the barren earthwere thirteen square pillars truncated at waist height.
As he had done many times before, Suitai began setting out the stone bottles on the hard-packed dirt. Hemade four groups of five, each group forming a cross.
"Great Lord." Che Fan spoke in a hoarse whisper. "We follow as you command, yet our existence is
empty."
Jhandar looked at him in surprise. The two assassins never spoke unless spoken to. "Would you preferto be where I found you?" he asked harshly.
Che Fan recoiled. He and Suitai had been walled up alive within the Khitan fortress where Jhandar hadbeen imprisoned. Accidentally the necromancer had freed them in his own escape, and they had sworn tofollow him. He was not certain they believed he could actually return them to their slow death in Khitai,but they seemed to.
"No, Great Lord," the Khitan said finally. "But we beg, Suitai and I, that we be allowed to use our talentsin your service. Not since...." His voice trailed off. Suitai glanced up from placing the last of the bottles,then studiously avoided looking at either of the other two men again.
Jhandar's face darkened. To speak of the distant past was one thing, to speak of the near past another.He disliked being reminded of failure and ignominy. Effort went into keeping his voice normal, but it stillcame out like the grate of steel on rock. "Fool! Your talents, as you call them, destroy the essence of theman, as you well know. There is naught left for me to summon when you kill. When I need your abilitiesagain, if I need them again, I will command you. Unless you wish to step within the circle and becommanded now?"
Suitai stumbled hurriedly from the patch of dirt. "No, Great Lord," Che Fan replied hastily. "I begforgiveness for my presumption." As one, the two assassins bowed low.
Jhandar left them so for a moment, then spoke. "Rise. In the days ahead there will be labors to sate evenyour desires. Now get you gone until I call again. I have my own labors to perform."
As they bowed their way from his presence, he put them from his awareness. There were more importantmatters which needed all of his attention.
From beneath his robes he produced a piece of black chalk. Atop four of the pillars, equidistantly spacedabout the circle, he marked the ancient Khitan ideograms for the four seasons, chanting as he did in alanguage not even he understood, though he well understood the effect of the words. Next were drawnthe ideograms for the four humors, then the four elements, and all the while he intoned the primordialspells. But one of the short, square pillars remained. He drew the symbol for life, then quickly, over it, thesymbol of death.
A chill rose in the air, till his words came in puffs of white, and his voice took on a hollow aspect, asthough he called from a vast deep. Mist rolled over the circle of earth, blue and flecked with silver, likethe mist above the Pool of the Ultimate, yet pale and transparent. The hairs on Jhandar's arms and legsstirred and rose. He could feel the Power flowing through him, curling around his bones.
In the center of the mist light flashed, argent and azure lightning. In silence the air of the chamberquivered, as to a monstrous clap of thunder, Within the circle every stone jar shattered into numberlessgrains of duet, and the parched dirt drank blood. The tenuous vapors above began to glow.
Never ceasing his incantation, Jhandar sought within himself for the root of the Power that coursed hisveins, seized on it, bent it to his bidding. With every fiber of his being he willed a summoning, hecommanded a summoning, he forced a summoning.
Blood-clotted earth cracked and broke, and a hand reached up from the crack to claw at the surface, ahand withered and twisted, its nails like claws, its skin a mottled moldy gray-green. In anotherblood-soaked place the ground split, and monstrously deformed hands dug upward, outward. Then
another, and another. A slavering panting beat its way up from below the surface. Inexorably drawn byJhandar's chant, they dug their way from the bowels of the earth, stumpy misshapen creatures bearinglittle resemblance to humankind, for all they were the summoned corporeal manifestations of the essencesof murdered men and women. There were no distinctions now between male and female. Neuter all, theywere, with hairless mottled skin stretched tightly over domed skulls whose opalescent eyes had seen thegrave from inside. Their lipless mouths emitted a cacophony of howls and lamentations.
Jhandar stopped his chant, reluctantly felt the Power pour from him like water from a ewer. As thePower went, so did the mist within the circle. The ravening creatures turned to him, seeming to see himfor the first time, their cries rising.
"Be silent!" he shouted, and all sound was gone as if cut off with a knife.
He it was who had summoned; they could not but obey, though some glared at him with hellborn fury.Some few always did.
"Hear you my words. Each of you will return to the house that you served in life." A low moan rose andwas stilled. "There, in incorporeal form, you will watch, and listen. What your former masters andmistresses do not want known, you will tell to me when I summon you again. Nothing else will you dounless I command." That last was necessary, he had learned, though there was little they could do withoutbeing told to.
"I hear," came the muttering moans, "and obey."
"Then by the blood and earth and Power of Chaos by which I summoned you, begone."
With a crack of inrushing air the twisted shapes disappeared.
Jhandar smiled when he left the chamber. Already he knew more of the secrets of Turan than any tenother men. Already, with a whisper in the proper ear of what the owner of that ear would die to keepsecret, he influenced decisions at the highest levels. Nay, he made those decisions. Soon the throne itselfwould bow to his will. He would not demand that his position as true ruler of Turan be made known toall. That he ruled would be enough. First Turan, then perhaps Zamora, and then ....
"Great Lord."
Reverie broken, Jhandar glared at the shavenheaded man who had accosted him in a main corridor ofhis palatial quarters. Lamps of gold and silver, made from melted-down jewelry provided by newmembers of the Cult, cast glittering lights from walls worked in porphyry and amber.
"Why do you disturb me, Zephran?" he demanded. Not even the Chosen were allowed to approach himunbidden.
"Forgive me, Great Lord," Zephran answered, bowing low, "but I had a most distressing encounter in thecity near dusk."
"Distressing encounter? What are you blathering about? I have no time for foolishness."
"It was a barbarian, Great Lord, who spoke of sacrifices within the Cult, of the altar and the use ofblood."
Jhandar clutched his robes in white-knuckled fists. "Hyrkanian? He was Hyrkanian?"
"Nay, Great Lord."
"He must have been."
"Nay, Great Lord. His skin was pale where not bronzed by the sun, and his eyes were most strange, asblue as the sea."
Jhandar sagged against the wall. In Hyrkania, across the Vilayet Sea, he had first founded the Cult, firstcreated and confined a Pool of Chaos. He would have welded the scattered Hyrkanian tribes of fiercehorsemen into a single force that moved at his word. He would have launched such a wave of warriors aswould have washed over Turan and Zamora and all to the West until it came to the sea. He wouldhave....
But the spirit manifestations had not been properly controlled. They had managed to communicate to theliving what occurred within the compound he was building, and the tribesmen had ridden against him,slaughtering his followers. Only by loosing the Power, turning a part of the Hyrkanian steppes into a hell,had he himself managed to escape. They believed in blood vengeance, those Hyrkanians. Deep withinhim was the seed of fear, fear that they would follow him across the sea. Ridiculous, he knew, yet hecould not rid himself of it.
"Great Lord," Zephran said diffidently. "I do not understand why filthy Hyrkanians should concern you.The few I have seen in-"
"You understand nothing," Jhandar snarled. "This barbarian. You killed him?"
Zephran shifted uneasily. "Great Lord, I... I lost him in the night and the crowd among the taverns nearthe harbor."
"Fool! Roust your fellows from their beds! Find that barbarian! He must die! No! Bring him to me. I mustfind out how many others know. Well, what are you waiting for! Go, fool! Go!"
Zephran ran, leaving Jhandar staring at nothing. Not again, the necromancer thought. He would not failagain. He would pull the world down in ruins if need be, but he would not fail.
Conan descended to the common room of the Blue Bull taking each step with care. He did not trulybelieve that his head would crack if he took a misstep, but he saw no reason to take a chance. The nightbefore had turned into a seemingly endless procession of tavern after tavern, of tankard after tankard.And all he had gotten for his trouble was a head like a barrel.
He spotted Sharak, digging eagerly into a bowl of stew, and winced at the old man's enthusiasm. With asigh he dropped onto a bench at the astrologer's table.
"Do you have to be so vigorous about that, Sharak?" the Cimmerian muttered. "It's enough to turn aman's stomach."
"The secret is clean living," Sharak cackled gleefully. "I live properly, so I never have to worry about ahead full of wine fumes. Or seldom, at least. And it brings me luck. Last night, asking about for Emilio, Idiscovered that the strumpets of this city fancy Zamoran astrology. And do you know why?"
"What did you find out about Emilio, Sharak?"
"Because it's foreign. They think anything imported must be better. Of course, some of them want to payin other coin than gold or silver." He cackled again. "I spent the night in the arms of a wench with themost marvelous-"
"Sharak. Emilio?"
The gaunt old man sighed. "If you wanted to boast a bit, I wouldn't stop you. Oh, very well. Not that Idiscovered much. No one has seen him for at least two nights. Three different people, though-two ofthem trolls-told me Emilio claimed he would come into a great deal of gold yesterday. Perhaps someonedid him in for it."
"I'd back Emilio against any man in this city," Conan replied, "with swords, knives or bare hands." Butthere was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was sure now that Emilio was dead, had died while trying tosteal the necklace. And while dead drunk, at that. "I should have gone with him," he muttered.
"Gone where?" Sharak asked. "No matter. More than one was counting on his having this gold. I myselfheard the gamester Narxes make such dire threats against Emilio as to put me off eating." He shoveledmore stew into his mouth. "Then there's Nafar the Panderer, and a Kothian moneylender named Fentras,and even a Turanian soldier, a sergeant, looking for him. As he still lives, he's left Aghrapur, and wiselyso."
"Emilio intended to steal from the compound of the Cult of Doom, Sharak. I think me he tried two nightspast."
"Then he is dead," Sharak sighed. "That place has acquired a bad name among the Brotherhood of theShadows. Some thieves say 'tis doom even to think of stealing from them."
"He meant to steal a necklace of thirteen rubies for a woman with blonde hair. He wanted me to aidhim."
The old astrologer tossed his spoon into the bowl of stew. "Mayhap your chart..." he said slowly. "Theseeyes are old, Conan. 'Tis possible what I saw was merely an effect of your association with Emilio."
"And it's possible men can fly without magic," Conan laughed ruefully. "No, old friend. Never have Iknown you to make a mistake in your star-reading. The meaning was clear. I must enter that compoundand steal the necklace."
Conan's bench creaked as a man suddenly dropped onto it beside him. "And I must go with you," hesaid. Conan looked at him. It was the hard-eyed, black-skinned Turanian army sergeant he had seenasking after Emilio. "I am called Akeba," the sergeant added.
The big Cimmerian let his hand rest lightly on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword. "'Tis a bad habit,listening to other men's conversation," he said with dangerous quietness.
"I care not if you steal every last pin from the cult," Akeba said. His hands rested on the table, and heseemed to take no notice of Conan's sword. "'Twas rumored this Emilio did not fear to enter that place,but I heard you say he is dead. I have need to enter the compound, and need of a man to guard myback, a man who does not fear the cult. If you go there, I will go with you."
Sharak cleared his throat. "Pray tell us why a sergeant of the Turanian army would want to enter thatcompound in secret."
"My daughter, Zorelle." Akeba's face twisted momentarily with pain. "She was taken by thisMitra-accursed cult. Or joined, I know not which. They will not allow me to speak to her, but I haveseen her once, at a distance. She no longer looks as she did before falling into their hands. Her face iscold, and she does not smile. Zorelle wore a smile always. I will bring her out of there."
"Your daughter," Conan snorted. "I must needs go with stealth. The stealth of two men is the tenth part
that of one. Add the need to drag a weeping girl along ...." He snorted again.
"How will you steal so much as a drink of water if I summon my men to arrest you?" Akeba demanded.
Conan's fist tightened on his sword hilt. "You will summon no one from your grave," he growled. Akebareached for his own blade, and the two men began to rise.
"Be not fools!" Sharak said sharply. "You, Akeba, will never see your daughter again if your skull iscloven in this tavern. And Conan, you know the dangers of what you intend. Could not another sword beof use?"
"Not that of a blundering soldier," Conan replied. His eyes were locked with those of the Turanian, blueand black alike as hard as iron. "His feet are made for marching, not the quiet of thieving."
"Three years," Akeba said, "I was a scout against the Ibarri mountain-tribes, yet I still have my life andmy manhood. From the size of you, you look to be quiet as a bull."
"A scout?" the Cimmerian said thoughtfully. The man had some skill at quietness, then. Perhaps Sharakhad a point. It was all too possible that he could use another blade. Besides, killing a soldier would makeit near impossible for him to remain in Aghrapur.
Conan lowered himself slowly back to the bench, and Akeba followed. For a moment their eyesremained locked; then, as at a signal, each loosed his grip on his sword.
"Now that is settled," Sharak said, "there is the matter of oaths to bind us all together in this enterprise."
"Us?" Akeba said with a questioning look.
Conan shook his head. "I still do not know if this soldier is coming with me or not, but I do know thatyou are not. Find yourself a wench who wants her stars read. I can recommend one here, if you mind nota head full of beads."
"Who will watch your horses," Sharak asked simply, "while you two heroes are being heroic inside thecompound? Besides, Conan, I told you I've never had an adventure. At my age, this may be my lastchance. And I do have this." He brandished his walking staff. "It could be useful."
Akeba frowned. "It's a stick." He looked at Conan.
"The thing has magical powers," the Cimmerian said, and dropped his eyelid.
After a moment the dark man smiled faintly.
"As you say." His face grew serious. "As to the compound, I would have this thing done quickly."
"Tonight," Conan said. "I, too, want it done."
"The oaths," Sharak chimed in. "Let us not forget the oaths."
The three men put their heads together.
Leaving Sharak beneath a tree to mind the horses, Conan and Akeba set out through the night in acrouching run for the alabaster-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. Within those walls ivory towersthrust into the night, and golden-finialed purple domes were one with the dark amethystine sky. Scudding
clouds cast shifting moon-lit shadows, and the two men were but two shades in the night. A thousandpaces distant, the Vilayet Sea beat itself to white froth against the rocky shore.
At the base of the wall they quickly unlimbered the coiled ropes they carried across their shoulders. Twingrapnels, well padded with cloth, hurtled into the air, caught atop the wall with muffled clatters.
Massive arms and shoulders drew Conan upward with the agility of a great ape. At the top of the wall hepaused, feeling along that hard, smooth surface. Akeba scrambled up beside him and, without pausing tocheck the top of the wall, clambered over. Conan's dismay that the other had done so-it was the error ofa greenling thief-was tempered by the fact that there were no shards of pottery and broken stone set inthe wall to rip the flesh of the unwary.
Conan pulled himself over the wall and, holding his grapnel well out to one side, let himself fall. He tookthe shock of the drop by tucking a shoulder under and rolling, coming to his feet smoothly. He was in alandscaped garden, exotic shrubs and trees seemingly given life by the moving shadows. Akeba washastily coiling his rope.
"Remember," Conan said, "we meet at the base of the tallest tower in the compound."
"I remember," Akeba muttered.
There had been more than a little discussion over which man's task was to be carried out first. Akebafeared that, in stealing the necklace, Conan might rouse guards, while Conan was sure the sergeant'sdaughter could not be rescued without raising an alarm. The women's quarters were certain to beguarded, while Emilio had intimated that the necklace was unguarded. It had been Sharak who effected acompromise: Conan would go after the necklace while Akeba located the women's quarters. Then theywould meet and together solve the problem of getting Zorelle out. Agreement had been more reluctant onAkeba's part than on Conan's. The Cimmerian was not certain he needed a companion on this venture,for all Sharak's urging.
With a last doubtful glance at the Turanian, Conan hurried away, his pantherine stride carrying him swiftlythrough the night. He remember well Emilios description of the necklace's location. The topmostChamber of the lone tower in a garden on the east side of the compound. They had entered over the eastwall, and looming out of the night ahead was a tower, square and tall. He slowed to a walk, approachingit with silent care. A short distance away he stopped. There was enough light from the moon, barely, withwhich to see.
Of smooth greenstone, surrounded by a walk of dark tiles some seven or eight paces in width, the towerhad no openings save an arch at ground level and a balcony around its top. The onion-dome roofglittered beneath the moon as if set with gems.
It was the lack of guards that worried the Cimmerian. True, the avowed purpose of the tower room wasto teach the Cult's disciples the worthlessness of wealth, but nothing in Conan's near twenty years led himto believe than any sane man would leave wealth unwatched and unprotected by iron bars and locks.
The tower walls were polished, offering no crevices for fingers or toes, not even those of one familiarwith the sheer cliffs of Cimmeria. He looked down. The tiles of the walk were scribed in an unusualpattern of tiny crosshatches. Any one of them could be the trigger to a trap, letting onto pits filled withKothian vipers or the deadly spiders of the Turanian steppes.
He had seen such before. Yet the place for that sort of device was before the archway. There amarble-laid path led toward the tower, stopping at the edge of the tiles. Kneeling, he examined the joiningand smiled. The marble slab stood two fingerwidths higher than the tiles, and its lip was shiny, as if
something were often rubbed against it. And from that low angle he could see two lines of wear, spacedat the width of the marble, stretching toward the tower arch. Here was located the trap-it did not matterwhat it was-and something was laid atop these tiles to make a way for the members of the cult to enterthe tower. So much, he thought, for the worthlessness of wealth.
Cocking an ear for sounds elsewhere in the compound, he strode down the marble walk away from thetower, counting his steps. Silence. At least Akeba had raised no alarm as yet. At forty paces he turnedaround. The tower he could see dimly, but the arch that would be his target was no more than a smudgeat its base. Hastily he refastened his sword belt around his chest and over one shoulder, so the nubbyleather sheath hung down his back. It would not do to have the blade tangle in his feet at the wrong time.
With a deep breath he began to run, legs driving, broad chest heaving like a bellows in the effort forspeed and more speed. The width of tiles was clear, then the archway. Almost on the instant he felt theedge of the marble beneath his boot and sprang, flying through the night air. With a thump his toes landedjust inside the arch. He tottered on the edge of toppling back, fingers scrabbling for the rim of thearchway. For an infinite moment he hung poised to drop into the trap. Then, slowly, he drew himself intothe tower.
Laughing softly, he drew his sword and moved deeper inside. Try to keep a Cimmerian out, he thought.
On the ground level of the tower were several rooms, but the doors to all of them were locked. Still,what he wanted was above, and a spiraling stone stair led up from a central antechamber. Swordquesting ahead, he climbed careful step by careful step. The first trap did not mean there were not others.Without incident, though, he came to the top of the stair and to the chamber atop the tower.
Hammered silver on the domed roof reflected and magnified the moonlight, turning it into palely usefulillumination that filtered into the chamber. Half-a-dozen archways, worked in delicate filigree, let onto thenarrow-railed balcony. Open cabinets, lacquered over gilded scrollwork, stood scattered about themosaicked floor, displaying priceless jewels on velvet cushions. A crown of rubies and pearls, fit for anyking. A single emerald as big as a man's fist. A score of fingerlong matched sapphires, carved in eroticfigures. More and more till the eyes of a mendicant priest oath-sworn to poverty would have lit withgreed.
And there was the necklace, with its thirteen flawless rubies glowing darkly in the silvery light. Conanappraised it with a practiced eye before slipping it into his pouch. Perhaps it would make the woman whowore it irresistible to men, but then, most women seemed to believe gems of great-enough cost would dothat, magic or no. This Davinia would get a bargain for her hundred gold pieces, in any case. His gaze ranaround the room once more. Here was treasure worth ten thousand gold pieces. Ten times ten thousand.Ferian had been right; he could carry enough from this place to make him a rich man.
With difficulty but no regret, he put the thought firmly aside. He had turned from thieving, and what he didthis night made no difference in that. But if he looted this chamber of all he could carry, he knew it wouldnot be so easy to leave that life again. And he did not doubt that whatever gold he got for these thingswould last no longer than the gold he had received for other thefts. Such coin never stayed long.
"I hoped you would not come."
Conan spun, sword raised, then lowered it with a grin. "Emilio! I thought you were dead, man. You canhave this Mitra-accursed necklace, and be welcome to it."
The tall Corinthian came the rest of the way up the stairs into the towertop chamber. He had sword anddagger in hand. "'Tis a fit punishment, do you not think, guarding forever that which I intended to steal?"
Hair stirred on the back of Conan's neck. "You are ensorceled?"
"I am dead," Emilio replied, and lunged.
Conan dodged aside, and the other's blade passed him to shatter the treasure-laden shelves of a cabinet.Snake-like, Emilio whirled after him, but he circled to keep cabinets between them.
"What foolishness is this you speak?" he demanded. "I see a man before me, not a shade."
Emilio's laugh was hollow. "I was commanded to kill all who came to this tower in the night, but naughtwas said against speaking." He continued to move in slow deadliness; Conan moved the other way,keeping a lacquered cabinet between them. "I was taken in this very chamber, with the necklace in myhand. So near did I come. For my pains a hollow poniard was thrust into my chest. I watched my heart'sblood pump into a bowl, Cimmerian."
"Crom," Conan muttered, tightening his grip on his sword. To kill a friend was ill, even one spell-caughtand commanded to slay, yet to kill was better than to die at that friend's hands.
"Jhandar, whom they call Great Lord, took life from me," Emilio continued, neither speeding nor slowinghis advance. "Having taken it, he forced some part of it back into this body that once was mine." His facetwisted quizzically. "And this creature that once was Emilio the Corinthian must obey. It must... obey"
Abruptly Emilio's foot lashed out against the lacquered cabinet. In a crash of snapping wood it toppledtoward the young Cimmerian. Conan leaped back, and Emilio charged, boots splintering delicateworkmanship, carelessly scattering priceless gems.
Conan's blade flashed upward, striking sparks from the other's descending steel. Dagger darting to slidebeneath Conan's ribs, the Corinthian's wrist slapped into his hand and was seized in an iron grip. Lockedchest to chest they staggered out onto the balcony. Conan's knee rose, smashing into Emilio's crotch, butthe reanimated corpse merely grunted. Risking freeing the Corinthian's sword, Conan struck with his hiltinto Emilio's face. Now the other man fell back. Conan's blade slashed the front of his old friend's tunic,and Emilio leaped back again. Abruptly the backs of his legs struck the railing, and for an instant he hungthere, arms waving desperately for balance. And then he was gone, without a cry. A sickening thud camefrom below.
Swallowing hard, Conan stepped to the rail and looked toward a ground that seemed all flitting shadows.He could make out no detail, but that Emilio had lived through the fall-if, indeed, he had lived before hefell-was beyond his belief. It was ill to kill a friend, no matter the need. There would be no luck in it.
Resheathing his sword, he hurried down the stairs. At the archway he stopped. Emilio's body laysprawled just outside, and its fall had triggered the trap. From the archway to the marble path, thin metalspikes the length of a man's forearm had thrust up through the tiles. Four of them transfixed theCorinthian.
"Take a pull on the Hellhorn for me," Conan muttered.
But there was still Akeba to meet, and no time for mourning. Quickly he picked his way between thespikes and set out at a dead run for the landmark they had chosen, the tallest tower in the compound, itshigh golden dome well visible even by moonlight.
Abruptly a woman's scream pierced the night, and was cut off just as suddenly. With an oath Conandrew his sword and redoubled his speed. That cry had come from the direction of the gold-toppedtower.
Deep in the compound a gong sounded its brazen alarm, then a second and a third. Distant shouts rose,and torches flared to life.
Conan dashed into the shadows at the base of the tower, and stopped to stare in amazement. Akebawas there, holding a slender sable-skinned beauty in saffron robes, one arm pinning her arms, his freehand covering her mouth. Large dark eyes glared fiercely at him from above the soldier's forgers.
"This is your daughter?" Conan asked, and Akeba nodded, an excited smile splitting his face.
"Zorelle. I could not believe my luck. She was fetching water to the women's quarters. No one saw me."
The shouts had grown louder, and the torches now seemed to rival the stars in number.
"That does not seem to matter, at the moment," Conan said drily. "It will be no easy task to removeourselves from this place, much less a girl who doesn't seem to want to go."
"I am taking her out of here," the Turanian replied, his voice hard.
"I did not suggest otherwise." He would not leave any woman to the mercies of Emilio's destroyer. "Butwe must... hsst!" He motioned for silence.
An atavistic instinct rooted deep inside the Cimmerian shouted that he was being watched by inimicaleyes, eyes that drew closer by the moment. But his own gaze saw nothing but deceptively shiftingshadows. No. One shadow resolved itself into a man in black robes. Even after Conan was certain,though, he found it difficult to keep his eyes on that dim figure. There was something about it that seemedto prevent the eye from focusing on it. The hairs on his neck rose. There was sorcery of a kind here,sorcery most foul and unnatural throughout this place.
"Mitra!" Akeba swore suddenly, jerking his hand from his daughter's mouth. "She bit me!"
Twisting in his loosened grasp, she raked at his face with her nails. At the distinct disadvantage ofstruggling with his own daughter, he attempted to keep his grip on her while avoiding being blinded.Under the circumstances it was an unequal fight. In an instant she was free and running. And screaming.
"Help! Outsiders! They are trying to take me! Help!"
"Zorelle!" Akeba shouted, and ran after her.
"Zandru's Hells!" Conan shouted, and followed.
Of a sudden the blackrobed man was before the girl. Gasping, she recoiled.
The strange figure's hand reached out, perhaps to brush against her face. Her words stopped on theinstant, and she dropped as if her bones had melted.
"Zorelle!" The scream from Akeba held all the anguish that could be wrung from a man's throat.
Primitive instinct, primed now, reared again in Conan. Diving, he caught Akeba about the waist andpulled him to the ground. The air hummed as if a thousand hornets had been loosed. Arrows slicedthrough the space where they had stood, toward the man in black. And before Conan's astounded gazethe man, hands darting like lightning, knocked two shafts aside, seized two more from the air, thenseemed to slide between the rest and disappear.
Close behind their arrows came half-a-score Hyrkanians, waving short horn bows and curved yataghansas they ran. Two veered toward Conan and Akeba, but another shouted gutturally, "No! Leave them!
'Tis Baalsham we want!" The squat Hyrkanians ran on into the night.
Shaking his head, Conan got slowly to his feet. He had no notion what was happening, and was, in fact,not sure that he wanted to know. Best he got on about his business and left the rest to those alreadyinvolved. Screams had been added to the shouts in the distance, and the pounding of hundreds ofpanic-stricken feet. Fire stained the sky as a building exploded in flame.
Akeba crawled on hands and knees to his daughter. Cradling her in his arms, he rocked back and forth,tears streaming down his flat cheeks. "She is dead, Cimmerian," he whispered. "He but touched her, yetshe ...."
"Bring your daughter," Conan told him, "and let us go. We have no part in what else happens here thisnight."
The Turanian lowered Zorelle carefully, drew his tulwar and examined the blade. "I have blood toavenge, a man to kill." His voice was quiet, but hard.
"Revenge takes a cool head and a cold heart," Conan replied. "Yours are both filled with heat. Remain,and you will die, and likely never see the man who killed her."
Akeba twisted to face the Cimmerian, his black eyes coals in a furnace. "I want blood, barbar," he saidhoarsely. "If need be, I will begin with yours."
"Will you leave Zorelle for the worms and the ravens, then?"
Akeba squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a long, hissing breath. Slowly he returned his blade to itssheath and, stooping, gathered his daughter in his arms. When he straightened his face and voice werewithout expression. "Let us be gone from this accursed place, Cimmerian."
A score of saffron-robed men and women appeared out of the dark and fled past as if terror driven.None glanced at the two men, one holding a girl's body in his arms.
Twice more as they headed for the wall they saw clusters of cult members, running mindlessly. Behindthem the shouts and screams had become a solid wave of sound. Two fires now licked at the sky.
They ran into the bushes near where they had crossed the wall, and, like a covey of quail, cult membersburst from hiding. Some fled shrieking; others tried to dash past the two men, almost trampling them.
Conan cuffed a pair of shavenheaded men aside and shouted, "Go Akeba! Take her on!" He knockedanother man sprawling, seized a woman to toss her aside... and stopped. It was Yasbet.
"You!" she shouted.
Without pausing, Conan threw her over his shoulder and scrambled on, scattering the few who remainedto try to hinder him. Yasbet's feet fluttered in futile kicking, and her small fists pounded at his broadback.
"Let me down!" she screamed. "You have no right! Loose me!" They reached the wall; he let her down.She stared at him with the haughtiness of a dowager queen. "I will forget this if you go now. And for thekindness you did me earlier, I'll not tell-" She broke off with a shriek as he bent to cut a strip from herrobe with his dagger. In a trice her hands were bound behind her, and before she could more than beginanother protest he added a gag and a hobble between her ankles.
Akeba had taken care of the grapnels. Two ropes dangled from the top of the wall. "Who is she?" he
asked, jerking his head toward Yasbet.
"Another wench who should not be left to this cult," Conan replied. "Climb up. I'll attend to your daughterso you can draw her after you."
The Turanian hesitated, then said, "The live girl first. There may not be time for both." Without waiting fora reply he scrambled up one of the ropes.
Despite her struggles, Conan fastened the end of the rope about Yasbet beneath her arms. In momentsher muffled squeals were rising into the air. Hurriedly he did the same to Zorelle's body with the otherrope. As he was pulled up, he waited, watching and listening for Hyrkanians, for cult members, foralmost anything, considering the madness of the night. He listened and waited. And waited. Akeba had toclimb down on the outside, he knew, and free one of the girls before he could return atop the wall andlower a rope to Conan, but it seemed to be taking a very long time.
The rope end slapped the wall in front of his face, and he could not stop a sigh of relief. At the top of thewall he found himself face to face with Akeba. "For a time there," he said, "I almost thought you'd leftme."
"For a time," Akeba replied flatly, "on the ground outside with my daughter, I almost did."
Conan nodded, and said only, "Let us go while we can."
Dropping to the ground they picked up the women-Conan Yasbet and Akeba Zorelle-and ran forSharak and the horses. The cacophony of conflict still rose within the compound behind them.
The red glare of fire in the night glinted on Jhandar's face as he turned from the window. The shouts ofinitiates carrying water to fight the blazes rang through the compound, but one building, at least, was toofar gone in flame to be saved.
"Well?" he demanded.
Che Fan and Suitai exchanged glances before the first-named spoke. "They were Hyrkanians, GreatLord."
The three men stood in the antechamber to Jhandar's apartments. The austerity of decoration that thenecromancer invoked for his garb was continued here. Low, unadorned couches dotted the floor thatwas, if marble, at least plain and bare of rugs, as the walls were bare of tapestries and hangings.
"I know they were Hyrkanians!" Jhandar snarled. "I could hear them shouting, 'Death to Baalsham!'Never did I think to hear that name again."
"No, Great Lord."
"How many were there?"
"Two score, Great Lord. Perhaps three."
"Three score," Jhandar whispered. "And how many yet live?"
"No more than a handful, Great Lord," Che Fan replied. "Well over a score perished."
"Then perhaps a score still live to haunt me," Jhandar said pensively. "They must be found. There will be
work for the two of you, then, you may be sure."
"Great Lord," Suitai said, "there were others in the compound tonight. Not Hyrkanians. One wore thehelmet of a Turanian soldier. The other was a tall man, pale of skin."
"A barbarian?" Jhandar asked sharply. "With blue eyes?"
"Blue eyes?" Suitai asked incredulously, then recovered himself. "It was dark, Great Lord, and with thefighting I could not draw near enough to see. But they robbed the Tower of Contemplation, taking thenecklace of thirteen rubies and slaying the thief you set there as guard." He hesitated. "And they killedone of the initiates, Great Lord. The girl Zorelle."
The necromancer made a dismissive gesture. He had marked the girl for his bed, in time, but her life ordeath was unimportant. But the necklace, now. The thief had come for that same bit of jewelry. Therehad to be a link there.
"Wait here," he snarled.
Carefully shutting doors behind him, he made his way to the columnlined outer hall, where waited half ascore of the Chosen, Zephran among them. They thought they stood as his bodyguard, though either ofthe Khitan assassins could have killed all ten without effort. They bowed as he appeared. He motioned toZephran, who approached, bowing again.
"Go to the Tower of Contemplation," Jhandar commanded. "There you will find the body of the one I setto guard that place. Bring the body to the Chamber of Summoning."
"At once, Great Lord." But Zephran did not move. He wished to ingratiate himself with the Great LordJhandar. "It was the Hyrkanians, Great Lord. Those I spoke to you about, I have no doubt."
Jhandar's cheek twitched, but otherwise his face was expressionless. "You knew there were Hyrkaniansin Aghrapur?" he said quietly.
"Yes, Great Lord." Sweat broke out on Zephran's forehead. Suddenly he was no longer certain it hadbeen a good idea to speak. "Those... those I spoke to you of. Surely you remember, Great Lord?"
"Bring the body," Jhandar replied.
Zephran bowed low. When he straightened the necromancer was gone.
In his antechamber Jhandar massaged his temples as he paced, momentarily ignoring the Khitans. Thefool had known of the Hyrkanians and yet said nothing! Of course, he had set no watch for them, warnednone of the Chosen to report their appearance. To guard against them was to expect them to come, anddid he expect them to come, then they would. It was the way of such things. The proof was in himself.He had not been able to destroy his own belief that they would appear. And they had come.
Carefully Jhandar gathered the powders and implements he would need. Dawn was but a few hoursdistant, now, and in the light of the sun he had few abilities beyond those of other mortals. He could notcall on the Power at all while the sun shone. He could not summon the spirit manifestations then, thoughcommands previously given still held, of course. Perhaps he should summon them now, set them to findthe Hyrkanians. No. What he intended would sap much of his strength, could it be done at all. He wasnot certain he would be physically able to perform both rituals, and what he intended was moreimportant. He knew something of the Hyrkanians, nothing of the tall barbarian. The unknown threat wasalways more dangerous than the known.
He motioned the Khitans to follow. A sliding stone panel in the wall let into a secret passage, dim andnarrow, that led down to the chamber containing the circle of barren earth. The Chamber of Summoning.
Quickly the corpse was brought to him there, as if Zephran thought to mitigate his transgressions withhaste, and arranged by the Khitans under Jhandar's direction, spreadeagled in the center of the circle. Ata word the Chosen withdrew, while the mage studied on what he was about. He had never done the likebefore, and he knew no rituals to guide him. There was no blood to manifest the spirit of the man; therehad been no blood in that body since its first death. After that there had been a tenuous connectionbetween that spirit and the body, a connection enforced by his magic, but the second death, at the tower,had severed even that. Still, what he intended must be attempted.
While the Khitans watched Jhandar chose three pillars, spaced equidistantly around the circle. On thefirst he chalked the ideogram for death, and over it that for life. On the second, the ideogram for infinitycovered that of nullity. And on the last, order covered chaos.
Spreading his arms, he began to chant, words with meanings lost in the mists of time ringing from thewalls. Almost immediately he could feel the surge of Power, and the near uncontrollability of it. Hischoice of symbols formed a dissonance, and if inchoate Power could know fury, then there was fury inthe Power that flowed through Jhandar's bones.
Silver-flecked blue mist coalesced within the circle, roiling, swirling away from the posts he had marked.He willed it not to be so, and felt the resistance ripping at his marrow. Agony most torturous andexquisite. It would be as he willed. It would be. Through a red haze of pain he chanted.
Slowly the mists shifted toward, rather than away from, those three truncated pillars, touching them, thenrushing toward them. Suddenly there was a snap, as from a spark leaping from a fingertip on a coldmorning, but ten thousand times louder, and bars of silver-blue light, as bright as the sun, linked the posts.Chaos, forced into a triangle, the perfect shape, three sides, three points-three, the perfect number ofpower. Perfect order forced on ultimate disorder. Anathema, and anathema redoubled. And from thatanathema, from that perversion of Chaos, welled such Power that Jhandar felt at any moment he wouldrise and float in the air. Sweat rolled down his body, plastering his saffron robes to his back and chest.
"You who called yourself Emilio the Corinthian," Jhandar intoned. "I summon you back to this clay thatwas you. By the powers of Chaos enchained, and the powers of three, I summon you. I summon you. Isummon you."
The triangle of light flared, and within the circle the head of Emilio's corpse rolled to one side. The mouthworked raggedly. "Noooo!" it moaned.
Jhandar smiled. "Speak, I command you! Speak, and speak true! You came to steal a necklace ofrubies?"
"Yes." The word was a pain-filled hiss.
"Why?"
"For... Da-vin-ia."
"For a woman? Who is she?"
"Mistress... of... Mun-da-ra... Khan."
The mage frowned. He had tried for some time to 'obtain' one of General Mundara Khan's servants, sofar without success. The man stood but a short distance from the throne. Could he be taking an interest in
Jhandar, as the necromancer took in him? Impossible.
"Do you know a tall barbarian?" he demanded. "A man with pile skin and blue eyes who would also tryto steal that necklace."
"Co-nan," came the moaned reply. The head of the corpse twitched and moved.
Jhandar felt excitement rising in him. "Where can I find this Conan?"
"Noooo!" The head rolled again, and one arm jerked.
"Speak, I command!" The triangle of chaotic light grew brighter, but no sound came from the body.
"Speak!" Brighter.
"Speak!" Brighter.
"Speak! I command you to speak!" Brighter, and brighter still.
"I... am... a maaan!"
As the wail came, the light suddenly flared, crackling like lightning and wildfire together. Jhandarstaggered back, hands thrown up to shield his eyes. Then the light was gone, and the Power, and thebody. Only a wisp of oily black smoke drifting toward the ceiling remained.
"Freeee...." The lone, thin word dissipated with the smoke, and naught remained of Emilio theCorinthian.
Weariness rolled into Jhandar's bones as the Power left. Despite himself, he sagged and nearly fell. Therewould be no summoning of spirit manifestations this night. That meant a full day must pass before hecould send those incorporeal minions searching for the Hyrkanians, and for the barbarian. Conan. Astrange name. But there was the woman, Davinia. There could be use in her, both for finding thebarbarian and beyond. General Mundara Khan's mistress.
With a tired hand he motioned the Khitans to help him to his chambers.
The palace of Mundara Khan was of gray marble and granite, relieved by ornate gardens from whichrose towers of ivory and porphyry, while alabaster domes whitely threw back the sun. The guards whostood before its gates with drawn tulwars were more ceremonial than otherwise, for an attack on theresidence of the great General Mundara Khan was as unlikely as one on the Royal Palace of King Yildiz.But the guards were numerous enough to cause trouble, especially if a handsome young man shouldannounce that he had come to see the general's mistress.
Conan had no intention of entering by a guarded gate, though. Finding a tall, spreading tree near thegarden wall, well out of the guards' sight, he pulled himself up into its thick branches. One, as thick as hisleg, ran straight toward the garden, but it was cut cleanly, a bit higher than the wall but well short of it.The top of this wall was indeed set with razor shards of obsidian. Within the garden, slate walks andpaths of red brick wound through the landscaping, and in the garden's center was a small roundoutbuilding of citron marble, cupolaed and columned, gossamer hangings stirring in the breeze at itswindows and archways.
Arms held out to either side for balance, he ran along the limb, leaped, and dropped lightly inside the
garden.
Moving carefully, eyes watchful for guards or servants, he hurried to the yellow structure. It was of twostories, the ground level walled about entirely with gauze-hung archways. Within those arches, the glazedwhite tiles of the floor were covered with silken pillows and rare Azerjani rugs. Face down on a couch inthe center of the room lay a woman, her pale, generous curves completely bare save for the long goldenhair that spilled across her shoulders. Above her a wheel of white ostrich plumes revolved near theceiling, a strap of leather disappearing through a hole above.
Conan swore to himself. A servant must be occupying the floor above, to turn the crank that in turnrotated the plumes. Still, he would not turn back. His calloused hand moved aside delicate hangings, andhe entered.
For a time he stood enjoying his view of her, a woman of satiny rounded places. "Be not alarmed,Davinia," he said at last.
With a yelp of surprise the blonde rolled from the couch, long legs flashing, and snatched up a length ofpale blue silk that she clutched across her breasts. The nearly transparent silk covered her ineffectually tothe ankles.
"Who are you?" she demanded furiously. High cheekbones gave her face a vulpine cast.
"I am called Conan. I come in the place of Emilio the Corinthian."
Fury fading into consternation, she wet her full lips hesitantly. "I know no one of that name. If you comefrom Mundara Khan, tell him his suspicions are-"
"Then you do not know this, either," Conan said, fishing the ruby necklace from his pouch and danglingits goldmounted length from his fingertips. He chuckled to watch her face change again, deep blue eyeswidening in shock, mouth working wordlessly.
"How...," she fumbled. "Where...." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Where is Emilio?"
"Dead," he said harshly.
She seemed neither surprised nor dismayed. "Did you kill him?"
"No," he replied with only partial untruth. Emilio's true death had come before their meeting in the tower."But he is dead, and I have brought you the necklace you want."
"And what do you wish in return?" Her voice was suddenly warm honey, and her arm holding the strip ofblue had lowered until pink nipples peered at him, seeming nestled in the silk. He did not think it anaccident.
Smiling inside, Conan replied, "Emilio spoke of one hundred pieces of gold."
"Gold." Her tinkling laughter dismissed gold as trivial. Rounded hips swaying, she moved closer. Then,suddenly, she was pressed tightly against his chest. In some fashion the silk had disappeared. "There aremany things of more interest to a man like you than gold," she breathed, snaking an arm around his neck."Of much more interest."
"What of he who turns the fan?" he asked.
"He has no tongue to tell what he hears," she murmured. "And no one will enter without being
commanded, except Renda, my tirewoman, who is faithful to me."
"Mundara Khan?"
"Is far from the city for two nights. Can you only ask questions, barbarian?"
She tried to pull his head down for a kiss, but he lifted her, kissing her instead of being kissed. When shemoaned softly deep in her throat, he let her drop.
"What," she began as her heels thudded to the floor, but he spun her about, and his hard palm flattenedher buttocks. With a shrill squeal she tumbled head over heels among the cushions, long, bare legswindmilling in the air.
"The gold first, Davinia," he laughed.
Struggling to her knees, she threw a cushion at his head. "Gold?" she spat. "I'll summon the guards and-"
"-And never see the necklace again," he finished for her. She frowned fretfully. "Either I will escape,taking it with me, or the guards will take me, and the necklace, to Mundara Khan. He will be interestedto find his leman is receiving jewelry from such as me. You did say he was suspicious, did you not?"
"Erlik blast your eyes!" Her eyes were blue fire, but he met them coolly.
"The gold, Davinia."
She glared at him a time longer, then, muttering to herself, crawled over the cushions. Carefully keepingher back to him she lifted a tile set in the floor and rummaged beneath.
She need not have bothered, he thought. With the view he had as she knelt there, he would not havelooked away to survey the treasure rooms of King Yildiz.
Finally she replaced the tile and turned to toss a bulging purse before him. It clanked heavily when it hitthe floor. "There," she snarled. "Leave the necklace and go."
That was an end to it. Or almost, he thought. He had the gold-the amount did not matter-the tellings ofSharak's starcharts had been fulfilled. But the woman had thought to use him, as she had tried to useEmilio. She had threatened him. The pride that only a young man knows drove him now.
"Count it," he demanded. She stared at him in disbelief, but he thrust a finger at the purse. "Count it. Itwould pain me, and you, to discover you'd given me short weight."
"May the worms consume your manhood," she cried, but she made her way to the purse and emptied it,rondels of gold ringing and spinning on the white tiles. "One. Two. Three...." As she counted each coinshe thrust it back into the small sack, as viciously as though each coin was a dagger that she was drivinginto his heart. Her acid eyes remained on his face. "One hundred," she said at last. Tying the cords at themouth of the purse, she hurled it at him.
He caught the gold-filled bag easily in one hand, and tossed the necklace to her. She clutched it to herbreasts and backed away, still on her knees, eyeing him warily.
He saw no shimmers of magic when she touched the necklace, but by all the gods she was a bit of fleshto dry a man's mouth and thicken his throat.
He weighed the purse in his hand. "To feel this," he said, "no one would suspect that you counted fivecoins twice."
"It is... possible I made an error," she said, still moving away. "An it so, I'll give you the five gold piecesmore."
Conan dropped the purse on the floor, unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall atop the gold.
"What are you doing?" she asked doubtfully.
"'Tis a heavy price to pay for a wench," he replied, "but as you do not want to pay what you agreed, I'lltake the rest in your stock in trade."
A strangled squawk rose from her throat, and she tried to scramble away. He caught her easily, scoopingher up in his muscular arms. She attempted to fend him off, but he pulled her to him as easily as if she hadnot tried at all. Her hands were caught inside the circle of his arms, her full breasts flattened against hisbroad chest.
"Think you," she gasped, "that I'll lie with you after what has passed here? After you've struck me, calledme strumpet, manhandled me...." Her angry words gave way to protesting splutters.
"Mundara Khan is old," Conan said softly. He trailed one finger down her spine to the swell that beganher buttocks. "And fat." He brought the finger up to toy with a strand of golden hair that lay on her cheek."And he often leaves you alone, as now." She sighed, and softened against him. Blue eyes peered intoblue eyes, and he said quietly, "Speak, and I will go. Do you want me to go?"
Wordlessly she shook her head.
Smiling, Conan laid her on the couch.
Conan was still smiling when he strolled into the Blue Bull much later in the day. Davinia had been verylonely indeed. He knew it was madness to dally with the mistress of a general, but he knew his ownweakness where women were concerned, too. He was beginning to hope the army took Mundara Khanfrom Aghrapur often.
The common room was half-filled with the usual crowd of sailors, laborers and cutpurses. Sharak andAkeba shared a table in one corner, conversing with their heads close together, but instead of joiningthem, Conan went to the bar.
Ferian greeted him with a scowl, and began scrubbing the bar top even faster than before. "I've nothingfor you yet, Cimmerian. And I want you to get that wench out of here."
"Is she still secured in my room?" Conan demanded. Yasbet had become no more reasonable aboutbeing rescued for finding herself in a waterfront tavern.
"She's there," the innkeeper said sourly, "but I'd sacrifice in every temple in the city if she disappeared.She near screamed the roof off not a glass gone. Thank all the gods she's been quiet since. That's no trullor doxie, Cimmerian. Men are impaled for holding her sort against their will."
"I'll see to her," Conan replied in a soothing tone. "You keep your eyes and ears open."
He hurried upstairs, listening to what suddenly seemed an ominous silence from his room. The latch-cordon his door was still tied tightly to a stout stick. A man might break the cord and lift the latch inside, butfor Yasbet it should have been as good as an iron lock. Unless she had managed to wriggle through thewindow. Surely that small opening was too narrow even for her, but.... Muttering oaths beneath his
breath, Conan unfastened the cord and rushed in.
A clay mug, hurled by Yasbet's hand, shattered against the door beside his head. He ducked beneath thepewter basin that followed and caught her around the waist. It was difficult to ignore what a pleasantarmful she made, even while her small fists pounded at his head and shoulders. He caught her wrists,forcing them behind her back and holding them there with one hand.
"What's gotten into you, girl? Did that cult addle your wits?"
"Addle my... !" She quivered with suppressed anger. "They thought I had worth. And they treated mewell. You brought me here bound across a horse and imprisoned me without so much as word. Then youwent off to see that strumpet."
"Strumpet? What are you talking about?"
"Davinia." She growled the name. "Isn't that what she's called? That old man-Sharak?-came up to try toquiet me. He told me you'd gone to see this... woman. And you have the same smug look on your facethat my father wears when he's just visited his zenana."
Mentally Conan called down several afflictions, all of them painful, on Sharak's head. Aloud he said,"Why should you care if I visit twenty women? Twice now I've saved your fool life, but there's naughtbetween us."
"I did not say there was," she said stoutly, but her shoulders sagged. Cautiously he released her wrists,and she sat down dejectedly on the roughly built bed, no more than straw ticking covered with a coarseblanket, with her hands folded in her lap. "You saved my life once," she muttered. "Perhaps. But thisother was naught but kidnap."
"You did not see what I saw in that place, Yasbet. There was sorcery there, and evil."
"Sorcery!" She frowned at him, then shook her head. "No, you lie to try to stop me from returning."
He muttered under his breath, then asked, "How did you end up with them? When you ran away fromme I thought you were going home." He grinned in spite of himself. "You were going to climb over thegarden wall."
"I did," she muttered, not meeting his eye. "Fatima caught me atop the wall and locked me in my room."She shifted her seat uncomfortably, and the remnants of an unpleasant memory flitted across her face.
Conan was suddenly willing to wager that locking her in her room was not all that the amah had done.Barely suppressing his chuckle, he said, "But that's no reason to run away to something like this cult."
"What do you know of it?" she demanded. "Women labor on an equal footing with men there, and canrise equally, as well. There are no rich or poor in the cult, either."
"But the cult itself is rich enough," he said drily. "I've seen some of its treasures."
"Because you went there to steal!"
"And I saw a man ensorceled to his death."
"Lies!" she cried, covering her ears with her palms. "You'll not stop me returning."
"I'll leave that to your father. You're going back to him if I have to leave you at his door bound hand andfoot."
"You don't even know who he is," she said, and he had the impression that she just stopped herself fromsticking her tongue out at him.
"I'll find out," he said with an air of finality.
As he got to his feet she caught his wrist in both of her hands. Her eyes were large with pleading. "Please,Conan, don't send me back to my father. He... he has said I am to be married. I know the man. I will bea wife, yes, honored and respected. And locked in his zenana with fifty other women."
He shook his head sympathetically, but said only, "Better that than the cult, girl."
He expected her to make a break for the door as he left, but she remained sitting on the bed. Retying thelatch cord, he returned to the common room. Akeba and Sharak barely looked up when he took a stoolat their table.
"... And so I tell you," Sharak said, tapping the table with a bony finger for emphasis, "that any attempt atdirect confrontation will be disaster."
"What are you two carrying on about?" Conan asked.
"How we are to attack the Cult of Doom," Akeba replied shortly. His eyes bore the grim memory of thenight before. "There must be a way to bring this Jhandar down." His face twisted with distaste. "I am toldthey call him Great Lord, as if he were a king."
"And the Khitan, of course," Sharak added. "But Jhandar-he is leader of the cult-must have given theman orders. His sort do not kill for pleasure, as a rule."
Conan was more than a little bewildered. "Khitan? His sort? You seem to have learned a great deal in theshort time I've been gone."
"'Twas not such a short time," Sharak leered. "How was she?" At the look on Conan's face he hastilycleared his throat. "Yes. The Khitan. From Akeba's description of the man who... well, I'm sure he wasfrom Khitai, and a member of what is called the Brotherhood of the Way. These men are assassins ofgreat skill." A frown added new creases to his face. "But I still cannot understand what part theHyrkanians played."
"I've never heard of any such Brotherhood," Conan said. "In truth, I no more than half believe Khitaiexists."
"They were strange to me, also," Akeba said, "but the old man insists they are real. Whatever he is,though, I will kill him."
"Oh, they're real, all right," Sharak said. "By the time your years number twice what they do now, you'llbegin to learn that more exists beneath the sky than you conceive in your wildest flights of fancy ordarkest nightmares. The two of you must be careful with this Khitan. They of the Brotherhood of theWay are well versed in the most subtle poisons, and can slay with no more than a touch."
"That I believe," Akeba said hoarsely, "for I saw it." He tilted up his mug and did not lower it till it wasdry.
"You, especially, must take care, Conan," the astrologer went on. "I know well how hot your head canbe, and that fever can kill you. This assassin-"
Conan shook his head. "This matter of revenge is Akeba's, not mine."
Sharak squawked a protest. "But, Conan! Khitan assassins, revenge, Hyrkanians, and the gods aloneknow what else! How can we turn our backs on such an adventure?"
"You speak of learning," Conan told him. "You've still to learn that adventure means an empty belly, acold place to sleep, and men wanting to put a dagger in your ribs. I find enough of that simply trying tolive, without seeking for it."
"He is right," Akeba said, laying a hand on the old man's arm. "I lost a daughter to the Gravedigger'sGuild this morn. I have reason to seek vengeance, but he has none."
"I still think it a poor reason to stand aside," Sharak grumbled.
Conan shared a smile with Akeba over the old man's head. In many ways Sharak qualified as a sage, butin some he was far younger than the Cimmerian.
"For now," Conan said, "I think what we must do is drink." Nothing would ever make Akeba forget, butat least the memory could be dulled until protecting scars had time to form. "Ferian!" he bellowed. "Apitcher of wine! No, a bucket!"
The innkeeper served them himself, a pitcher of deep red Solvanian in each hand and a mug for Conanunder his arm. "I have no buckets," he said drily.
"This will do," Conan said, filling the mugs all around. "And take something up to my room for the girl toeat."
"Her food is extra," Ferian reminded him. Conan thought of the gold weighting his belt, and smiled."You'll be paid." The tapster left, muttering to himself, and Conan turned his attention to the astrologer."You, Sharak," he said sharply.
Sharak spluttered into his wine. "Me? What? I said nothing."
"You said too much," the Cimmerian said. "Why did you tell Yasbet I was going to see Davinia? Andwhat did you tell her, anyway?"
"Nothing," the old man protested. "I was trying to quiet her yelling-you said not to gag her-and I thoughtif she knew you were with another woman she wouldn't be afraid you were going to ravish her. That'swhat women are always afraid of. Erlik take it, Cimmerian, what was wrong with that?"
"Just that she's jealous," Conan replied. "I've talked to her but twice and never laid a hand on her, butshe's jealous."
"Never laid a hand on her? You tied her like a sack of linen," Akeba said.
"It must be his charm," Sharak added, his face impossibly straight.
"'Tis funny enough for you two," Conan said darkly, "but I was near brained with my own washbasin.She...."
As rude laughter drowned Conan's next words, Ferian ran panting up to the table.
"She's gone, Cimmerian!" the tavernkeeper gasped. "I swear by Mitra and Dagon I don't believe shecould squeeze through that window, but she did."
Conan sprang to his feet. "She cannot have been gone long. Akeba, Sharak, will you help me look?"
Akeba nodded and rose, but Sharak grimaced. "An you don't want her, Cimmerian, why not leave herfor someone who does?"
Without bothering to reply Conan turned to go, Akeba with him. Sharak followed hastily, hobbling withhis staff.
Once in the street, the three men separated, and for near a turn of the glass Conan found nothing butfrustration. Hawkers of cheap perfumes and peddlers of brass hairpins, fruit vendors, potters, streeturchins-none had seen a girl, so tall, large-breasted and beautiful, wearing saffron robes and possiblyrunning. All he found were blank looks and shaken heads. No few of the strumpets suggested that hecould find what he was looking for with them, and some men cackled that they might keep the girlthemselves, did they find her, but their laughter faded to nervous sweating under his icy blue gaze.
As he returned to the stone-fronted tavern, he met Akeba and Sharak. At the Turanian's questioningglance he shook his head.
"Then she's done with," the astrologer said. "My throat needs cool wine to soothe it after all the peopleI've questioned. I'll wager Ferian has given our Solvanian to someone else."
The pitchers remained on the table where they had left them, but Conan did not join in the drinking.Yasbet was not done with, not to his mind. He found it strange that that should be so, but it was. Daviniawas a woman to make a man's blood boil; Yasbet had heated his no more than any other pretty wenchhe saw in passing. But he had saved her life, twice, for all her denials. In his belief that made himresponsible for her. Then too, she needed him to protect her. He was not blind to the attractions she hadfor a man.
He became aware of a Hyrkanian approaching the table, stooped and bowed of leg, his rancid smellpreceding him. His coarse woolen trousers and sheepskin coat were even filthier than was usual for thenomads, if such was possible. Two paces short of them he stopped, his long skinny nose twitching as ifprehensile and his black eyes on the Cimmerian. "We have your woman," he said gutturally, thenstraightened in alarm at the blaze of rage that lit Conan's face.
Conan was on his feet with broadsword halfdrawn before he himself realized that he had moved.
Akeba grasped his arm. Not the sword arm; he was too old a campaigner for that. "Hear him out beforeyou kill him," he urged.
"Talk!" Conan's voice grated like steel on bone.
"Tamur wants to talk with you," the Hyrkanian began slowly, but his words came faster as he went. "Youfought with some of us, though, and Tamur does not think you will talk with us, so we take your womanuntil you talk. You will talk?"
"I'll talk," Conan growled. "And if she's been harmed, I'll kill, too. Now take me to her."
"Tonight," was the thick reply.
"Now!"
"One turn of the glass after the sun sets, someone will come for you." The Hyrkanian eyed Akeba andSharak. "For you alone."
The last length of Conan's blade rasped from its worn shagreen sheath.
"No, Conan," Sharak urged. "Kill him, and you may never find her again."
"They would send another," Conan said, but after a moment he tossed his sword on the table. "Leave mebefore I change my mind," he told the nomad, and, scooping up one of the wine pitchers, tilted back hishead in an effort to drain it. The Hyrkanian eyed him doubtfully, then trotted from the tavern.
Davinia stretched luxuriously as gray-haired Renda's fingers worked perfumed oils into the smoothmuscles of her back. There was magic in the plump woman's hands, and the blonde woman needed it.The big barbarian had been more than she bargained for. And he had intimated that he would return. Hehad not named time but that he would return was certain. Her knowledge of men told her so. Though itwas but a few turns of the glass since Conan had left her, a tingling frisson of anticipation rippled throughher at the thought of long hours more in his massive arms. To which gods, she wondered, should sheoffer sacrifices to keep Mundara Khan from the city longer?
A tap at the door of Davinia's tapestry-hung dressing chamber drew Renda's hands from her shoulders.With a petulant sigh, the sleek blonde waited impatiently until her tiring woman returned.
"Mistress," Renda said quietly, "there is a man to see you."
Careless of her nakedness, Davinia sat up. "The barbarian?" She confided everything in her tiring woman.Almost everything. Surely Conan would not dare enter through the gates and have himself announced, yetsimply imagining the risk of it excited her more than she would have believed possible.
"No, mistress. It is Jhandar, Great Lord of the Cult of Doom."
Davinia blinked in surprise. She was dimly aware of the existence of the cult, though she did not concernherself unduly with matters of religion. Why would a cult leader come to her? Perhaps he would beamusing.
"A robe, Renda," she commanded, rising.
"Mistress, may I be so bold-"
"You may not. A robe."
She held out her arms as Renda fastened about her a red silken garment. Opaque, she noted. Rendaalways had more thought for her public reputation--and thus her safety-than did she.
Davinia made a grand entrance into the chamber where Jhandar waited. Slaves drew open the tall,ornately carved doors for her to sweep through. As the doors were closed she posed, one foot behindthe other, one knee slightly bent, shoulders back. The man half-reclined on a couch among the columns.For just an instant her pose lasted, then she continued her advance, seeming to ignore the man while infact she studied him. He no longer reclined, but rather sat on the edge of the couch.
"You are... different than I expected," he said hoarsely.
She permitted herself a brief smile, still not looking directly at him. Exactly the effect she had tried for.
He was not an unhandsome man, this Jhandar, she thought. The shaven head, however, rather spoiled hislooks. And those ears gave him an unpleasantly animalistic countenance.
For the first time she faced him fully, lips carefully dampened with her tongue, eyes on his in an adoring
caress. She wanted to giggle as she watched his breath quicken. Men were so easily manipulated.Except, perhaps, the barbarian. She hastily pushed aside the intruding thought, Carefully, she made sureof a breathy tone.
"You wish to see me... Jhandar, is it not?"
"Yes," he said slowly. Visibly he caught hold of himself. His breath still came rapidly, but there was adegree of control in his eyes. A degree. "Have you enjoyed the necklace, Davinia?"
"Necklace?"
"The ruby necklace. The one stolen from me only last night."
His voice was calm, so conversational that it took a moment for the meaning of his words to enter her.Shock raced through her. She wondered if her eyes were bulging. The necklace. How could she havebeen so stupid as not to make the connection the moment Jhandar was announced? It was that accursedbarbarian. She seemed able to concentrate on little other than him.
"I have no idea of what you speak," she said, and was amazed at the steadiness of her voice. Inside shehad turned to jelly.
"I wonder what Mundara Khan will say when he knows you have a stolen necklace. Perhaps he willinquire, forcefully, into who gave such a thing to his mistress."
"I bought-" She bit her tongue. He had flustered her. It was not supposed to happen that way. It was shewho disconcerted men.
"I know that Emilio was your lover," he said quietly. "Has Conan taken his place there, too?"
"What do you want?" she whispered. Desperately she wished for a miracle to save her, to take himaway.
"One piece of information," he replied. "Where may I find the barbarian called Conan?"
"I don't know," she lied automatically. The admission already made was one too many.
"A pity." He bit off the words, sending a shiver through her. "A very great pity."
Davinia searched for a way to deflect him from his purpose. All that passed through her mind, echoingand re-echoing, was 'a very great pity.'
"You may keep the necklace," he said suddenly.
She stared at him in surprise. He did not have complete control of himself still, she saw. He hadcontinually to lick dry lips, and his eyes drank her in as a man in the desert drank water. "Thank you. I-"
"Wear it for me."
"Of course," she said. There was still a chance.
She left the room as regally as she had entered, but once outside, before the slaves had even closed thedoors, she ran-despite the fact that to be languid at all times was one mark of a properly cared-formistress.
Renda, arranging the pillows on Davinia's bed, leaped, as her mistress dashed into the chamber.
"Mistress, you startled me!"
"Tell me what you know of this Jhandar," Davinia panted, as she dropped to her knees and began rootingin her jewel chest. "Quickly. Hurry!"
"Little is known, mistress," the plump tirewoman said hesitantly. "The cult professes-"
"Not that, Renda!" Tossing bits of jewelry left and right, she came up with the stolen necklace clutched inher fist. Despite herself, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Mitra be thanked. Tell me what the servants andslaves know, what their masters will not know for half a year more. Tell me!"
"Mistress, what has he...." She broke off at Davinia's glare. "Jhandar is a powerful man in Turan,mistress. So it is whispered among the servants. And 'tis said he grows more powerful by the day. Somesay the increase in the army was begun by him, by his telling certain men, who in turn convinced the king,that it should be so. Of course, it is well known that King Yildiz has long dreamed of empire. He wouldnot have taken a great deal of telling."
"Still," Davinia murmured, "it is a display of power." Mundara Khan had never swayed the king for all hisblood connections to the throne. "How does he accomplish it?"
"All men have secrets, mistress. Jhandar makes it his business to learn their secrets. To keep theirsecrets, most men will agree to any suggestion Jhandar makes." She paused. "Many believe he is asorcerer. And the cult does have immense wealth."
"How immense?"
"It may rival that of King Yildiz."
A look of intense practicality firmed Davinia's face. This situation, which had seemed so frightening, mightyet be turned to her advantage. "Fetch me a cloak," she commanded. "Quickly."
When she returned to Jhandar, surprise was plain on his countenance. A cloak of the fine scarlet woolswathed her from her neck to the ground.
"I do not understand," he said, anger mounting in his voice. "Where is the necklace?"
"I wear it for you." She opened the cloak, revealing the rubies caressing the upper slopes of her breasts.And save for the necklace, her sleek body was nude.
Only for an instant she held the cloak so. Even as he gasped, she pulled it closed. But then, rising on hertoes, she spun so that her hips flashed whitely beneath flaring crimson. Around the room she danced,offering him brief tantalizing glimpses, but never so revealing as the first.
She finished on her knees before him, the scarlet cloth lowered to bare pale shoulders and the rubiesnestled in her sweat-slick cleavage. Masking her triumph with care, she met his gaze. His face wasflushed with desire. And now for the extra stroke.
"The man Conan," she said, "told me that he stays at the Blue Bull on the Street of the Lotus Dreamers,near the harbor."
For a moment he stared at her, uncomprehending; then he lurched to his feet. "I have him," he mutteredexcitedly. "An the Hyrkanians are found ...." All expression fled from his face as he regarded her. "Menhave no use for lemans who lie," he said.
She replied with a smile. "A mistress owes absolute truth and obedience to her master." Or at least, shethought, a mistress should make him believe he had those things. "But you are not my master. Yet."
"I will take you with me," he said thickly, but she shook her head.
"The guards would never let me go. There is an old gate at the rear of the palace, however, unused andunguarded. I will be there with my serving woman one turn of the glass past dark tonight."
"Tonight. I will have men there to meet you." Abruptly he pulled her to her feet, kissing her brutally.
But not so well as Conan, she thought as he left. It was a pity the barbarian was to die. She had no doubtthat was what Jhandar intended. But Jhandar was a step into her future; Conan was of the past. As shedid with all things past, she put him out of her mind as if he had never existed.
The common room of the Blue Bull grew crowded as the appointed hour drew near, raucous with thelaughter of doxies and drunken men. Conan neither laughed nor drank, but rather sat watching the doorwith his two friends.
"When will the man come?" Sharak demanded of the air. "Surely the hour has passed."
Neither Conan nor Akeba answered, keeping their eyes fastened to the doorway. The Cimmerian's handon his sword hilt tightened moment by long moment till, startlingly, his knuckles cracked.
The old astrologer flinched at the sound. "What adventure is this, sitting and waiting for Mitra knows howlong while-"
"He is here," Akeba said quietly, but Conan was already getting to his feet.
The long-nosed Hyrkanian stood in the doorway beckoning to Conan, casting worried glances out intothe night.
"Good luck be with you, Cimmerian," Akeba said quietly.
"And with you," Conan replied.
As he strode across the common room, he could hear the astrologer's querulous voice. "Why this talk ofluck? They but wish to talk."
He did not listen for Akeba's answer, if answer there was. More than one man taken to a meeting in thenight had never left it alive.
"Lead on," he told the Hyrkanian, and with one more suspicious look up and down the street the nomaddid so.
Twilight had gone, and full night was upon the city. A pale moon hung like a silver coin placed low abovethe horizon. Music and laughter drifted from a score of taverns as they passed through yellow pools oflight spilling from their doors, and occasionally they heard shouts of a fight over women or dice.
"Where are you taking me?" Conan asked.
The Hyrkanian did not answer. He chose turnings seemingly at random, and always he cast a wary eyebehind.
"My friends will not follow," Conan told him. "I agreed to come alone."
"It is not your friends I fear," the Hyrkanian muttered, then tightened his jaws and looked sharply at themuscular youth. Thereafter he would not speak again.
Conan wondered briefly who or what it was the man did fear, but his own attention was split betweenwatching for the ambush he might be entering and unraveling the twists and turns through which he wastaken. When the furcapped man motioned him through a darkened doorway and up a flight of woodenstairs, he was confident-and surprised-that for all the roundabout way they had gone the Blue Bull wasalmost due north, no more than two streets away. It was well to be oriented in case the meeting came toa fight after all.
"You go first," Conan said. Expressionless, the nomad complied. Loose steps creaked alarminglybeneath his tread. Conan eased his sword in its scabbard, and mounted after him.
At the top of the stairs a door let into a room lit by two guttering tallow lamps set on a rickety table. Therancid smell of grease filled the room. Including his guide, half a score sheepskin-coated Hyrkanianswatched him warily, though none put hand to weapon. One Conan recognized, the man with the scaracross his cheek, he over whose head Emilio had broken the wine jar.
"I am called Tamur," Scarface said. "You are Conan?" With his guttural accent he mangled the namebadly.
"I am Conan," the young Cimmerian agreed shortly. "Where is the woman?"
Tamur gestured, and two of the others opened a large chest sitting against a wall. They lifted out Yasbet,bound in a neat package and gagged with a twisted rag. Her saffron robes were mud-stained and torn,and dried tracks of tears traced through the dust on her cheeks.
"I warned this one," Conan grated. "If she is hurt, I'll-"
"No, no," Tamur cut in. "Her garments were so when we took her, behind the inn where you sleep. Hadwe ravaged your woman, would we show her to you so and yet expect you to talk with us?"
It was possible. Conan remembered the narrowness of the window through which she had had towriggle. "Loose her feet."
Producing a short, curved dagger, one of the nomads cut the ropes at Yasbet's ankles. She tried to standand, with a gag-mufed moan, sat on the lid of the chest in which she had been confined. The Hyrkanianlooked questioningly at Conan, and motioned with the knife to her still-bound wrists, and her gag, but themuscular youth shook his head. Based on past experience he would not risk what she might say or do iffreed. She gave him an odd look, but, surprisingly, remained still.
"You were recognized in the enclosure of Baalsham," Tamur said.
"Baalsham?" Conan said. "Who is Baalsham?"
"You know him as Jhandar. What his true name is, who can say?" Tamur sighed. "It will be easier if Ibegin at the beginning."
He gave quick orders, and a flagon of cheap wine and two rough clay mugs were produced. Tamur saton one side of the table, Conan on the other. The Cimmerian noted that the other nomads were carefulnot to move behind him and ostentatiously kept their hands far from swords. It was a puzzlement.Hyrkanians were an arrogant and touchy people, by all accounts little given to avoiding trouble in the best
of circumstances.
He accepted a mug of wine from Tamur, then forgot to drink as he listened.
"Five years gone," the scar-faced nomad began, "the man we call Baalsham appeared among us, he andthe two strange men with yellow skins. He performed some small magicks, enough to be acceptedamong the tribal shamans, and began to preach much as he does here, of chaos and inevitable doom.Among the young men his teachings caught hold, for he called the western nations evil and said it was thedestiny of the Hyrkanian people once more to ride west of the Vilayet Sea. And this time we were tosweep the land clean."
"A man of ambitions," Conan muttered. "But failed ambitions, it seems."
"By the thickness of a fingernail. Not only did Baalsham gather about him young warriors numbering inthe thousands, but he began to have strange influence in the Councils of the Elders. Then creatures wereseen in the night like demons, or the twisted forms of men-and we learned from them that they werespirits of murdered men, men of our blood and friendship, conjured by Baalsham and bound to obey him.Their spying was the source of his powers in the Councils."
Yasbet made a loud sound of denial through her gag, and shook her head violently, but the men ignoredher.
"I've seen his sorcery" Conan said, "black and foul. How was he driven out? I assume he did not leave ofhis own accord."
"In a single night," Tamur replied, "ten tribes rose against him. The very spirits that had warned us,shackled by his will, fought us, as did the young warriors who followed him." He touched the scar on hischeek "This I had from my own brother. The young warriors-our brothers, our sons, our cousins-died tothe last man, and even the maidens fought to the death. In the end our greater numbers carried thevictory. Baalsham fled, and with his fleeing the spirits disappeared before our eyes. To avoid bloodshedamong the tribes, the Councils decreed that no man could claim blood right for the death of one who hadfollowed Baalsham. Their names were not to be spoken. They had never existed. But some of us couldnot forget that we had been forced to spill the same blood that flows in our own veins. When tradersbrought rumors of the man called Jhandar and the Cult of Doom, we knew him for Baalsham. Two scoreand ten crossed the sea to seek our forbidden vengeance. Last night we failed, and now we number butnineteen." He fell silent.
Conan frowned. "An interesting tale, but why have you told it to me?"
The nomad's face twisted with reluctance. "Because we need your help," he said slowly.
"My help?" Conan exclaimed.
Tamar hurried on. "When the palace Baalsham was building was overrun, powers beyond the mind wereloosed. The very ground melted and flowed like water. That place is now called the Blasted Lands. Forthree days and three nights the shamans labored to contain that evil. When they had constructed barriersof magic, the boundaries of the Blasted Lands were marked, and a taboo laid. No one of the blood maypass those markers and live. There must be devices of sorcery within, devices that could be turnedagainst Baalsham. He could not have taken all when he fled. But no Hyrkanian may go to bring them out.No Hyrkanian." He looked at the big Cimmerian with intensity.
"I am done with Jhandar," Conan said.
"But is he done with you, Conan? Baalsham's enmity does not wither with time."
Conan snorted. "What care I for his enmity? He does not know who I am or where I am to be found.Let his enmity eat at him like foxes."
"You know little of him," Tamur said insistently. "He-"
With a loud crack the floorboards by Conan's feet splintered, and a twisted gray-green hand reachedthrough the opening to grasp his ankle.
"The spirits have come!" one of the nomads cried, eyes bulging, and Yasbet began to scream through hergag. The other men drew weapons, shouting in confusion.
Conan scrambled to his feet, trying to pull his leg free, but those leathery fingers held with preternaturalstrength. Another deformed hand broke through the boards, reaching for him, but his sword leaped fromits sheath and arched down. One hand dropped to the floor; the other still gripped him. But at least, hethought, steel would slice them.
With his sword point he pried the fingers loose from his ankle. Even as that hand fell free, though, thehead of the creature, with pointed ears and dead, haunted eyes above a lipless gash of a mouth, smashedup through the floor in a shower of splintered wood. Handless arms stretched out to the hands lying onthe floor. The mold-colored flesh seemed to flow, and the hands were once more attached to the arms.The creature began to tear its way up into the room, ripping the sturdy floor apart as if its boards wererotted.
Suddenly another set of hands smashed through a wall, seizing a screaming Hyrkanian, tearing at his flesh.Conan struck off the head of the first creature, but it continued to scramble into the room even while itshead spun glaring on the floor. A third head broke through the floor, and a hand followed to seizeYasbet's leg. With a shriek, she fainted.
Conan caught her as she fell, cutting her free of the creature that held her. There was naught to do in thatroom but die.
"Flee!" he shouted. "Get out!"
Tossing Yasbet over his shoulder like a sack of meal, he scrambled out the window to drop to the streetbelow.
Struggling Hyrkanians fought to follow. Screams from that suddenly hellish room rose to a crescendo,pursuing the big Cimmerian as he ran with his burden. As abruptly as it had begun, the screaming ceased.Conan looked back, but he could see nothing in the blackness.
A low moan broke from Yasbet, stirring on his shoulder. Remembering the tenacity of the hand, heplaced her on the ground and bent to feel along her leg. His fingers encountered the lump of leathery skinand sinew; it writhed at his touch. With an oath he tore it from her flesh and hurled it into the night.
Yasbet groaned, and opened her eyes. "I... I had a nightmare," she whispered.
"'Twas no dream," he muttered. His eyes searched the dark for pursuit. "But it is done." He hoped.
"But those demons... you mean that they were real?" Sobs welled up in her. "Where did they come from?Why? Oh, Mitra, protect us," she wailed.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, he growled, "Quiet yourself, girl. Were I to wager on it, I'd stack my
coin on Jhandar's name. And if you continue screeching like a fishwife, his minions will find us. We maynot escape so easily again." Cautiously he took his hand away; she scrambled to her feet, staring at him.
"I do not believe you," she said. "Or those smelly Hyrkanians." But she did not raise her voice again.
"There is evil in the man," he said quietly. "I've seen the foulest necromancy from him, and I doubt not thisis more of his black art."
"It cannot be. The cult-"
"Hsst!"
The thump of many feet sounded down the street. Pulling Yasbet deeper into the shadows, Conan waitedwith blade at the ready. Dim figures appeared, moving slowly from the way he had come. The smell ofold grease drifted to him.
"Tamur?" he called softly.
There were mutters of startlement, and the flash of bare blades in the dark. Then one figure came closer."Conan?"
"Yes," the Cimmerian replied. "How many escaped?"
"Thirteen," Tamur sighed. "The rest were torn to pieces. You must come with us, now. Those wereBaalsham's spirit creatures. He will find you eventually, and when he does ...."
Conan felt Yasbet shiver. "He cannot find me," he said. "He does not even know who to look for."
Suddenly another Hyrkanian spoke. "A fire," he said. "To the north. A big fire."
Conan glanced in that direction, a deathly chill in his bones. It was a big fire, and unless he had lost hisway entirely the Blue Bull was in the center of it. Without another word he ran, pulling Yasbet behindhim. He heard the nomads following, but he cared not if they came or stayed.
The street of the Lotus Dreamers was packed with people staring at the conflagration. Flames from fourstructures whipped at the night, and reflected crimson glints from watching faces. One, the furthest gone,was the Blue Bull. Someone had formed a chain of buckets to the nearest cistern, Ferian among them,but it was clear that some goodly part of the district would be destroyed before the blaze was contained,most likely by pulling down buildings to surround the fire and letting it burn itself out.
As Conan pushed through the crowd of onlookers, a voice drifted to him.
"I hit it with the staff, and it disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. I told you the staff had magicalpowers."
Smiling for what seemed the first time in days, Conan made his way toward that voice. He found Akebaand Sharak, faces smudged with smoke, sitting with their backs against the front of a potter's shop.
"You are returned," Sharak said when he saw the big Cimmerian. "And with the wench. To think webelieved it was you who would be in danger this night. I killed one of the demons."
"Demons?" Conan asked sharply.
Akeba nodded. "So they seemed to be. They burst through the walls and even the floors, tearing apartanyone who got in their way" He hesitated. "They seemed to be hunting for someone who was not
there."
"Me," Conan said grimly.
Yasbet gasped. "It cannot be." The men paid her no mind.
"I said that he would find you," Tamur said, appearing at Conan's side. "Now you have no choice but togo to Hyrkania."
"Hyrkania!" Sharak exclaimed.
Regretfully Conan nodded agreement. He was committed, now. He must destroy Jhandar or die.
In the gray early morning Conan made his way down the stone quay, already busy with lascars andcargo, to the vessel that had been described to him. Foam Dancer seemed out of place among theheavy-hulled roundships and large dromonds. Fewer than twenty paces in length, she was rigged with asingle lateen sail and pierced for fifteen oars a side in single banks. Her sternpost curved up and forwardto assume the same angle as her narrow stem, giving her the very image of agility. He had seen her likebefore, in Sultanapur, small ships designed to beach where the King's Custom was unlikely to be found.They claimed to be fishing vessels, to the last one, these smugglers, and over this one, as over everysmuggler he had seen, hung a foul odor of old fish and stale ship's cooking.
He walked up the gangplank with a wary eye, for the crews of such vessels invariably had a strongdislike for strangers. Two sun-blackened and queued seamen, stripped to the waist, watched him withdark unblinking eyes as he stepped down onto the deck.
"Where is your captain?" he began, when a surreptitious step behind made him whirl.
His hand darted out to catch a dagger-wielding arm, and he found himself staring into a sharp-nosed facebeneath a dirty red-striped head scarf. It was the Iranistani whose companions he had been forced to killhis first day in Aghrapur. And if he was a crew member, then as like as not the other two had been aswell. The Iranistani opened his mouth, but Conan did not wait to hear what he had to say. Grabbing theman's belt with his free hand, Conan took a running step and threw him screaming over the rail into theharbor. Sharp-nose hit the garbage-strewn water with a thunderous splash and, beating the waterfuriously, set out away from the ship without a backward glance.
"Hannuman's Stones!" roared a bull-necked man, climbing onto the deck from below. Bald except for athin black fringe, he wore a full beard fanning across his broad chest. His beady eyes lit on Conan. "Areyou the cause of all the shouting up here?"
"Are you the captain?" Conan asked.
"I am. Muktar, by name. Now what in the name of Erlik's Throne is this all about?"
"I came aboard to hire your ship," Conan said levelly, "and one of your crew tried to put a dagger in myback. I threw him into the harbor."
"You threw him into the ...." The captain's bellow trailed off, and then went on in a quieter, if suspicioustone. "You want to hire Foam Dancer? For what?"
"A trading voyage to Hyrkania."
"A trader! You?" Muktar roared with laughter, slapping his stout thighs.
Conan ground his teeth, waiting for the man to finish. The night before he, Akeba and Tamur had settledon the trading story. Never a trusting people, the Hyrkanians had become less tolerant of strangers sinceJhandar, but traders were still permitted. Conan thought wryly of Davinia's gold. When the cost of tradegoods, necessary for the disguise, was added to the hiring of this vessel, there would not be enough leftfor a good night of drinking.
At last Muktar's mirth ran its course. His belly shook a last time, and cupidity lit his eyes. "Well, thefishing has been very good of late. I don't think I could give it up for so long for less than say, fifty goldpieces."
"Twenty," Conan countered.
"Out of the question. You've already cost me a crewman. He didn't drown, did he? An he did, theauthorities will make me haul him out of the harbor and pay for his burial. Forty gold pieces, and Iconsider it cheap."
Conan sighed. He had little time to waste. If Tamur was right, they had to be gone from Aghrapur bynightfall. "I'll split the difference with you," he offered. "Thirty gold pieces, and that is my final offer. If youdo not like it, I'll find another vessel."
"There isn't another in port can put you ashore on a Hyrkanian beach," the captain sneered.
"Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, there will be." Conan shrugged unconcernedly.
"Very well," Muktar muttered sourly. "Thirty gold pieces."
"Done," Conan said, heading for the side. "We sail as soon as the goods are aboard. The tides will notmatter to this shallow draft."
"I thought there was no hurry," the bearded man protested.
"Nor is there," Conan said smoothly. "Neither is there any need to waste time." Inside, he wondered ifthey would get everything done. There simply was no time to waste.
"Speak on," Jhandar commanded, and paced the bare marble floor of his antechamber while he listened.
"Yes, Great Lord," the young man said, bowing. "A man was found in one of the harbor taverns, anIranistani who claimed to have fought one who must be the man Conan. This Iranistani was a sailor on asmuggler, Foam Dancer, and it seems that this ship sailed only a few hours past bearing among itspassengers a number of Hyrkanians, a huge blueeyed barbarian, and a girl matching the description ofthe initiate who disappeared the night of the Hyrkanians' attack." He paused, awaiting praise for havingferreted out so much so quickly.
"The destination, fool," Jhandar demanded. "Where was the ship bound?"
"Why, Hyrkania, or so it is said, Great Lord."
Jhandar squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temples with his fingers. "And you did not think thisimportant enough to tell me without being asked?"
"But, Great Lord," the disciple faltered, "since they have fled... that is...."
"Whatever you discover, you will tell me," the necromancer snapped. "It is not for you to decide what is
important and what is not. Is there aught else you have omitted?"
"No, Great Lord. Nothing."
"Then leave me!"
The shavenheaded young man backed from Jhandar's presence, but the mage had already dismissedhim from his mind. He who had once been known as Baalsham moved to a window. From there hecould see Davinia reclining in the shade of a tree in the gardens below, a slave stirring a breeze for herwith a fan of white ostrich plumes. He had never known a woman like her before. She was disturbing.And fascinating.
"I but listen at corners, Great Lord," Che Fan said behind him, "yet I know that already there is talkbecause she is not treated as the rest."
Jhandar suppressed a start and glanced over his shoulder at the two Khitans. Never in all the years theyhad followed him had he gotten used to the silence with which they moved. "If wagging tongues cannotbe kept still," he said, "I will see that there are no tongues to wag."
Che Fan bowed. "Forgive me, Great Lord, if I spoke out of my place."
"There are more important matters afoot," Jhandar said. "The barbarian has sailed for Hyrkania. Hewould not have done so were he merely fleeing. Therefore he must be seeking something, some weapon,to use against me."
"But there is nothing, Great Lord," Suitai protested. "All was destroyed."
"Are you certain of that?" Jhandar asked drily. "Certain enough to risk all of my plans? I am not. I intendto secure the fastest galley in Aghrapur, and the two of you will sail on the next tide. Kill this Conan, andbring me whatever it is he seeks."
"As you command, Great Lord," the Khitans murmured together.
All would be well, Jhandar told himself. He had come too far to fail now. Too far.
Gray seas rolled under Foam Dancer's pitching bow, and a mist of foam carried across her deck. Thetriangular sail stood taut against the sky, where a pale yellow sun had sunk halfway from zenith to westernhorizon. At the stern a seaman, shorter than Conan but broader, leaned his not inconsiderable weightagainst the steering oar, but the rest of the crew for the most part lay sprawled among the bales of tradegoods.
Conan stood easily, one hand gripping a stay. He was no sailor, but his time among the smugglers ofSultanapur had at least taught his stomach to weather the constant motion of a ship.
Akeba was not so fortunate. He straightened from bending over the rail-as he had done often since thevessel left Aghrapur-and said thickly, "A horse does not move so. Does it never stop?"
"Never," Conan said. But at a groan from the other he relented. "Sometimes it will be less, and in anycase you will become used to it. Look at the Hyrkanians. They've made but a single voyage, yet show noillness."
Tamur and the other nomads squatted some distance in front of the single tail mast, their quiet murmurs
melding with the creak of timbers and cording. They passed among themselves clay wine jugs and chunksof ripe white cheese, barely interrupting their talk to fill their mouths.
"I do not want to look at them," Akeba said, biting off each word. "I swear before Mitra that I know notwhich smells worse, rotted fish or mare's milk cheese."
Nearby, in the waist of the ship, a few of the sailors listened to Sharak. "... Thus did I strike with my staffof power," he gestured violently with his walking staff, "slaying three of the demons in the Blue Bull. Greatwere their lamentations and cries for mercy, but for such foul-hearted creatures as they I would know nomercy. Many more would I have transmuted to harmless smoke, blown away on the breeze, but they fledbefore me, back to their infernal regions, casting balls of fire to hinder my pursuit, as I...."
"Did he truly manage to harm one of the creatures?" Conan asked Akeba. "He has boasted of that stafffor years, but never have I seen more from it than support for a tired back."
"I know not," Akeba said. He was making a visible effort to ignore his stomach, but his dark face bore agreenish pallor. "I saw him at the first, leaping about like a Farthii fire-dancer and flailing with his stick atwhatever moved, then not again till we had fled to the street. Of the fire, however, I do know. 'TwasFerian. He threw a lamp at one of the demons, harming the creature not at all, but scattering burning oilacross a wall."
"And burned down his own tavern," Conan chuckled. "How it will pain him to build anew, though I littledoubt he has the gold to do it ten times over."
Muktar, making his way aft from the necessary-a plank held out from the bow on a frame-paused byConan. His beady eyes rolled to the sky, then to the Cimmerian's face. "Fog," he said, then chewed histhought a moment before adding, "by sunset. The Vilayet is treacherous." Clamping his mouth shut asthough he had said more than he intended, he moved on toward the stern in a walk that would haveseemed rolling on land, but here exactly compensated for the motion of the deck.
Conan grimly watched him go. "The further we sail from Aghrapur, the less he talks and the less I trusthim."
"He wants the other half of his gold that you hold back. Besides, with the Hyrkanians we outnumber hiscrew."
Mention of the gold was unfortunate. After he paid the captain, Conan would have exactly eight pieces ofgold in his pouch. In other times it would have seemed a tidy sum, but not so soon after having had ahundred. He found himself hoping to make a profit on the trade goods, and yet thoughts of profits andtrading left a taste in his mouth as if he had been eating the Hyrkanians' ripest cheese.
"Mayhap," he said sourly. "Yet he would feed us to the fish and return to his smuggling, were he able.He-What's the matter, man?"
Eyes bulging, Akeba swallowed rapidly, and with force. "Feed us to-" With a groan he doubled over therail again, retching loudly and emptily. There was naught left in him to come up.
Yasbet came hurrying from the stern, casting frowns over her shoulder as she picked her way quicklyamong coiled ropes and wicker hampers or provisions. "I do not like this Captain Muktar," sheannounced to Conan. "He leers at me as if he would see me naked on a slave block."
Conan had declared her saffron robe unsuited for a sea voyage, and she had shown no reluctance to ridherself of that reminder of the cult. Now she wore a short leather jerkin, laced halfway up the front, over
a gray wool tunic, with trousers of the same material and knee-high red boots. It was't man's garb, butthe way the coarse wool clung to her form left no doubt there was a woman inside.
"You've no need to fear," Conan said firmly. Perhaps he should have a talk with Muktar in private. Withhis fists. And the captain was not the only one. His icy gaze caught the leering glances of a dozen sailorsdirected at her.
"I've no fear of anything so long as you are with me," she said, and innocently pressed a full breast againsthis arm. At least, he thought it was innocently. "But what is the matter with Akeba, Conan?" She herselfhad showed no effects from the roughest seas.
"He's ill."
"I am so sorry. Perhaps if I brought him some soup?"
"Erlik take the woman," Akeba moaned faintly.
"I think not just now," Conan laughed. Taking Yasbet's arm he led her away from the heaving form on therail and seated her on an upturned keg before him. His face was serious now.
"Why look you so glum, Conan?" she asked.
"An there is trouble," he said quietly, "here or ashore, stay close to me, or to Akeba if you cannot get tome. Sick or not, he'll protect you. Does the worst come, Sharak will help you escape. He is no fighter,but no man lives so long as he without learning to survive."
A small frown creased her forehead. When he was done, she exclaimed, "Why do you speak as if youmight not be with me?"
"No man knows what comes, girl, and I would see you safe."
"I thought so," she said with a warmth and happiness he did not understand. "I wished it to be so."
"As a last resort, trust Tamur, but only if there is no other way" He thought the nomad was the best of thelot, the least likely to betray a trust, but it was best not to test him too far. As the ancient saying held, hewho took a Hyrkanian friend should pay his burial fee beforetime. "Put no trust in any of the rest, though,not even if it means you must find your way alone."
"But you will be here to protect me," she smiled. "I know it."
Conan growled, at a loss to make her listen. By bringing her along, for all he had done it for the best, hehad exposed her to danger as great as Jhandar's, if different in kind. How could he bring that home toher? If only she were capable of her own protection. Her own....
Rummaging in the bales of trade goods, the Cimmerian dug out a Nemedian sica, its short bladeunsharpened. The Hyrkanian nomads liked proof that a sword came to them fresh from the forge, suchproof as would be given by watching the first edge put on blunt steel.
He flipped the shortsword in the air, catching it by the blade, and thrust the hilt at Yasbet. She stared at itwonderingly,
"Take it, girl," he said.
Hesitantly she put a hand to the leather-wrapped hilt. He released his grip, and she gasped, almostdropping the weapon. "'Tis heavy," she said, half-laughing.
"You've likely worn heavier necklaces, girl. You'll be used to the weight in your hand before we reachHyrkania."
"Used to it?"
Her yelp of consternation brought chortles and hoots from three nearby sailors. The Hyrkanians lookedup, still eating; Tamur's face split into an open grin.
Conan ignored them as best he could, firmly putting down the thought of hurling one or two over the sideas a lesson for the others. "The broadsword is too heavy," he said, glowering at the girl. "Tulwar andyataghan are lighter, but there is no time to teach the use of either before we land. And learn the bladeyou will."
She stared at him silently with wide, liquid eyes, clutching the sword to her breasts with both hands.
Raucous laughter rolled down the deck, and Muktar followed close behind the sound of his merriment."A woman! You intend to teach a woman the sword?"
Conan bit back an oath, and contented himself with growling, "Anyone can learn the sword."
"Will you teach children next? This one," Muktar crowed to his crew, "will teach sheep to conquer theworld." Their mirth rose with his, and their comments became ribald.
Conan ground his teeth, his anger flashing to the heat of a blade in the smith-fire. This fat, lecherous apecalled itself a man? "A gold piece says in the tenth part of a glass I can teach her to defeat any of thesegoats who follow you!"
Muktar tugged at his beard, the smile now twisting his mouth into an emblem of hatred. "A gold piece?"he sneered. "I'd wager five on the ship's cook."
"Five," Conan snapped. "Done!"
"Talk to her, then, barbar." The captain's voice was suddenly oily and treacherous. "Talk to the wench,and we'll see if she can uphold your boasting."
Already Conan was wishing his words unsaid, but the gods, as usual in such cases, did not listen. Hedrew Yasbet aside and adjusted her hands on the sword hilt.
"Hold it so, girl." Her hand was unresisting-and gripped with as much strength as bread dough, or so itseemed to him. She had not taken her eyes from his face. "Mitre blast your hide, girl," he growled. "Claspthe hilt as you would a hand."
"You truly believe that I can do this," she said suddenly. There was wonder in her voice, and on her face."You believe that I can learn to use a sword. And defeat a man."
"I'd not have wagered on you, else," he muttered, then sighed. "I have known women who handled ablade as well as any man, and better than most. 'Tis not a weapon of brute muscle, as is an axe. Theneed is for endurance, and agility and quickness of hand. Only a fool denies a woman can be agile, orquick."
"But-to defeat a man!" she breathed. "I have never even held a sword before." Abruptly she frowned atthe blade. "This will not cut. Swords are supposed to cut. Even I know that."
Conan mouthed a silent prayer. "I chose it for that reason, for practice. Now it will serve you better than
another. The point can still draw blood, but you'll not kill this sailor by accident, so I'll not have to killMuktar."
"I see," she said, nodding happily. Her face firmed, and she started past him, but he seized her arm.
"Not yet, wench," he laughed softly. "First listen. These smugglers are deadly with a knife, especially inthe dark, but they are no warriors in the daylight." He paused for that to sink in, then added. "That beingso, were this a true fight, he would likely kill you in the space of three breaths."
Dismay painted her face. "Then how-"
"By remembering that you can run. By encouraging his contempt for you, and using it."
"I will not," she protested hotly. "I have as much pride as any man, including you."
"But no skill, as yet. You must win by trickery, and by surprise, for now. Skill will come later. Strike onlywhen he is off balance. At all other times, run. Throw whatever comes to hand, at his head or at his feet,but never at his sword for those objects he will easily knock aside. Let him think that you are panicked.Scream if you wish, but do not let the screaming seize you."
"I will not scream," she said sullenly.
He suppressed a smile. "It would but make him easier to defeat, for he would see you the more as awoman and the less as an opponent."
"But the sword. What do I do with the sword?"
"Beat him with it," he said, and laughed at her look of complete uncomprehension. "Think of the sword asa stick, girl," Understanding dawned on her features; she hefted the sica with both hands like a club. "Andforget not to poke him" he added. "Such as these usually think only to hack forgetting a sword has apoint. You remember it, and you'll win."
"How long will you talk to the wench?" Muktar shouted. "Your minutes are gone. An you talk longenough, perhaps Bayan will grow old, and even your jade can defeat him."
Beside the bearded sea captain stood a wiry man of middle height, his sun-darkened torso stripped tothe waist. With his bare tulwar he drew gleaming circles of steel, first to one side then the other, a tightsmile showing yellowed teeth.
Conan's heart sank. He had hoped Muktar would indeed choose his fat ship's cook, or one of the biggermen of the crew, so as to intimidate Yasbet with her opponent's sheer size. Thus Yasbet's agility wouldcount for more. Even if it meant eating his words, he could not allow her to be hurt. A bitter taste on histongue, he opened his mouth to end it.
Yasbet strode out to meet the seaman before Conan could speak, shortsword gripped in her two smallhands. She fixed the man with a defiant glare. "Bayan, are you called?" she sneered. "From the look ofyou, it should be Baya, for you have about you a womanish air."
Conan stood with his mouth still open, staring at her. Had the wench gone mad?
Bayan's dark eyes seemed about to pop from his narrow head. "I will make you beg me to prove mymanhood to you," he snarled.
"Muktar!" Conan called. Yasbet looked at him, pleading in her eyes, and despite himself he changed
what he had been about to say. "This is but a demonstration, Muktar. No more. Does he harm her, you'lldie a heartbeat after he does."
The bearded man jerked his head in a reluctant nod. Leaning close to Bayan he began whispering withlow urgency.
The wiry sailor refused to listen. Raising his curved blade on high, he leaped toward Yasbet, a snarlinggrimace on his face and a terrible ululating cry rising from his mouth.
Conan put a hand to his sword hilt.
Bayan landed before her without striking, though, and it was immediately obvious that he thought tofrighten her into immediate surrender. His grimace became a gloating smile.
Yasbet's face paled, but with a shout of her own she thrust the sword into the seaman's midsection. Theunsharpened blade could not penetrate far, but the point was enough to start a narrow stream of blood,and the force of the blow bulged Bayan's eyes.
He gagged and staggered, but she did not rest. Clumsily, but swiftly, she brought the blunted blade downlike a club on the shoulder of his sword arm. Bayan's scream was not of his choosing, this time. His bladedropped from a hand suddenly useless. Before the tulwar struck the deck Yasbet caught him a glancingblow on the side of the head, splitting his scalp to the bone. With a groan Bayan sank to his knees.
Conan watched in amazement as the wiry sailor tried desperately to crawl away. Yasbet pursued himacross the deck, beating at his shoulders and back with the edgeless steel. Yelping, Bayan found himselfagainst the rail. At one and the same time he tried to curl himself into a ball and claw his way through thewood to safety.
"Surrender!" Yasbet demanded, standing above him like a fury. She stabbed at Bayan's buttocks,drawing a howl and a stain of red on his dirty once-white trousers.
Hand on his dagger, Muktar started toward her, a growl rising in his throat. Suddenly Conan's blade wasa shining barrier before the captain's eyes.
"She won, did she not?" the young Cimmerian asked softly. "And you owe me five gold pieces. Or shall Ishave your beard at the shoulders?"
Another shriek came from Bayan; the other buttock of his trousers bore a spreading red patch as well,now.
"She won," Muktar muttered. He flinched as Conan caressed his beard with the broadsword, then almostshouted, "The wench won!"
"See that this goes no further," Conan said warningly. He got a reluctant nod in reply. When theCimmerian thrust out his palm, the gold coins were counted into it with even greater reluctance.
"I won!" Yasbet shouted. Waving her shortsword above her head, she capered gaily about the deck "Iwon!"
Conan sheathed his blade and swept her into the air, swinging her in a circle. "Did I not say that youwould?"
"You did!" she laughed. "Oh, you did! On my oath, I will believe anything that you tell me from thismoment. Anything."
He started to lower her feet to the deck, but her arms wove about his neck, and in some fashion he foundhimself kissing her. A pleasant armful, indeed, he thought. Soft round breasts flattened against his broadchest.
Abruptly he pulled her loose and set her firmly on the deck. "Practice, girl. There's a mort of practice tobe done before I grind an edge on that blade for you. And you did not fight as I told you. I should take aswitch to you for that. You could have been hurt."
"But, Conan," she protested, her face falling.
"Place your feet so," he said, demonstrating, "for balance. Do it, girl!"
Sullenly she complied, and he began to show her the exercises in the use of the short blade. That was theproblem, he thought grimly, about setting out to protect a wench. Sooner or later you found yourselfprotecting her from you.
Squatting easily on his heels against the pitching of the ship as it breasted long swells, Conan watchedYasbet work her blunted blade against a leather-wrapped bale of cloaks and tunics. Despite a fresheningwind, sweat rolled down her face, but already she had gone ten times as long as she had managed thefirst day. She still wore her mannish garb, but had left off the woolen tunic, complaining that the coarsefabric scratched. The full curves of her breasts swelled at the lacings of her jerkin, threatening to burst therawhide cords at her every exertion.
Sword arm dropping wearily, she looked at him with artistic pleading in her eyes. "Please, Conan, let meretire to my tent." That tent, no more than a rough structure of grimy canvas, had been his idea, both tokeep her from the constant wetting of sudden squalls and to shelter her sleep from lustful eyes. "Please?Already I will be sore."
"There's plenty of liniment," he said gruffly.
"It smells. And it stings. Besides, I cannot rub it on my back. Perhaps if you-"
"Enough rest," he said, motioning her back to the bale.
"Slaver," she muttered, but her shortsword resumed its whacking against leather.
Well over half their voyage was done. The coast of Hyrkania was now a dark line on the eastern horizon,though they had yet a way north to sail. Every day since placing the sica in her hands he had forcedYasbet to practice, exercising from gray dawn to purple dusk. He had dragged her from her blankets,poured buckets of water over her head when she whined of the midday heat, and threatened keelhaulingwhen she begged to stop her work. He had tended and bandaged blisters on her small hands, as well,and to his surprise those blisters seemed at once a mark of pride to her and a spur.
Akeba dropped down beside him, eyeing Yasbet with respect. "She learns. An you teach so well, and toa woman, there is need of you in the army, to rain the many recruits we take of late."
"She has no ideas of swordplay to unlearn," Conan replied. "Also, she does exactly as I say"
"Exactly?" Akeba laughed, lifting an eyebrow. At the look on Conan's face he pulled his countenance intoan expression of exaggerated blandness.
"Does your stomach still trouble you?" the youthful Cimmerian asked hopefully.
"My head and my legs now ignore the pitching," Akeba replied with a fixed grin.
Conan gave him a doubtful look. "Then perhaps you would like some well-aged mussels. Muktar has akeg of the ripest-"
"No, thank you, Conan," the Turanian said in haste, a certain tautness around his mouth. As though eagerto change the subject, he added, "I have not noticed Bayan about today. You did not drop him over theside, did you?"
The Cimmerian's mouth tightened. "I overheard him discussing his plans for Yasbet, and I spoke to himabout it."
"In friendly fashion, I trust. 'Tis you who mutters that these sea rats would welcome an excuse to slit ourthroats."
"In friendly fashion," Conan agreed. "He is nursing his bruises in his blankets this day."
"Good," the Turanian said grimly. "She is of an age with Zorelle."
"A tasty morsel, that girl," Sharak said, sitting down on Conan's other side. "Were I but twenty yearsyounger I would take her from you, Cimmerian."
Yasbet's sword clanged on the deck, drawing all three men's eyes. She glared at them furiously. "I am notrained ape or dancing bear that you three may squat like farm louts and be entertained by me!"
She stalked away, then back to snatch up the sica-her eyes daring them to speak, as she did-andmarched down the deck to disappear within her small tent before the mast.
"Your wench begins to develop a temper, Conan," Sharak said, staring after her. "Perhaps you havemade a mistake in teaching her to use a weapon."
Akeba nodded with mock gravity. "She is no longer the shy and retiring maiden that once she was,Cimmerian, thanks to you. Of course, I realize that she is no longer a maiden at all, also thanks to you,but at least you could gentle her before she begins challenging us all to mortal combat."
"How can you talk so?" Conan protested. "But moments gone you likened her to your own daughter."
"Aye," Akeba said gravely, his laughter gone. "I was much concerned with Zorelle's virtue while shelived. I see things differently now. Now she is dead, I hope that she had what joy she could of her life."
"I have not touched her," Conan muttered reluctantly, and bridled at their disbelieving stares. "I rescuedher. She's innocent and alone, with none to protect her but me. Mitra's Mercies! As well ask a huntsmanto pen a gazelle fawn and slay it there for sport."
Sharak hooted with laughter. "The tiger and the gazelle. But which of you is which? Which hunter, whichprey? The wench has you marked, Cimmerian."
"'Tis true," Akeba said. He essayed a slight smile. "The girl is among those aboard this vessel who thinkher your wench. Zandru's Nine Hells, do you think to be a holyman?"
"I may let the pair of you swim the rest of the way," Conan growled. "I tell you...." His words trailed offas Muktar loomed over the three men.
The bull-necked man tugged at his beard, spread fan-shaped across his chest, and eyed Conan withspeculation. "We are followed," he said finally. "A galley."
Conan rose smoothly to his feet and strode to the stern, Akeba and Sharak scrambling in his wake.Muktar followed more slowly.
"I see nothing but water," the Turanian sergeant complained, shading his eyes. Sharak mutteredagreement, squinting furiously.
Conan saw the follower, though, seeming no more than a chip on the water in the distance, but with thefaint sweep of motion at its sides that told of long oars straining for speed.
"Pirates?" Conan asked. Although there were many such on the Vilayet Sea, he did not truly believethose who followed were numbered among them.
Muktar shrugged. "Perhaps." He did not sound as if he believed it either.
"What else could they be?" Akeba demanded.
Muktar glanced sideways at Conan, but did not speak.
"I still see nothing," Sharak put in.
"How soon before they come up on us?" Conan said.
"Near dark," Muktar replied. He looked at the gray-green water, its long swells feathering whitely in thewind, then peered at the sky, where pale gray clouds were layered against the afternoon blue. "We mayhave a storm before, though. The Vilayet is a treacherous bitch."
The Cimmerian's eyes locked on the approaching ship, one huge fist thumping the rail as he thought. Howto fight the battle that must come, and win? How?
"If we have a storm," the old astrologer said, "then we will hide from them in it."
"If it comes," Conan told him.
"I have counted their oarstroke," Muktar said abruptly, "and they will kill slaves if they do not slacken it.Yet I do not believe they will. No one cares enough about Hyrkanians to chase them with such vigor.And Foam Dancer is a small ship, not a dromond loaded to the gunnels with ivory and spices. It must beyou three, or the wench. Have you the crown of Turan hidden in your bales? Is your jade a princessstolen from her father? Why do they follow so?"
"We are traders," Conan said levelly. "And you have been paid to carry us to Hyrkania and back toTuran."
"I've gotten no coin for the last."
"You will get your gold. Unless you let pirates take our trade goods. And your ship. Then all you'llreceive is a slaver's manacles, an you survive."
Motioning the others to follow, the big Cimmerian left Muktar muttering into his beard and peering at theship behind.
In the waist of the ship Conan took a place by the rail where he, too, could watch the galley. It seemedlarger, now. Tamur joined them.
"It follows us," Conan said quietly.
"Baalsham," the Hyrkanian snarled at the same instant that Akeba, nodding, said, "Jhandar."
Sharak shook his staff at the galley with surprising fierceness. "Let him send his demons. I am ready forthem."
Tamur's dark eyes shone. "This time we will carve him as a haunch of beef if he has a thousand demons."
Conan met Akeba's gaze. It seemed more likely that those on Foam Dancer would be meat on a spit.
"How many men does such a vessel carry?" the Turanian asked. "I know little of naval matters."
Conan's own knowledge of the sea was limited to his short time with the smugglers in Sultanapur, but hehad been pursued by such vessels before. "There are two banks of oars to a side, but the oar-slaves willnot be used to fight. A vessel of that size might carry five score besides the crew."
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rigging lines humming in the rising wind. Then Sharaksaid hollowly, "So many? This adventuring begins to seem ill-suited for a man of my years."
"By the One-Father, I shall die happy," Tamur said, "an I know Baalsham goes with me into the longnight."
Akeba shook his head bleakly. "He will not be on this ship. Such men send others to do their killing. Butat least we shall find blood enough to pay our ferryman's fee, eh, Cimmerian?"
"It will be a glorious fight in which to die," Tamur agreed.
"I do not intend to die yet," the Cimmerian said grimly.
"The storm," Sharak said, his words holding a new excitement. "The storm will hide us." The clouds werethicker now, and darker, obscuring the lowering sun.
"Mayhap," Conan replied. "But we will not depend on that."
The god of the icy peaks and wind-ravaged crags of Conan's Cimmerian homeland was Crom, DarkLord of the Mound, who gave a man life and will, and nothing more. It was given to each man to carryhis own fate in his hands and his heart and his head.
Conan strode aft to Muktar, who still stood gazing at the galley. The bronze glint of its ram could be seenplainly now, knifing through gray swells. "Will they reach us before night falls?" Conan asked the captain."Or before the storm breaks?"
"The storm may never break," Muktar muttered. "On the Vilayet lightning may come from a sky wherethe sun was bright an instant before, or clouds may darken for days, then lift without a drop of rain. Doyou lose me my ship, Cimmerian, I'll see your corpse."
"It was in my mind you were a sea captain," Conan taunted, "not an old woman wanting only to play withher grandchildren." He waited for Muktar's neck to swell with anger and his face empurple, then went on."Listen. We may all be saved. For as long as we are able, we must run before them. Then...."
As Conan spoke the dark color slowly left Muktar's face. Once he blanched, and tried to stop theCimmerian's flow of words, but Conan would not pause for the other's objections. He pressed on, andafter a time Muktar began to listen intently, then to nod.
"It may work," he said finally. "By Dagon's Golden Tail, it may just work. See to your nomads,Cimmerian." Whirling with more agility that would have seemed possible, the bulky captain roared, "To
me, you whoreson dogs! To me, and listen to how I'll save your worthless hides still another time!"
"What in Mitra's name is that all about?" Akeba asked when Conan was back at the rail.
As Muktar's voice rose and fell in waves, haranguing the crew in the stern, Conan told his companionswhat he planned.
A grin appeared on Sharak's thin face, and he broke into a little dance. "We have them. We have them.What a grand adventure!"
Tamur's smile was wolfish. "Whether we escape or die, this will be a thing to be told around thecampfires. Come, Turanian, and show us if any remnant of Hyrkanian blood remains in you." With a wryshake of his head Akeba followed Tamur to join the other nomads.
It was done then, Conan thought. Nothing remained but... Yasbet. Even as her name came into his head,she was there before him. Her soft round eyes caressed his face.
"I heard," she said. "Where is my place in this?"
"I will make you a place in the midst of the bales," he told her, "where you will be safe. From archers orslingers, at least."
"I will not hide." Her eyes flashed, suddenly no longer soft. "You've taught me much, but not to be acoward!"
"You'll hide if I must bind you hand and foot. But if it comes to that, I promise you'll not sit withoutwincing for a tenday. Give me your sword," he added abruptly.
"My sword? No!"
She clutched the hilt protectively, but he snatched the blade from her and started down the deck. Shefollowed in silence, hurt, tear-filled eyes seeming to fill her face.
In front of the mast the ship's grindstone, where the crew sharpened axes and swords alike, was fastenedsecurely to the planking. Working the foot treadle, Conan set the edge of the blunt sica to the spinningstone. Sparks showered from the metal. With his free hand he dripped oil from a clay jug onto the wheel.The heat must not grow too great, or the temper of the blade would be ruined.
Yasbet scrubbed a hand across her cheek, damp with tears. "I thought that you meant to... that you...."
"You are no woman warrior," he said gruffly. "Not in these few days. But you may have need to defendyourself, an the worst comes."
"Then you will not make me," she began, but he quelled her with an icy glance. The blood of battle wasrising in him, driving out what small softness he had within. When steel was bared, the slightest remnant ofgentleness could slay the one who bore it. Fiery sparks fountained from steel that was no harder than himwho sharpened it.
About Foam Dancer's deck men rushed, readying the parts of Conan's plan. The clouds darkened aboveas if dusk had come two turns of the glass before its time, and wind strummed the rigging like a lute, yetno moisture fell on the deck save spume from wave shattering on the bow.
Bit by bit the galley closed the distance, a deadly bronze-beaked centipede skittering across the water,seemingly unimpeded by the rising waves through which Foam Dancer now labored, wallowing heavilyfrom trough to trough. Foam Dancer seemed a sluggish water beetle, waiting to die.
"They busy themselves in the bows!" Muktar bellowed suddenly.
Conan finished tying the line around Yasbet's waist where she lay between stacked bales, themselveslashed firmly to the deck. "You've no fear of being washed overboard now," he told her, "no matter howviolent the storm becomes."
"It's the catapult!" Muktar cried.
Conan started to turn away, but Yasbet seized his hand, pressing her lips to his callused palm. "I shall bewaiting for you," she murmured, "when the battle is done." She tugged his hand lower, and he found hisfingers inside her leather jerkin, a swelling breast nestled in his hand.
With an oath he pulled his hand free, though not without reluctance. "There is no time for that now," hesaid roughly. Did she not realize how difficult it was for him already, he wondered, protecting a wench helonged to ravish?
"They prepare to fire!" Muktar shouted, and Conan put Yasbet from his mind.
"Now!" the young Cimmerian cried. "Cut!"
In the stern Muktar raced to the steering oar, roughly shoving aside the burly steersman to seize the thickwooden shaft himself. In the bow two scruffy smugglers drew curved swords and chopped. Lines partedwith loud snaps, and the bundles of extra sailcloth Conan had put over the side were loosed. The sleekvessel leaped forward, all but jumping from wave-top to wave-top.
Almost beneath her stern a stone fell, half-a-man-weight of granite, raising a fountain that drenchedMuktar.
"Now, Muktar!" Conan shouted. Snatching an oilskin bag, he ran aft. "I said now! The rest of you watchthe pots!"
The deck was dotted with scores of covered clay pots, scavenged from every corner of the ship. Somehissed as foaming water swirled around them and ran across the planking.
Cursing at the top of his lungs, Muktar heaved at the steersman's oar, its massive thickness bowing fromthe strain. Slowly Foam Dancer responded, coming around. The crew dashed to run out long sweeps,stroking and backing desperately to aid the turn.
This was the point that had made Muktar's face pale when Conan told him of it. Turned broadside to theline of waves, the vessel heeled over, further, further, till her rail lay nearly on the surface. Faces twistedwith fear, the smugglers worked their oars with feverish intensity. Akeba, Sharak, and the Hyrkaniansscrambled to keep the clay containers from toppling or washing over the side. For a froth-peaked graymountain of water now rolled over the rail, till it seemed that men waded in shallows.
Among those laboring men Conan's eyes suddenly lit on Yasbet, free of her bonds, struggling among therest of the pots. His curses were borne away by the wind, and there was no time to do anything abouther.
Sluggishly but certainly Foam Dancer's bow came into the waves, and the vessel lifted. She did not rideeasily, as she had before-there was likely water enough below decks to float a launch-but still she crested
that first wave and raced on. Back toward the galley.
On the other ship, the catapult arm stood upright. If another stone had been launched, the splash of its fallhad been lost in the rough seas. On the galley's decks, seeing their intended prey turn back on them, menraced about like ants in a crushed anthill. But not so many men as Conan had feared, unless they keptothers below. Most of those he could make out wore the twinned queues of sailors.
"We've lost half the pots!" Akeba shouted over the howling wind. "Gone into the sea!"
"Then ready what we have!" Conan bellowed back. "In full haste!" The Hyrkanians took up oilskinsacks, like that Conan carried.
Those on the other ship, apparently believing their quarry intended to come to grips, had now providedthemselves with weapons. Swords, spears and axes bristled along the galley's rail. In its bow, menlabored to winch down the catapults arm for another shot, but too late, Conan knew; Foam Dancer wasnow too close.
Undoing the strings that held the mouth of his sack, Conan drew out its dry contents: a quiver of arrows,each with rags tied behind the head, and a short, recurved bow. Near him a Hyrkanian, already holdinghis bow, knocked the top from a clay crock. Within coals glowed dully, hissing from the spray that fellinside the container. A few quick puffs fanned them to crackling flame, and into that fire Conan thrust anarrow. The cloth tied to it burst into flame.
In one swift motion the big Cimmerian turned, nocked, drew and released. The fire arrow flew straight upto the galley, lodging in a mast. His was the signal. A shower of fire arrows followed, peppering thegalley.
Conan fired again and again as the two ships drew closer. Though now the galley tried to veer away,Foam Dancer gave chase. On the galley men rushed with buckets of sand to extinguish points of flame,but two blossomed for each that died. Tendrils of fire snaked up tarred ropes, and a great square sailwas suddenly aflame, the conflagration whipped by shrieking wind.
"Closer!" Conan called to Muktar. "Close under the stern!"
The bull-necked man muttered, but Foam Dancer curved away from her pursuit, crossing the galley'swake a short spear-throw from its stern.
Hastily Conan capped the pot of coals, edging it into the oilskin bag with ginger respect for its blisteringheat. Once the sack whirled about his head, twice, and then it arced toward the galley, dropping to itsdeck unnoticed by men frantically cutting away the flaming sail.
"The oil!" Conan shouted even as the sack fell. He seized another jar, this with its lid sealed in place withpitch, and threw it to smash aboard the galley. "Quickly, before the distance widens!"
More sealed pots flew toward the other vessel. Half fell into tossing water, but the rest landed on thegalley's stern. The two ships diverged, but now the galley's burning sail was over the side, and her menwere turning to Foam Dancer.
Conan pounded his fist on the rail. "Where is it?" he muttered. "Why has nothing-"
Flame exploded in the stern of the galley as spreading oil at last reached the coals that had burned out ofthe sack. Screams rose from the galley, and wild cheers from the men of Foam Dancer.
In that instant the rains came at last, a solid sheet of water that cut off all vision of the other ship. Wind
that had howled now raged like a mad beast, and Muktar's vessel reeled to the hammer blows of wavesthat towered above her mast.
"Keep us sailing north!" Conan shouted. He had to put his mouth close to Muktar's ear to be heard, evenso.
Straining at the steering oar, the bearded man shook his head. "You do not sail a storm of the Vilayet!"he bellowed. "You survive it!"
And then the wind rose, ripping away even shouted words as they left the mouth, and talk wasimpossible.
The wind did not abate, nor did the furious waves. Gray mountains of water, their peaks whipped toviolent white spray, hurled themselves at Foam Dancer as if the gods themselves, angered by her name,would prove that she could not dance with their displeasure. Those who had dared to pit this cockleshellagainst the unleashed might of the Vilayet could do naught but cling and wait.
After an endless age, the rains began to slacken and, at last, were gone. The wind that flogged choppywaves to whitecaps became no more than stiff, and whipped away the clouds to reveal a bright gibbousmoon hung in a black velvet sky, its pale light half changing day for night. There was neither sight nor hintof the galley.
"The fire consumed it," Sharak gloated. "Or the storm."
"Perhaps," Conan answered doubtfully. An the fire had not been well caught, the storm would haveextinguished it. And if Foam Dancer could ride that tempest, then the galley, if well handled, could havetoo. To Muktar, who had returned the steering oar to the steersman, he said, "Find the coast. We mustfind how far we've gone astray."
"By dawn," the bearded man announced confidently. He seemed to feel that the battle with the sea hadbeen his alone; the victory had put even more swagger into his walk.
Yasbet, approaching, laid a hand on Conan's arm. "I must speak with you," she said softly.
"And I with you," he replied grimly. "What in Mitra's name did you mean by-"
But she was walking away, motioning for him to follow, stepping carefully among the night-shroudedshapes of men who had collapsed where they stood from exhaustion. Growling fearsome oaths under hisbreath, Conan stalked after her. She disappeared into the pale shadow of her sagging tent, its heavyfabric hanging low from the pounding of the storm. Furiously jerking aside the flap, he ducked inside, andhad to kneel for lack of headroom.
"Why did you leave where I put you?" he demanded. "And how? I made that knot too firm for yourfingers to pick. You could have been killed, you fool wench! And you told me you'd stay there. Promisedit!"
She faced his anger, if not calmly at least unflinchingly. "Indeed your fingers wove a strong knot, but thesharp blade you gave me cut it nicely. As to why, you have taught me to defend myself. How could I dothat lashed like a bundle for the laundress? And I did not promise. I said I would be waiting for you whenthe battle was done. Did I not better that? I came to find you."
"I remember a promise!" he thundered. "And you broke it!"
Disconcertingly, she smiled and said quietly, "Your cloak is wet through." Delicate fingers unfastened the
bronze pin that held the garment, and soft arms snaked about his neck as she pushed the cloak from hisshoulders. Sensuous lips brushed the line of his jaw, his ear.
"Stop that," he growled, pushing her away. "You'll not distract me from my purpose. Had I a switch tohand, you would think yourself better off in your amah's grasp."
With an exasperated sigh she leaned on one arm, frowning at him. "But you have no switch," she said. Ashe stared in amazement, she undid the laces of her jerkin and drew it over her head. Full, roundedbreasts swung free, shimmering satin flesh that dried his throat. "Still," she went on, "your hand is hard,and your arm strong. I have no doubt it will suffice for your purpose, did you call it?" Boots and trousersjoined the jerkin. Twisting on her knees to face away from him, she pressed her face to the deck.
Conan swallowed hard. Those lush buttocks of honeyed ivory would have brought sweat to the face of astatue, and he was all too painfully aware at that moment that he was flesh and blood. "Cover yourself,girl," he said hoarsely, "and stop this game. 'Tis dangerous, for I am no girl's toy."
"I play no game," she said, kneeling erect again, her knees touching his. She made no move toward hergarments. "I know that all aboard this vessel think I am your... your leman." Her cheeks pinkened; that,more than her nudity, made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut. A brief look of triumph flitted acrossher face. "Have I not complained to you before," she said fiercely, "about protecting me when I did notwant to be protected?"
Unclenching white-knuckled fists, he pulled her to him; she gasped as she was crushed against his chest."The toying is done, wench," he growled. "Say go, and I will go. But if you do not...." He toppled themboth to the deck, her softness a cushion under him, his agate blue eyes gazing into here with unblinkingintensity.
"I am no girl," she breathed, "but a woman. Stay." She wore a triumphant smile openly now.
Conan thought it strange, that smile, but she was indeed a woman, and his mind did not long remain onsmiles.
From a rocky headland covered with twisted, stunted scrub, waves crashing at its base, Conan peeredinland, watching for Tamur's return. The nomad had claimed that he would have horses for them all inthree or four turns of the glass, but he had left at dawn, and the sun sat low in its journey toward thewestern horizon.
On a short stretch of muddy sand north of the headland Foam Dancer lay drawn up, heeling over slightlyon her keel. An anchor had been carried up the beach to dunes covered with tall, sparse brown grass, itslong cable holding the vessel against the waves that tugged at her stern. Cooking fires dotted the sandbetween the ship and the dunes. Yasbet's tent had been pitched well away from the blankets of theHyrkanians and the sailors, scattered among their piles of driftwood.
As Conan turned back to his scanning, a plume of dust inland and to the south caught his eye. It could beTamur, with the horses, or it could be... who? He wished he knew more about this land. At least thesentry he had set atop the highest of the dunes could see the dust, too. He glanced in that direction andbit back an oath. The man was gone! The dust was closer, horses plain at its base. Tamur? Or someother?
Making an effort to appear casual, he walked up the headland to where a steep downward slope led tothe beach, dotted with wind-sculpted trees, their gnarled roots barely finding a grip in the rocky soil.
Between the dunes and the plain lay thickets of such growth. He half-slid down that slope, still making aneffort to show no haste.
At the fires he leaned over Akeba, who sat crosslegged before a fire, honing his sword. "Horsemenapproach," he said quietly. "I know not if it is Tamur or others. But the sentry is nowhere to be seen."
Stiffening, the Turanian slid his honing stone into his pouch and his curved blade into its scabbard. He hadremoved his distinctive tunic and spiral helmet, for the Turanian army was little loved on this side of theVilayet. "I will take a walk in the dunes. You can see to matters here?" Conan nodded, and Akeba,taking up a spade as if answering a call of nature, strolled toward the dunes.
"Yasbet!" Conan called, and she appeared at the flap of her tent. He motioned her to come to him.
She made a great show of buckling on her sword belt and adjusting its fit on her hips before making herway slowly across the sand. As soon as she was in arm's reach of him, he grabbed her shoulders andfirmly sat her down in the protection of a large driftwood bole.
"Stay there," he said when she made to rise. Turning to the others, scattered among the campfires, hesaid, as quietly as he could and still be heard, "None of you move." Some turned their faces to himcuriously, and Muktar got to his feet. "I said, don't move!" Conan snapped. Such was the tone ofcommand in his voice that the bearded captain obeyed. Conan went on quickly. "Horsemen will be hereany moment. I know not who. Be still!" A Hyrkanian drew back the hand he had stretch forth for hisbow, and a sailor, who had risen with a look of running on his face, froze. "Besides this, the sentry hasdisappeared. Someone may be watching us. Choose your place of covet and when I give the word-notyet!-seize your weapons and be ready. Now!"
In an instant the beach seemed to become deserted as men rolled behind piles of driftwood. Conansnatched a bow and quiver, and dropped behind the bole with Yasbet. He raised himself enough tobarely look over it, searching the dunes.
"Why did you see to my safety before telling the others?" Yasbet demanded crossly. "All my life I havebeen wrapped in swaddling. I will be coddled no longer."
"Are you the hero in a saga, then?" Was that the drumming of hooves he heard? Where in Zandru's NineHells was Akeba? "Are you impervious to steel and proof against arrows?"
"A heroine," she replied. "I will be a heroine, not a hero."
Conan snorted. "Sagas are fine for telling before a fire of a cold night, or for entertaining children, but weare made of flesh and blood. Steel can draw blood, and arrows pierce the flesh. Do I ever see youattempting to be a hero-or a heroine you'll think your bottom has suddenly become a drum. Be still,now."
Without taking his eyes from the dunes he felt the arrows in his quiver, checking the fletching.
"Will we die then, Conan, on this pitiful beach?" she asked.
"Of course not," he said quickly. "I'll take you back to Aghrapur and put pearls around your neck, if Idon't return you to Fatima for a stubborn wench first." Of a certainty the sound of galloping horses wascloser.
For a long moment she seemed to consider that. Then suddenly she shouted, "Conan of Cimmeria is mylover, and I his! I glory in sharing his blankets!"
Conan stared at her. "Crom, girl! I told you to be still!"
"If I am to die, I want the world to know what we share."
As Conan opened his mouth, the drumming abruptly became a thunder, and scores of horses burst overthe dunes, spraying muddy sand beneath their hooves, roiling in a great circle on the beach. Conannocked an arrow, then hesitated when he saw that many of the horses had no riders. Tamur appearedout of the shifting mass of riders.
"Do not loose!" Conan shouted, striding out to meet the Hyrkanian, who swung down from his horse asConan approached. "Erlik take you, Tamur! You could have ended wearing more feathers than a goose,riding in that way."
"Did not Andar tell you who we were?" The scarred Hyrkanian said, frowning. "I saw you set him towatch."
"He was relieving himself," Akeba said disgustedly, joining them, "and did not bother to set another in hisplace." He was trailed by a narrowjawed Hyrkanian, greased mustaches framing his mouth and chin.
Tamur glared at the man, who shrugged and said, "What is there to watch for, Tamur? These scavengingdungrollers?" Andar jerked his head at the mounted men, who sat their small, shaggy horses in a loosecircle about those they herded.
"You did not keep watch as you were told," Tamur grated. He turned and called to the other Hyrkanians,"Does any here stand for this one?" None answered.
Alarm flashed onto Andar's face, and he grabbed for his yataghan. Tamur spun back to the mustachedman, his blade flashing from its scabbard, striking. Andar fell, sword halfdrawn, his nearly severed neckspurting blood into the sand.
Tamur kicked the still-jerking body. "Take this defiler of his mother's womb into the dunes and leave himwith the offal he thought was more important than keeping watch."
Two of the Hyrkanians seized the dead man by his ankles and dragged him away. None of the others somuch as twitched an eyebrow: Behind him Conan could hear Yasbet retching.
"At least you got the horses," Conan said.
"They look more like sheep," Akeba muttered.
Tamur gave the Turanian a pained look. "Perhaps, but they are the best mounts to be found on the coast.Hark you now, Conan. These horse traders tell me they have seen other strangers. Give them what theyask for the mounts, and they will tell what they know."
"What they ask," Conan said drily. "They would not be blood kin of yours, would they, Tamur?"
The Hyrkanian looked astonished. "You are an outlander, Cimmerian, and ignorant, so I will not kill you.They are the scavengers and dungrollers Andar named them, living by digging roots and robbing thenests of seabirds. From time to time they loot a ship driven ashore by a storm." He thrust his blade intothe sand to clean away Andar's blood. "They are no better than savages. Come, I will take you to theirleader."
The men on the shaggy horses were a ragged lot, their sheepskin coats moth-eaten, their striped tunicsthreadbare and even filthier than when they were worn by seamen whose luckless vessels had ended on
this coast. The leader was a stringy, weather-beaten man with one suspicious, darting eye and a sunkensocket where the other had been. About his neck he wore a necklace of amethysts, half the gilding wornfrom the brass. It seemed one of those ships had carried a troll.
"This is Baotan," Tamur said, gesturing to the one-eyed man. "Baotan, this is Conan, a trader known infar lands and a warrior feared by many."
Baotan grunted and shifted his eye to Conan. "You want my horses, trader? For each horse, fiveblankets, a sword and an axe, plus a knife, a cloak, and five pieces of silver."
"Too much," Conan said.
Tamur groaned. For Conan's ear alone, he muttered, "Forget the trading, Cimmerian. 'Tis the means todestroy Baalsham we seek."
Conan ignored him. Poor traders were little respected, and a lack of respect would mean poorinformation, if not outright lies. "For every two horses, one blanket and one sword."
Baotan showed the stumps of yellowed teeth in a grin, and climbed down from his horse. "We talk," hesaid.
The talk, Baotan and Conan squatting by one of the campfires, was more leisurely than Conan wouldhave liked, yet he had to maintain his pose as a trader. Tamur produced clay jugs of sour Hyrkanian beerand lumps of mare's milk cheese. The beer made Baotan's eyes light up, but the one-eyed man gaveground grudgingly, and often stopped bargaining entirely to talk of the weather or some incident in hiscamp.
At last, though, the bargain was struck. The sky was beginning to darken; men dragged in moredriftwood to pile on the fires. For the pack horses they needed, one sword and one blanket. For theanimals they would ride, one axe and one blanket. Plus a knife for every man with Baotan and two piecesof gold for the stringy man himself.
"Done," Conan said.
Baotan nodded and began to produce items from beneath his coat. A pouch. A small pair of tongs. Whatappeared to be a copy of a bulls horn, half-sized and molded in clay. Before Conan's astonished gaze,Baotan stuffed herbs from the pouch into the clay horn. With the tongs, the one-eyed man deftly pluckeda coal from the fire and used it to puff the herbs to a smoldering burn. Conan's jaw dropped as the mandrew deeply on the horn, inhaling the pungent smoke. Tilting back his head, Baotan expelled the smokein a long stream toward the sky, then offered the horn to Conan.
Tamur leaned close to speak in his ear. "'Tis the way they seal a bargain. You must do the same. I toldyou they were savages."
Conan was prepared to believe it. Doubtfully he took the clay horn. The smoldering herbs smelled like afire in a rubbish heap. Putting it to his mouth, he inhaled, and barely suppressed a grimace. It tasted evenworse than it smelled, and felt hot enough to blister his tongue. Fighting an urge to gag, he blew a streamof smoke toward the sky.
"They mix powdered dung with the herbs," Tamur said, grinning, "to insure even burning."
From across the fire Akeba laughed. "Would you like some aged mussels, Cimmerian?" he called, nearto rolling on the sand.
Conan ground his teeth and handed the clay horn back to Baotan, who stuck the horn in his mouth andbegan to emit small puffs of smoke. The Cimmerian shook his head. He had seen many strange customssince leaving the mountains of his homeland, but, sorcery aside, this was certainly the strangest.
When his mouth no longer felt as if he were attempting to eat a coal from the fire-though the taste yetremained-Conan said, "Have you seen any other strangers on the coast? You understand that I must beconcerned with other traders."
"Strangers," Baotan said through teeth clenched around the clay horn, "but no traders." Each word cameout accompanied by a puff of smoke. "They bought horses, too. No trade goods. Silver." He grinnedsuddenly. "They paid too much."
"Not traders," Conan said, pretending to muse. "That is strange indeed."
"Strangers are strangers. Their boat was much charred at the back, and some of them suffered fromburns."
The galley. It had survived both fire and storm after all. "Perhaps we might help these men," Conan said."How far off are they, and in which direction?"
Baotan waved a hand to the south. "Half a day. Maybe a day."
Far enough that they might not know Foam Dancer had also survived. But if that was so, why thehorses? Perhaps there was something here that Jhandar feared. Conan felt excitement rising.
"Use our campfires this night," he said to Baotan. "Akeba, Tamur, we ride at first light."
Yasbet appeared from the dark to nestle her hip against Conan's shoulder. "It grows cold," she said."Will you warm me?" Ribald laughter rose froth the listening men, but, oddly, a glare from her silencedthem, even Tamur and Baotan.
"That I will," Conan said, and as he rose flipped her squealing over his shoulder.
Her squeals had turned to laughter by the time they reached her tent. "Put me down, Conan," shemanaged between giggles. "Tis unseemly."
Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he whirled, staring into the dark, at the headland.
"Are you trying to make me dizzy, Conan? What is it?"
Imaginings, he told himself. Naught but imaginings. The galley and those it carried were far to the south,sure Foam Dancer and all aboard had perished in the storm.
"'Tis nothing, wench," he growled. She squealed with laughter as he ducked into the tent.
Che Fan rose slowly from the shadows where he had dropped, and peered at the beach below, dottedwith campfires. There was no more to learn by watching. The barbarian was abed for the night. He madehis way across the headland and down the far slope, gliding surefooted over the rough ground, a wraith inthe night.
Suitai was waiting at their small fire-well shielded by scrub growth-along with the six they had chosenfrom the uninjured to accompany them. The men huddled silently on the far side of the fire from theKhitans. They had seen just enough on the voyage to guess that the two blackrobed men carried a sortof deadliness they had never before encountered. Thus they feared greatly, and wisely, although still
ignorant.
"What did you see?" Suitai asked. He sipped at a steaming decoction of herbs.
Che Fan squatted by the fire, filling a cup with the same bitter liquid as he spoke. "They are there. Andthey have obtained horses from that dungbeetle Baotan."
"Then let us go down and kill them," Suitai said. "It may be more difficult if we must find them again." Thesix who had accompanied them from the galley shifted uneasily, but the Khitans did not appear to notice.
"Not until they have found what they came to seek," Che Fan replied. "The Great Lord will not bepleased if we return with naught but word of their deaths." He paused. "We must be careful of thebarbarian called Conan."
"He is but a man," Suitai said, "and will die as easily as any other."
Che Fan nodded slowly, uncertain why he had spoken such a thing aloud. And yet.... In his boyhood hadhe learned the art of appearing invisible, of hiding in the shadow of a leaf and becoming one with thenight, but there was that about the muscular barbarian's gaze that seemed to penetrate all such subterfuge.That was nonsense, he told himself. He was of the Brothers of the Way, and this Conan was but a man.He would die as easily as any other. Yet... the doubts remained.
Tugging his cloak closer about him against the brisk wind, Conan twisted on his sheepskin saddle pad tolook behind for the hundredth time since dawn. Short-grassed plain and rolling hills, so sparsely grownwith a single stunted tree was a startlement, revealed no sign of pursuit. Disgruntled, he faced front. Thepale yellow sun, giving little warmth in the chill air, rose ahead of them toward its zenith. The V layet laytwo nights behind. No matter what his eyes told him, deeper instinct said that someone followed, and thatinstinct had kept him alive at times when more civilized senses failed.
The party rode well bunched, half of the Hyrkanians leading strings of pack horses, cursing. The smallbeasts, seeming little larger than the hampers and bales lashed to their pack saddles, tried to turn theirtails into the wind whenever they found slack in the lead ropes. The men not so encumbered kept handsnear weapons and eyes swiveling in constant watch. It was not unknown for travelers to be attacked onthe plains of Hyrkania. Traders were usually immune, but more than one had lost his head.
Tamur galloped his shaggy horse between Conan and Akeba. "Soon we shall be at the Blasted Lands."
"You have been saying that since we left the sea," Conan grumbled. His temper was not improved by theway his feet dangled on either side of his diminutive mount.
"A few more hills, Cimmerian. But a few more. And you must be ready to play the trader. One of thetribes is sure to be camped nearby. Each takes its turn guarding the Blasted Lands."
"You've said that as well."
"I hope we find a village soon," Yasbet said through clenched teeth. She half stood in her stirrups then,seeing the amusement that flitted across the men's faces, sat again hastily, wincing.
Conan managed to keep a straight face. "There is liniment in one of the packs," he offered. It was not hisfirst time to do so.
"No," she said brusquely, the same answer she had given to his other offers. "I need no coddling."
"'Tis not coddling," he snapped, exasperated. "Anyone may use liniment for a sore... muscle."
"Let him rub some on," Sharak chortled. The astrologer clung to his horse awkwardly, like a stick figureplaced on a pony by children. "Or if not him, wench, then let me."
"Still your tongue, old man," Akeba said, grinning. "I see you ride none too easily yourself, and I maytake it in mind to coat you with so much liniment that you run ahead of us the rest of the way."
"You have done well, woman," Tamur said suddenly, surprising everyone. "I thought we would have totie you across your saddle before the sun was high, but you have the determination of a Hyrkanian."
"I thank you," she told him, glaring at the Cimmerian. "I was not allow... that is, I have never riddenbefore. I walked, or was carried in a palanquin." She eased herself on her saddle pad and muttered anoath. Sharak cackled until he broke into a fit of coughing. "I will use the liniment this night," Yasbet saidstiffly, "though I am not certain the cure won't be worse than the disease."
"Good," Conan said, "else by tomorrow you'll not be able to walk, much less-" He broke off as theytopped a rise. Spread before them was a great arc of yurts. More than a thousand of the domed feltstructures dotted the rolling plain like gray mushrooms. "There's the encampment you predicted, Tamur. Isuppose 'tis time for us to begin acting the part of traders."
"Wait. This could be ill," the nomad said. "There are perhaps four tribes camped here, not one. Amongso many there may well be one who remembers that we swore vengeance on Baalsham despite the ban.Do they realize we have brought you here to break the taboo on the Blasted Lands...." A murmur rosefrom the other Hyrkanians.
From the tents two score of furcapped horsemen galloped toward them, lance points glittering in therising sun.
"It is too late to turn back now." Conan kicked his mount forward. "Follow me, and remember to looklike traders."
"For violating a taboo," Tamur said, trailing after the Cimmerian, "a man is flayed alive, and kept so fordays while other parts important to a man are removed slowly. Burning slivers are thrust into his flesh."
"Flayed?" Sharak said hollowly. "Other parts? Burning slivers? Perhaps we could turn back after all?"
Yet he followed as well, as did the others, Yasbet riding with shoulders back and hand on sword hilt,Akeba in an apparently casual slouch above the cased bow strapped ahead of his saddle pad. The restof the Hyrkanians came more slowly, muttering, but they came.
Tamur raised his sword hand in greeting-and no doubt to show that he did not intend to draw theweapon-as they approached the other horsemen. "I see you. I am called Tamur, and am returned to mypeople from across the sea, bringing with me this trader, who is called Conan."
"I see you," the leader of the mounted nomads said, lifting his right hand. Squat and dark, mustaches thickwith grease dangling below his chin, he eyed Conan suspiciously from beneath the fur cap pulled down tohis shaggy brows. "I am called Zutan. It is late in the year for traders."
Conan put on a broad smile. "Then there will be no others to compete with me."
Zutan stared at him, expressionless, for a long moment. Then, wheeling his horse, he motioned them tofollow.
The riders from the encampment spread out in two lines, one to either side of Conan and his party,escorting them-or guarding them, perhaps-into the midst of the yurts, to a large open space in the centerof the crescent. People gathered around them, men in fur caps and thick sheepskin coats, women in longwoolen dresses, dyed in a rainbow of colors, with hooded fur cloaks held close about them. Those maleswho had reached an age to be called men were uniformly surrounded by the rankness of rancid grease,and those of middle years or beyond were so weathered and leather-skinned as to make their ages allbut impossible to tell. The women, however, were another matter. There were toothless crones amongthem, and wrinkled hags, but one and all they seemed clean. Many of the younger women were prettyenough for any zenana. They moved lithely to the tinkle of ankle bells beneath their skirts, and more thanone set of dark, kohled eyes followed the young giant above full, smiling lips.
Sternly Conan forced himself to ignore the women. He had come for a means to destroy Jhandar, not todisport himself with nomad wenches. Nor would the need to kill father, brother, husband or lover helphim. Nor would trouble with Yasbet.
As he swung down from his wooly mount, Conan leaned close to Tamur and spoke softly. "Why do thewomen not grease their hair also?"
Tamur looked shocked. "'Tis a thing for men, Cimmerian." He shook his head. "Hark you. I have meantto speak on this to you for some time. Many traders adopt this custom while among us. It would aid yourdisguise to be seen to do so. Perhaps you could grow a mustache as well? And this washing you insist onis a womanly thing. It saps the strength."
"I will think on these things," Conan said. He noticed Akeba, a wry smile on his dark face, peering at himover his horse.
"Long mustaches," the Turanian said. "And mayhap a beard like that of Muktar."
Conan growled, but before he could reply a sharp cry broke from Yasbet. He spun to see her half fallfrom her saddlepad in attempting to dismount. Darting, he caught her before she collapsed completely tothe ground.
"What ails you, wench?"
"My legs, Conan," she moaned. "They will not support me. And my... my...." Her face reddened. "My...muscles are sore," she whispered.
"Liniment," he said, and she moaned again. The crowd about them stirred. Hastily he lifted her back toher feet and put her hands on her sheepskin saddlepad. "Hold to that. You must keep your feet amoment longer." Half-sobbing, she tangled her hands in the thick wool; he turned immediately from her tomore pressing matters.
Zutan pushed his way to the forefront of those watching. Four squat, bow-legged elders followed him,and the murmurs of the onlookers were stilled. "I present to you," Zutan intoned, "the trader calledCo-nan. Know, Co-nan, that you are presented to the chiefs of the four tribes here assembled, toOlotan, to Arenzar, to Zoan, to Sibuyan. Know that you are presented to men who answer only to theGreat King. Know this, and tremble."
It was near impossible to tell the age of any man above five-and-twenty in those tribes, but these menhad surely each amassed three times so many years, if not four. Their faces were gullied rather thanwrinkled, and had the color and texture of a boot left ten years in the desert sun. The hair that straggledfrom under their filthy fur caps was as white as bleached parchment, beneath a coating of grease, andtheir mustaches, just as pale, were long and thin. One had no teeth at all, muttering through his gums,
while the other three showed blackened stumps when they opened their mouths. Yet the eight black eyesthat peered at him were hard and clear, and there was no tremor in the bony hands that rested lightly onthe hilts of their yataghans.
Conan raised his right hand in the greeting Tamur had used. What did traders say at these times, hewondered. Whatever he said, though, it had best come fast. Zutan was beginning to tug at his mustacheimpatiently. "I see you. I am honored to be presented to you. I will trade fairly with your people."
The four stared at him unblinkingly. Zutan's tugging at his mustache became more agitated.
What else was he supposed to say, Conan thought. Or do? Suddenly he turned his back on the chiefsand hurried back among the pack animals. Mutters sounded among the tribesmen, and the Hyrkanianswho held the guide-ropes eyed him with frowns. Hastily he unroped a wicker hamper and drew out fourtulwars, their hilts ivory and ebony. The blades had been worked with beeswax and acid into scenes ofmen hunting with bows from horseback, with silver rubbed across the etchings hammered till theargentine metal shone. Conan had raised a storm when he found the blades among the trade goods-hewas still of a mind that Tamur had meant them for himself and his friends-but they had already been paidfor. Now he was glad of them.
As the Cimmerian returned, two swords in each huge fist, Tamur groaned, "Not those, northerner. Someother blades. Not those."
Conan reached the four chiefs and, after a moment, awkwardly sketched a bow. "Accept these, ah,humble gifts as a, ah, token of my admiration."
Dark eyes sparked avariciously, and the blades were snatched as if the squat men expected them to bewithdrawn. The etched steel was fingered; for a time Conan was ignored. At last the chief nearesthim-Conan thought he was the one called Sibuyan-looked up. "You may trade here," he said. Withoutanother word the four turned away, still fingering their new swords.
Akeba put a hand on Conan's arm. "Come, Cimmerian. We traders must display our wares."
"Then display them. I must see to Yasbet."
As he returned to her, Conan ignored the bustle of hampers being lifted from pack saddles, of pots andknives, swords and cloaks being spread for eager eyes. The throng pressed close, many calling offers offurs, or ivory, or gold as soon as items appeared. Some of Tamur's followers began gathering thehorses.
Yasbet had sagged to her hands and knees on the hard-packed ground beside her mount. Muttering anoath Conan stripped off his cloak and spread it on the ground. When he had her lying on it, face down,he removed the sheepskin saddlepad from her horse and put it beneath her head.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you stand at all?"
"I do not need to be wrapped in swaddling," she replied between clenched teeth.
"Hannuman's Stones, wench! I do not swaddle you. You must be able to ride when it is time to go."
She sighed, not looking at him. "I can neither stand nor ride. I cannot even sit." She laughed mirthlessly,
"It is possible we may have to leave suddenly," he said slowly. "It may be needful to tie you across asaddle. And again I do not mean to mock you by that."
"I know," she said quietly. Suddenly she grasped his hand and pulled it to her lips. "You have not only mybody," she murmured, "but my heart and soul. I love you, Conan of Cimmeria."
Brusquely he pulled his hand away and stood. "I must see to the others," he muttered. "You will be allright here? It may be some time before your tent can be put up."
"I am comfortable."
Her words were so soft he barely heard them. With a quick nod he strode to where the trade goodswere displayed. Why did women always have to speak of love, he wondered. The most calloused trullwould do it, given a fingerbreadth of encouragement, and other women took even less. Then theyexpected a man to act like a giddy boy with his first hair on his chin. Or worse, like a poet or a bard.
He glanced back at Yasbet. Her face was buried in the sheepskin, and her shoulders shook as if shecried. No doubt her rump pained her. Growling wordlessly under his breath, he joined his fellows actingthe trader.
Sharak bounced from nomad to nomad, always gesticulating, here offering lumps of beeswax, therepewter cups from Khauran or combs of tortoise shell from Zamboula or lengths of Vendhyan silk. Akebawas more sedate in his demonstrations of the weapons, tulwars bearing the stamp of the Royal Arsenal ofTuran, glaives from far Aquilonia, and even khetens, broad-bladed battleaxes from Stygia. Tamur and hismen, on the other hand, squatted to one side, passing among themselves clay jars of the ale they hadgotten from men of the tribes.
Conan walked among the goods, stopping from time to time to listen to Akeba or Sharak bargain,nodding as if he agreed with what was being done. A merchant who had two men to do the actualpeddling surely was not expected to do more.
The trading was brisk, but Conan was soon thinking more of quenching his thirst with a crock of ale thanof his playacting. It was then that he noticed the woman.
Past her middle years, she was yet a beauty, tall and well-breasted, with large dark eyes and full red lips.Her fur-trimmed blue cloak was of fine wool, and her kirtle of green was slashed with panels of blue silk.Her necklace of intricate links was gold, not gilded brass; the brooch that held her cloak was a largeemerald; and the bracelets at her wrists were of matched amethysts. And she had no eye for theperfumes or gilded trinkets that Sharak bartered away. Her gaze never left the muscular Cimmerian. Aninterested gaze.
Conan judged her to be the woman of a wealthy man, perhaps even of a chief. That made her just thesort of woman he should avoid, even more so than the other women of the tribe. He made sure there wasnothing in his expression that she could read as invitation, and turned away to make a show of studyingthe goods laid out on a nearby blanket.
"You are young to be a trader," a deep female voice said behind him.
He turned to find himself face to face with the woman who had been watching him. "I am old enough," hesaid in a flat tone. His youth was a touchy point with him, especially with women.
Her smile was half mocking, half... something more. "But you are still young."
"A man must begin at some age. Do you wish to trade for something?"
"I would think you would be demonstrating the swords and spears to the men, youngling." Her gazecaressed the breadth of his shoulders, trailed like fingers across the tunic strained by the muscles of his
deep chest.
"Perhaps kohl for your eyes." He snatched a small blue-glazed jar from the blanket and held it out to her.His eyes searched the crowd for a man taking an unfriendly interest in their conversation. This womanwould have men after her when she was a grandmother.
"From the way that sword sits on your hip, I would name you, not merchant, but..." she put a finger toher lips as if in thought "... warrior."
"I am a trader," he said emphatically. "If not kohl, perhaps perfume?"
"Nothing," she said, amusement in her eyes. "For now, at least. Later I will have something from you."She turned away, then stopped to look at him over her shoulder. "And that is perfume. Trader." Herlaughter, low and musical, hung in the air after she had disappeared into the crowd.
With a sudden sharp crack the small jar shattered in Conan's grip.
"Erlik take all women," he muttered, brushing shards of glazed pottery from his hand. There was nothingto be done about the smell of jasmine that hung about him in a cloud.
Grumbling, he resumed his pacing among the trade goods. Occasionally a man would glance at him insurprise, nose wrinkling, or a woman would eye him and smile. Each time he hurried furiously elsewhere,muttering ever more sulphurous oaths under his breath. A bath, he decided. When their camp was set hewould bathe, and Mitra blast all the Hyrkanians if they thought it unmanly.
Throughout the day the trading continued briskly, goods from the west for goods looted from easterncaravans. As twilight empurpled the air Zutan returned. The bargaining tribespeople began to trail awayat his appearance.
"I will show you to your sleeping place," the greasy-mustached Hyrkanian said. "Come." And he stalkedoff in the rolling walk of one more used to the back of a horse than to his own feet.
Conan set the others to repacking the trade goods, then scooped Yasbet into his arms. She was in anexhausted sleep so deep that she barely stirred as he carried her after Zutan, to a spot a full threehundred paces from the yurts.
"You sleep here," the nomad said. "It would be dangerous to leave your fires after dark. The guards donot know you. You might be injured." That thought apparently caused no pain in his heart. Traders mightbe necessary, his expression said, but they warranted neither the hospitality of shelter nor trust.
Conan ignored him-it was better than killing him, though less satisfying-and commanded Yasbet's tent tobe erected. As soon as the stakes were driven and the ropes drawn taut, he carried her inside. She gavebut a sleepy murmur as he removed her garments and wrapped her in blankets.
Perhaps sleep would help her, he thought. His nose twitched at the scent of jasmine that was beginning tofill the tent. Sleep would not help him.
When he went outside, Zutan was gone. The sky grew blacker by the moment, and fires of dried dungcast small pools of light. The yurts could have been half a world away, for their lamps and fires were allinside, and the encampment of the tribes was lost in the dark. The horses had been tied to a picket line,near which the hampers of trade goods were shadowy mounds.
Straight to those mounds Conan went, rummaging through than until he found a lump of harsh soap.Thrusting it into his belt pouch, he hefted two water bags in each hand and stalked into the night. Whenhe returned an odor of lye came from him, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering inthe chill wind that whipped across the plain.
Settling crosslegged beside the fire where a kettle of thick stew bubbled, he accepted a horn spoon and aclay bowl filled to the brim.
"I am not certain that lye improves on jasmine," Akeba said, sniffing the air pointedly.
"A fine scent, jasmine," Sharak cackled. "You are a little large for a dancing girl, Cimmerian, but I dobelieve it became you more than your new choice." Tamur choked on stew and laughter.
Conan raised his right hand, slowly curling it into a massive fist until his knuckles cracked. "I smellnothing." He looked challengingly at each of the other three in turn. "Does anyone else?"
Chuckling, Akeba spread his hands and shook his head.
"All this washing is bad for you," Tamur said, then added quickly as Conan made to rise, "But I smellnaught. You are a violent man, Cimmerian, to act so over a jest among friends."
"We will talk of other things," Conan said flatly.
Silence reigned for a moment before Sharak spoke up. "Trade. We'll talk of trade. Conan, it is nowonder merchants are men of wealth. What we bargained for today will bring at least three hundredpieces of gold in Aghrapur, yet a full two-thirds of the trade goods remain. Mayhap we should give upadventuring and become traders in truth. I have never been rich. I think I would find it pleasing."
"We are here for more important matters than gold," Conan growled. He set aside his bowl; his hungerhad left him. "Know you that we have been followed since the coast?"
Tamur looked up sharply. "Baotan? I thought he had an eye for more than he received for the horses."
"Not Baotan," Conan replied.
"You looked back often," Akeba said thoughtfully, "but said nothing. And I saw no one."
Conan shook his head, choosing his words with care. "Nor did I see anyone. Still, someone wasfollowing. Or something. There was a feel... not human about it."
Sharak laughed shakily. "An Jhandar, or Baalsham, or whatever he chooses to call himself, has comeafter us to these wastes, I will think on journeying to Khitai. Or further, if there is any place further."
"Baalsham is a man," Tamur said nervously. He eyed the surrounding darkness and edged closer to thefire, dropping his voice. "But the spirits-if he has sent dead men after us...."
A footstep sounded beyond the small pool of light from the fire, and Conan found himself on his feet,broadsword in hand. He was somewhat mollified to see that the others had drawn weapons as well.Even the old astrologer was shakily holding his staff out like a spear.
Zutan stepped into the light and stopped, staring at the bared steel.
Conan sheathed his blade with a grunt. "It is dangerous to leave your fires in the dark," he said.
The Hyrkanian's mustache twitched violently, but all he said was, "Samarra will see you now, Co-nan."
"Samarra!" Tamur's voice was a dry speak. "She is here?"
"Who is this Samarra?" Conan demanded. "Mayhap I do not wish to see her."
"No, Conan," Tamur said insistently. "You must. Samarra is a powerful shamaness. Very powerful."
"A shamaness," Sharak snorted. "Women should not be allowed to meddle in such matters."
"Hold your tongue, old man," Tamur snapped, "else you may find your manhood turned to dust, or yourbones to water. She is powerful, I say." He had turned his back to Zutan and was grimacing vigorously atConan.
The young Cimmerian eyed him doubtfully, wondering if Tamur's fear of this woman was enough tounhinge him. "Why does Samarra wish to see me?" he asked.
"Samarra does not give reasons," Zutan replied. "She summons, and those she summons come. Evenchiefs."
"I will go to her," Conan said.
Tamur's groan was loud as Conan followed Zutan into the dark.
They walked to the yurts in silence. The nomad would not deign to converse with a trader, and Conanhad his own thoughts to occupy him. Why did this Samarra wish to speak with him? Her sorcerous artscould have told her the true reason for his presence in Hyrkania, but only if she had purposely sought itout. In his experience of such things nothing was found unsought, and nothing was sought casually.Knowledge had its price when gained by thaumaturgical means, and though he had met sorcery andmagic in many forms, never had he known it used to satisfy mere curiosity.
Had this Samarra been a man he could have first explained, then, an that did not work, slain the fellow.But it was not in him to kill a woman.
Lost in the workings of his mind, Conan started when the other halted before a huge yurt and motionedhim to enter. The structure of felt stretched on wooden frames was at least twenty paces across, fit for achief. But then, he told himself, a shamaness who could summon chiefs would certainly live as well asthey. Without another glance at Zutan, he pushed open the flap and went in.
He found himself in a large chamber within the yurt, its "walls" brocaded hangings. The ground wascovered by Kasmiri carpets in a riot of colors, dotted with cushions of silk. Gilded lamps hung on goldenchains from the wooden frames of the roof, and a charcoal fire in a large bronze brazier provided warmthagainst the chill outside.
So much he had time to note, then his eyes popped as eight girls burst from behind the hangings. Fromlithe to full-bodied they ranged, and their skins from a paleness that spoke of Aquilonia to Hyrkanianbrownness to the yellow of well-aged ivory. Gilded bells tinkled at their ankles as they ran giggling tosurround him; such was the whole of their costume.
His vision seemed filled by rounded breasts and buttocks as they urged him to a place on the cushionsbefore the brazier. A scent of roses hung about them.
No sooner was he seated than two darted away to return with damp cloths to wipe his face and hands.Another set a chased silver tray of dates and dried apricots by his side, while a fourth poured wine froma crystal flagon into a goblet of beaten gold.
The music of flutes and zithers filled the chamber; the remaining girls had taken up the instruments and,seating themselves crosslegged, played. The four who had served him began to dance.
"Where is Samarra?" he asked. "Well? Answer me! Where is she?" The music soared, and the dancerswith it, but none spoke.
He picked up the goblet, but put it down again untouched. Strong powders could be put in wine; hewagered that this shamaness knew of them. Best he neither eat nor drink till he was gone from Samarra'sdwelling place. And best he not eye the girls too closely, either. Mayhap the shamaness had a reason forwishing his attention occupied. He kept a close watch on the hangings, and a hand on his sword.
But despite his intentions he found his eyes drifting back to the dancing girls. Graceful as gazelles theyleaped, legs striding wide on air, then rolled to the carpets, hips thrusting in abandon. Sweat beaded hisforehead, and he wondered if perhaps the fire in the brazier made the yurt too hot. Did this Samarraremain away much longer, he might forget himself. Even though they would not talk, these girls might bewilling to disport themselves with a young northerner.
A single sharp clap sounded above the music. Immediately the girls left off playing and dancing, anddashed behind the hangings. The grin that had begun on Conan's face faded, and his hand returned to hissword as he sprang to his feet. The hangings parted, and the woman who had taunted him earlierappeared. The cloak was gone now, and long hair as black as night hung in soft waves about hershoulders. Her long kirtle clung to her curves.
"I prefer the dancing of young men," she said, "but I did not think you would share my taste."
"You?" Conan said incredulously. "You are Samarra?"
She gave a throaty laugh. "You are disappointed that I am not an aged crone, with a beak of a nose andwarts? I prefer to remain as I am for as long as the arts of woman and magic combined can keep me so."Her hands smoothed the bosom of her kirtle, pulling it tight over full round breasts. "Some say I am stillbeautiful." Delicately wetting her lips, she moved closer. "Do you think so?"
The woman had no need of sorcery for distraction, Conan thought. The musk of her perfume seemed tosnare his brain. With no more than what was known to every woman she had his blood inflamed, histhroat thick with desire. "Why did you send for me?" he rasped.
Her dark eyes caressed his face more sensuously than hands might have done, slid lingeringly across hisbroad shoulders and massive chest. Her nostrils flared. "You washed the scent away," she said, a touchof mocking disappointment in her tone. "Hyrkanian women are used to men who smell of sweat andhorse and grease. That scent would have gained you many favorable looks. But even so you are anexotic, with your muscles and your size and that pale skin. And those eyes." Her slender fingers stoppeda hair's breath from his face, tracing along his cheek. "The color of the sky," she whispered, "and aschangeable. The spring sky after a rain, the sky of a fall morning. And when you are angry, a sky ofthunder and storms. An exotic giant. You could have your pick of half the women in this encampment,perhaps three or four at a time, if such is your taste."
Angrily he wrapped an arm about her, lifting her from the ground, crushing her softness against his chest.His free hand tangled in her hair, and the blue eyes that stared into hers did indeed have much of thestorm in them. "Taunting me is a dangerous game," he said, "even for a sorceress."
She stared back unperturbed, a secretive smile dancing on her lips. "When do you mean to enter theBlasted Lands, outlander?"
Involuntarily his grip tightened, wringing a gasp from her. There was naught of the sky in his gaze now,but rather ice and steel. "It is a foolish time to reveal your sorceries, woman."
"I am at your mercy." With a sigh that smacked of contentment she wriggled to a more comfortableposition, shifting her breasts disturbingly against his hard chest. "You could break my neck merely byflexing your arm, or snap my spine like a twig. I can certainly perform no magic held as I am. Perhaps Ihave made myself helpless before your strength to prove that I mean you no harm."
"I think you are as helpless as a tigress," he said wryly. Abruptly he set her heels on the carpets; therewas a tinge of disappointment in her eyes as she patted her hair back into place. "Speak on, woman.What suspicions caused you to bend your magic to the reason of my coming?"
"No magic except that of the mind," she laughed. "You came in company with Tamur and others who Iknow crossed the Vilayet to find and slay Baalsham. I know well the horror of those days, for I was oneof those who laid the wards that contain what lies within the Blasted Lands."
Conan realized why Tamur had been agitated at hearing her name. "Perhaps I, wishing to trade inHyrkania, merely took Tamur into service."
"No, Conan. Tamur has many faults, but he, and the others, swore oaths to defy the ban on Baalsham'smemory and avenge their blood. That they returned with you merely means that they think to find successin the Blasted Lands. Though their oaths led them to defiance, they know that violating the taboo meansdeath for one of Hyrkanian blood, and so sought another to do the deed."
"Then why am I not fighting for my life against your warriors?"
She answered slowly, her voice tense, as if her words held import below the surface. As if there wasdanger in them for her, danger that she must carefully avoid. "When the barriers were erected, I aloneamong the shamans believed that they were not enough. I spoke for pursuing Baalsham and destroyinghim, for surely if he managed to establish his evil elsewhere it would eventually return to haunt us. Theothers, fearing another confrontation with him, forced me-" She stopped abruptly.
"Forced you to what?" he growled. "Swear oaths? What?"
"Yes," she said, nodding eagerly. "Both oath and geas. Do I break that oath, I will find myself the nextdawn scrubbing pots in the yurt of a most repulsive man, unable to magic the pain from a sore tooth orthink beyond a desire to obey. Many take it ill that there is a line of women who use the powers, andthey would as soon see it end with me." Again her words halted, but her eyes begged him to questionfurther.
"What holds your tongue, woman? What oath did you swear?"
"It took long enough to bring you to it," she sighed, tightness draining visibly from her face. "Firstly, I canspeak to no one of the oaths unless asked, and no Hyrkanian but another who, like me, sits Guardian onthe Blasted Lands would ask. Betimes one or another of them likes to taunt me with it."
"So you must trick me into asking," Conan muttered.
"Exactly. For the rest, I can aid no Hyrkanian to enter the Blasted Lands or act against Baalsham, norcan I seek out any man to do those things."
A broad smile spread over his features. "But if a man who is not a Hyrkanian seeks you out ... ."
". . . Then I can help him. But he must be the right man, outlander. I will not risk failure." Her mouth
twisted as at a foul taste. "Anator, the repulsive toad of whom I spoke, waits for me to fall into his hands.Death I would risk, but not a life with him till I am old and shriveled."
"But you will help me?" he asked, frowning.
"If you are the right man. I must consult the Fire that Burns Backwards in Time. And I must have a lockof your hair for that."
In spite of himself, he took a step back. Hair, spittle, nail parings, anything that came from the body couldbe used in thaumaturgies that bound the one from whom they came.
"Do you think I need magicks to bind you?" Samarra laughed, and swayed her hips exaggeratedly.
"Take it, then," he said. But a grimace crossed his face as she deftly cut a few strands from his templewith a small golden knife.
Swiftly then she opened a series of small chests against a hanging, removing her paraphernalia. The hairwas ground in a small hand-mill, then mixed in an unadorned ivory bowl with the contents of half a scoreof vials-powders of violent hue and powerful stench, liquids that seethed and bubbledand stirred with arod of bone. Setting up a small golden brazier on a tripod, Samarra filled it with ashes, smoothing themwith the bone rod. Chanting words unintelligible to Conan, she poured the contents of the bowl onto thedead ash, and set the bowl aside.
Her voice rose, not in volume, but in pitch, till it pierced his ears like red-hot needles. Strange flames rosefrom the ash, blue flames, not flickering like ordinary fire, but rolling slowly like waves of a lazy sea.Higher that unnatural fire rose with Samarra's words, to the reach of a man's arm. Unblinking she staredinto its depths as she spoke the incantations. A rime of frost formed on the outside of the golden dish thatheld the flames.
The other fires in the chamber, the flickering lamps and blazing charcoal, sank low, as if overawed, ordrained. The Cimmerian realized that his fingernails were digging into his palms. With an oath heunclenched his fists. He had seen sorcery before, sorcery directed at him with deadly intent. He wouldnot be affrighted by this.
Abruptly Samarra's chanting stopped. Conan blinked as he looked into the golden dish; half-burnedpieces of wood now nestled among ash that was less than it had been. Then Samarra set a golden lidatop the brazier, closing off the blue fire.
For a long time she stared at the brazier before turning to him. "An you enter the Blasted Lands, scoreswill die," she said bleakly, "among them perhaps Baalsham. And perhaps you, as well. Your bones mayfeed the twisted beasts that dwell trapped in that accursed place."
"Perhaps?" he said. "What means of divining is this? Even Sharak does not so hedge his star-readingsabout."
"The fire shows the many things which can be. Men choose which will be by their decisions. What is, islike a line, but at every decision that line branches, in two directions or ten, and each of those will alsobranch until numbers beyond counting are reached. I will tell you this: if you enter, you, or Baalsham, orboth, will stare Erlik's minions in the eyes. But if you do not, you will surely die. A hundred lines Iexamined, hoping to find an escape for you, and a hundred times I saw you die, each time more horriblythan the last. And if you do not enter, not only will you die. Tens upon tens of thousands will perishfighting the spread of Baalsham's evil, and every day hundreds more will walk willingly to their deaths forhis necromancies. Kings and queens will crawl on their bellies to worship at his feet, and such a darkness
will cover the earth as has not been seen these many thousands of years, not since the attainted days offoul Acheron."
Conan laughed mirthlessly. "Then it seems I must try to save the world, whether I will or no." His bladeleaped into his hand; he tested the edge carefully. "If I must wager my life, the odds will grow no betterfor waiting. I will go to these Blasted Lands now."
"No," she said sharply. He opened his mouth, but she hurried on. "Nigh is best, it is true, but not thisnight. Think of the girl with you. When you have done this thing, you must go immediately, for others sitGuardian besides me, and they will soon know what has been done. But she cannot stand, much less sit asaddle."
"Then I'll tie her across it," he answered roughly. Already the battle rage was rising in him. If he was todie this night, he would not die easily.
"But if you let me bring her here, I can cure her sore flesh in a day. She will be able to ride by tomorrownight." Samarra smiled. "Many women have asked me to take the pain from a smarting rump, but this willbe the first time I have used my powers for so low a purpose."
"The longer I wait, the greater the chance that someone else will remember Tamur."
"But you still cannot enter the Blasted Lands without any help. The barrier of the Outer Circle will slayonly those of Hyrkanian blood, but that of the Inner Circle, where you must go if you are to find what youseek, will destroy anything that lives. I must give you special powders to spread, and teach youincantations, if you are to survive."
"Then give them to me," he demanded.
Instead she untied her silk sash and tossed it aside. "No Hyrkanian man," she said, staring him in the eye,"will look at a shamaness as a woman. I have slaves, young men, full of vigor, but full of fear, too." Shebegan to undo the silver pins that held her garment. "They touch me because I command it, but they doso as if I might shatter, afraid of hurting or angering. Until you put your hands on me, no man in my entirelife has touched me as a woman, who will not break for a little roughness in a caress. I can wait nolonger." The long kirtle slid to the carpets and she stood in lush nudity, all ripe curves and womanlysoftness. Feet apart she faced him, defiance in her eyes, fists on the swelling of her hips, shoulders thrownback so that her breasts seemed even fuller. "There is a price for my aid. If that makes me a harlot, well,that is something I have never experienced. And I want to experience everything that a man and a womancan do to each other. Everything, Conan."
Conan let his sword fall to the ground. Battle rage had changed to a different sort of fire in his blood."Tomorrow night will be time enough," he said hoarsely, and pulled her into his embrace.
Early the next morning Conan sent a message to Akeba that the Turanian was to see to the trading thatday. Soon after, Yasbet was brought to the shamaness's yurt on a litter borne by two of Samarra'smuscular young male slaves. Samarra scrambled red-faced to her feet, hastily pulling a silk robe aroundher nudity. The slaves glared at Conan with covert jealousy.
"Conan, why am I here?" Yasbet almost wept. Lying face down on the litter, she winced at everymovement. "I hurt, Conan."
"Your pain will soon be gone," he told her gently. "Samarra will see to you."
Still blushing furiously, the shamaness led the litter-bearers to another part of the yurt. Half a turn of theglass later she returned, with high color yet in her cheeks. Conan lay sprawled on the silken cushions,occupying himself with a flagon of wine.
"I gave her a sleeping potion as well," she said. "The spell took her pain away immediately, but she needsrest, and it is best if that does not come from magic. If I relieved her fatigue so, she would repay it tentimes over, later. The powers always demand repayment."
All the while she spoke she remained across the chamber from him, rubbing her hands together as if innervousness. He motioned her to him. "Come Sit, Samarra. Do not make me play host under your roof."
For a moment she hesitated, then knelt gracefully beside him. "Everything, I said," she murmured ruefully,"but I did not mean to have my own slaves enter while I lay naked in a stupor of lust. Not to mention thewoman of the man I am lying with. I feel strange to have your lover but a few paces away."
Her ardor had surprised Conan in its fierceness. "What she does not know will not harm her," he said,tugging her robe from a smooth shoulder.
She slapped his hand away. "Is that all women are to you? A tumble for the night, and no more?"
"Women are music and beauty and delight made flesh." He reached for her again. She shrugged himaway, and he sighed. So much for poetry, even when it was true. "Someday I will find a woman to wed,perhaps. Until then, I love all women, but I'll not pretend to any that she is more to me than she really is.Now, are you ready to remove that robe?"
"You know not your own vigor," she protested. Attempting to stretch, she stopped with a wince. "I amnear as much in need of aid for sore muscles as that poor girl."
"In that case, I might as well return to Akeba and the others," he said, getting to his feet.
"No," she cried. Ripping the robe from her, she scrambled on her knees to throw her arms around hislegs. "Please, Conan. Stay. I... I will keep you here by brute force, if I must."
"Brute force?" he chuckled.
She gave a determined nod. Laughing, he let her topple him to the pillows.
By two glasses after sunfall he was ready to go. Briefly he looked in on Yasbet. She slept naturally now;the potion had worn off. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, and she smiled without waking.
When he returned to the large chamber Samarra had donned her kirtle, and put on a somber mien aswell. "You have the powder?" she demanded. "You must take care not to lose it."
"It is here," he replied, touching the pouch that hung from his belt along with sword and dagger. Withinwere two small leather bags containing carefully measured powders that would weaken the barrier of theInner Circle enough for him to pass it, one portion for entering and one for leaving.
"The incantation. You remember the incantation?"
"I remember. Do not worry so."
He tried to put his arms around her, but she stepped back out of his embrace, her face a mask. "Thegods be with you, Conan." She swallowed, and whispered, "And with all of us."
There was more help in steel than in gods, Conan thought as he went into the night. The moon hung bright
in a cloudless sky, bathing the countryside in pale light, filling the camp with shadows. It seemed a placeof the dead, that camp. No one was about, and even the guard dogs huddled close to the yurts, onlylifting their heads to whine fretfully as he passed. He gathered his cloak against the chill of the wind, andagainst a chill that was not of the wind.
Akeba, Sharak and Tamur were waiting, as they had agreed, east of the crescent of yurts. The rest of theHyrkanians remained in their small camp, so that it should not be found empty. The horses remained incamp as well; the sound of hooves in the night might attract unwanted attention.
Tamur peered beyond Conan nervously and whispered, "She did not come with you, did she?"
"No," Conan said. Tamur heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "Let's do this and be done," he went on. "Tamur,you lead."
Hesitantly, the Hyrkanian started to the east. Akeba followed, horsebow in hand and arrow nocked, toone side of Conan. Sharak labored on the other, leaning on his staff and muttering about the footingdespite the bright moonlight.
"Tamur almost did not come," Akeba said quietly, "so afraid is he of Samarra. Did he hate Jhandar oneiota less, he would have ridden for the coast, instead."
"But he does hate Jhandar," Conan replied. "He will lead us true."
"I wonder you have energy for this night, Conan," Sharak snickered, "after a day and a night with thiswitch-woman. I saw little of her, not nearly so much as you," he paused to cackle shrilly, "but I'd say shewas a woman to sap a man's strength."
"Watch your step, old man," the big Cimmerian said drily. "I've not seen you read your own stars of late.This could be the night you break your neck."
"Mitra!" Sharak swore, stumbled, and almost fell. "I have not," he went on in a shaken voice. "Not sinceAghrapur. The excitement, and the adventure, and the...." He stumbled, peered at the sky and muttered,"The brightness of the moon blinds me. I cannot tell one star from another."
They traveled without words, then, following the dim shape of Tamur until abruptly the Hyrkanianstopped. "There," he said, pointing to two tall shadows ahead. "Those are the marks of the barrier. I cango no closer."
Samarra had described the shadowy objects as well as telling Conan what she knew of what lay beyondthem. Around the perimeter of the Outer Circle huge pillars of crude stone had been set, thrice the heightof a man and four times as thick. To pass those stelae meant death for one of Hyrkanian blood.
"There is no need for me to accompany you, Conan," Sharak said. "My eyes. I would be more hindrancethan help. No, I must remain here and learn what I can of our prospects from the stars." He suddenlyclutched the arm of a surprised Tamur, and though the Hyrkanian tried to shake himself free, Sharakclung tightly, pulling on the other man. "Can you tell one star from another, Hyrkanian? No matter. I willtell you what to look for. Come." The two moved off to the side, Tamur still jerking futilely at his arm.
"I, at least, will come with you," Akeba said, but Conan shook his head.
"Samarra told me that any who enters other than myself will die." She had said no such thing, but whatshe did say convinced him that two men, or fifty, would have no better chances of survival than one, andperhaps less.
"Oh. Then I will await your return, Cimmerian. You are an odd fellow, but I like you. Fare you well."
Conan clapped the slighter man on the shoulder. "Take a pull at the Hellhorn, an you get there before me,Akeba."
"What? 'Tis a strange thing to say."
"Other countries, other customs," Conan said. "It is a way of saying fare you well." His amusement fadedabruptly as he eyed the stone pillars. It was time to be on with it. His blade slid from its scabbard, steelrasping on leather.
"Strange, indeed, you pale-eyed barbarians," Akeba said. "Well, you take a pull at the... whatever it wasyou said."
But Conan was already moving forward. Without pausing, the Cimmerian strode by the crude pillars,sword at the ready. As he did, a tingle passed through his body, as if nails and teeth had all been draggedacross slate at once. The greatest tingle was at his waist, beneath the pouch at his belt. Samarra hadwarned him of this, and told him to ignore it, but he fumbled for the two smaller sacks anyway. Bothwere intact.
There was no growth of any kind, not even the tough grass that covered the plains of Hyrkania. Theground was smooth, yet ridged, as if it had flowed then hardened in waves. He had seen such before,where fissures had opened and the bowels of the earth had spewed forth molten rock. The moonlighthere was tinged with the xanthous color of flesh gone to mold. Shadows moved furtively in that nacreouslight, though no clouds crossed the moon.
Had he been the hero of a saga, he thought, he would seek out those creatures and hack his way to theInner Circle. But the heroes of sagas always had the luck of ten men, and used it all. He went on, deeperinto the Blasted Lands, moving with pantherine grace, yet carefully, as if avoiding seeking eyes. That eyeswere there, or something that sensed movement, he was certain. Strange slitherings sounded from therocks around him, and clickings, as of chitinous claws on stone. Once he did indeed see eyes, threeunblinking red orbs, set close together, peering at him from the dark beside a boulder, swiveling to followhis passage. He quickened his pace. The sound of scraping claws came closer, and more quickly. Apiping hiss rose, behind and either side, like the hunting cry of a pack.
Abruptly there was silence. Did the shadow creatures attack in silence, he wondered, or had they ceasedtheir pursuit? And if they had, why? What could lie ahead that would frighten ....? The answer came as heskidded to a halt, a bare pace from a pillar marking the deadly Inner Circle.
Despite himself he let out a long breath. But he still lived, and perhaps fear of the barrier would holdwhatever followed at bay for a time longer. Behind he heard the hissing begin again. Hastily he pulled oneleather sack from his pouch and sprinkled the scintillating powder in a long line by the stone pillar. Withgreat care he spoke the words Samarra had taught him, and a shimmering appeared in the air above theline, as wide as a man's outstretched arms and reaching nearly as high as the stone marker. Within thatshimmer the barrier was weakened, not destroyed, so Samarra said. A strong man could survive passingthrough it. So she said.
The scraping claws were louder, and the hissing. Whatever made those sounds was almost to him.Taking a deep breath, he leaped. The hisses rose to a scream of frustrated hunger, and then he struck theshimmer. Every muscle in his body knotted and convulsed in agony. Back arched, he was hurled into theInner Circle.
Head spinning, he staggered to his feet. Somehow he had retained his sword. If that was a weakened
barrier, he thought, he wanted no part of it at full strength. He checked his pouch again. The second sackwas still safe.
Whatever had hunted him had gone, sucked back into those writhing shades outside the Inner Circle. Theshimmer in the barrier yet held, but by the time he could count to one hundred the force of its protectionwould be gone. That second portion of the powder was his only way of crossing the barrier again, unlesshe went now. Turning his back on the shimmer, he went deeper into that twisted country.
Blasted Lands they were indeed. Here hills were split by gaping fissures, or stood in tortured remnants asif parts had been vaporized. Fumaroles bubbled and steamed, and the air was heavy with the stench of adecay so old that only sorcery could have kept it from disappearing long since. Foul vapors drifted insheets, like noxious clouds hugging the ground; they left a feel of dampness and filth on the skin theytouched.
Samarra had told him where Jhandar's unfinished palace had stood on that day when nightmares wereloosed. What he might find there she could not say-the forces unleashed had been more than even theshamans could face-but it was the only place she could suggest for his search. In the midst of these hillsthe land had been leveled for the palace. Ahead he saw the hills end. It must be the location.
He hurried forward, around a sheer cliff where half a hill had disappeared, out onto the great leveledspace... and stopped, shoulders sagging in defeat.
Before him marble steps led up to a portico of massive, broken columns. Beyond, where the palaceshould have stood, a huge pit opened into the depths, a pit that pulsed with red light and echoed with thebubbling of boiling rock far below.
There could be nothing there, he told himself. And yet there must be. Samarra had foretold that his entryinto the Blasted Lands would bring at least the chance of Jhandar's destruction. Somewhere within thatblighted region something must exist that could be used against the necromancer. He had to find it.
A slavering roar spun him around, an involuntary, "Crom!" wrenched from his lips.
Facing him was a creature twice the height of a man, its gangrenous flesh dripping phosphorescent slime.A single rubiate eye set in the middle of its head watched him with a horrifying glimmer of intelligence, butwith hunger as well. And that gaping fanged maw, the curving needle claws that tipped its fingers, toldwhat it chose to eat.
Even as the creature faced him, Conan acted. Waving his sword, he screamed as if about to attack. Thebeast reared back to take his charge, and Conan darted for the cliff. A being of such size could not be hisequal at scaling sheer heights, he thought.
Thrusting his blade into its scabbard as he ran, he reached the cliff and climbed without slowing, fingerssearching out crevices and holds with a speed he had never matched before. Chances he would haveeschewed if men had pursued him he now took as a matter of course, hooking his fingernails in cracks hecould not even see, planting his feet on stone that crumbled at his weight, yet moving with such desperatequickness that he was gone before its crumbling was complete. Catching the top of the cliff, he heavedhimself over, lay with chest heaving.
A slime-covered, clawed hand slammed down a handsbreadth from his head. Cursing, Conan rolled tohis feet, blade whispering into his grip. Its eye above the rim of the cliff, the beast saw him and roared,clawing with its free hand for him instead of securing its hold. Burnished steel blazed an arc through theair, severing the hand that held the ground. With a scream like all the fiends of the pit the beast toppledback, and down, into the fetid mists. The crash of its fall sent a shiver through the cliff that Conan could
feel through his boots.
The clawed hand, faintly glowing, still lay where he had severed it. Glowing slime oozed from it likeblood. He was relieved, after the sendings in Aghrapur, to see that it did not so much as twitch by itself.With the tip of his sword he flipped it into the vapors below.
Even through the clouded gloom Conan could yet see the broken pillars of Jhandar's palace; from hisvantage point they were outlined in the fiery glow from the pit. No use could he see in returning there,however. His search must lead elsewhere. He started down the steep slope that backed the cliff, leapingto cross the fissures that slashed and re-slashed the terrain, dodging among boulders, crazed with athousand lines like ill-mended pottery, abruptly lost in fetid gray curtains of drifting mist then as suddenlyrevealed again.
Stone clattered against stone behind him, toward the top of the precipitous slope. Weighing thebroadsword in his hand, Conan peered back, attempting in vain to pierce the sheets of fog. He couldhave missed seeing some small creature on the clifftop in the mists. A thud, as of heavy body falling,drifted down to him. He could not have missed something large enough to .... Then the one-eyed beastwas rushing at him out of the vapors, clawed hand and the stump of its severed wrist both raised tostrike.
Conan leaped back. And found himself falling into a gaping fissure. Twisting like a great cat he caught therock rim, slammed against it supported only by a forearm. Dislodged stone rattled into the depths of thebroad crack, the sound dwindling away without striking bottom, as if the drop went on forever.
The beast was moving too fast to stop. With a roar of frustrated rage it leaped for the far side of thefissure, its lone red eye glaring at the big Cimmerian. Awkwardly Conan thrust up at the creature with hisbroadsword as it passed over him. Snarling, the beast curled into a ball to avoid the blade, hit heavily onthe other side of the wide crack, and went rolling down the steep slope, its cries of fury ripping throughthe fog.
Hurriedly Conan pulled himself out of the fissure. Silence descended abruptly, but he took that for no signof the beast's demise. Not now.
As if to confirm his dire suspicions came the sound of scrabbling claws and hungry panting. The creatureyet survived, and was climbing toward him.
Being above on the slope might give him slight advantage-perhaps-but the young Cimmerian had notcome to this hellish place to slay monsters. He began to run down the length of the crevice, cursing underhis breath at every stone that turned beneath his boot and clattered downhill. Sheer distance from wherethe thing had last seen him would be his safeguard. At least, it would be so long as the beast did not hearhim and follow. Had he half the luck of those ill-begotten heroes of the thrice-accursed sagas, thecreature would make bootless search of the hill while he completed his own quest.
Halting, he pricked his ears for sounds of the one-eyed beast... and heard it still directly below him, butnearer now. Black Erlik's Bowels and Bladder! He wished he had half a score of those feckless spinnersof tales there with him, to see what trials men of flesh and bone faced when confronted with the monstersso easily despatched with words in a market square. He would have fed two or three of them to thebeast, feet first.
An he was forced to face the creature-and he could see no other way-the time and the place were as anyothers. Did he continue to run, the facing would merely be at another place, perhaps when he had runhimself to exhaustion. Mayhap it would be off balance for a moment, leaping across the fissure fromdown slope. If he attacked then .... At that moment he noticed that the fissure he had followed had
dwindled to a handspan crack.
For a moment the Cimmerian was too angry even to curse. For a simple lack of keeping his eyes open hehad placed himself in worse danger. The great beast was no more than fifty paces straight down theslope, with only the steepness to slow it and naught between it and .... Straight down the slope. Hepeered toward the climbing beast. Its red eye was visible, glowing, as was the pale, leprousphosphorescence of its body; and it was making better going of the shattered hillside than any humancould have. It seemed to move with the speed and tenacity of a leopard.
Conan knew he needed a long headstart on the creature if he was to escape it long enough to carry outhis search; still, the merest breath of a chance had come to his brain, as fresh air in the foulness abouthim.
He cast about hurriedly for what he needed, and found it but ten paces away, a shadowy bulk near as tallas he, but seeming squat for its thickness, obscured by a curtain of fog that clung rather than drifted.Quickly his eyes sought the beast. Some forty paces below, the glowing mass edged sideways until it wasonce more directly below the Cimmerian. Forty paces. Conan waited.
The slavering beast clawed its way nearer, nearer. Thirty-five paces. Thirty. Conan could hear its raspingpant now. Ravenous hunger was in it as well, and in that sanguinary eye was something else, a puredesire to kill divorced from the need for meat. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. Twenty-fivepaces. Twenty. Conan drifted back, through the sheet of filthy gray mist behind him. Screaming withrage, not to be denied, the creature quickened its climb.
Knees bent, Conan set his broad back to the uphill side of the boulder he had chosen and heaved.Shrieks of primordial rage echoed over the hills. The Cimmerian's every thew strained, great musclescorded and knotted till they seemed carved from some more obdurate substance than the stone withwhich he fought. The boulder shifted a fingerwidth. The howls came closer. In moments the foul creaturewould be upon him. The sweat of effort at the limits of human ability rolled down Conan's face and chest.The great stone moved again. And then it was rolling free.
Conan spun in time to see the boulder strike the now narrow crack in the hillside, bound into the air, andcatch the monstrous creature full in the chest. Even as the beast was borne backward down the slope,screaming and clawing at the massive stone as if it were a living enemy, Conan set off at a dead rundiagonally down the hill, leaping crevices with reckless disregard for the dangers of falling, racing towardthe barrier.
He did not intend to leave the Inner Circle yet, but neither did he believe the boulder would slay theone-eyed beast. He would not believe that being could die until he had seen it dead. Or perhaps italready was; he had seen stranger things. But in the Outer Circle, the unseen things with claws had fearedto approach the barrier. Could he reach those deadly wards before the one-eyed creature freed itself, itwas possible the monstrous being would not search for him there.
Through curtains of noxious mist Conan ran like a ghostly panther past pools of bubbling, steaming mudand geysers that sprayed boiling fountain' into the night. The columns marking the barrier appeared aheadin the sickly sallow moonlight.
In a silent rush the one-eyed beast hurtled from the fog, lunging for Conan. Desperately the Cimmerianthrew himself aside; scythe-like claws ripped across the front of his tunic, slashing it to tatters. He rolledto his feet, broadsword at the ready, facing the towering creature. Rumbling growls sounded deep in thebeast's throat as it edged toward him. It had learned respect for the steel that had taken its hand.
Blood trickled down Conan's chest from four deep gashes, but that was not what concerned him at the
moment, nor even the fangs that hungered for his flesh. Fumbling at his belt with his free hand, heswallowed hard.
The pouch was gone, torn away by those dagger claws, and with it the powder he needed to cross thebarrier. With the thought his eyes drifted toward the marking columns... and there, at the base of arough-hewn monolith, lay the pouch and his hope of escape.
Slowly, keeping the point of his sword directed at the glowing beast, Conan began to edge sidewaystoward the crude pillar. The creature hesitated, and a twisted intelligence shone in its eye as it, too, sawthe pouch. As if divining the importance of what lay within, the slime-covered giant dared to stand overthe small leather sack, almost touching the deadly barrier. Its fanged mouth twisted in what seemedalmost a mocking smile.
Thus for the beast fearing the barrier, Conan thought. An it could reason so, it would not leave the pouchfor him to find, even did he manage to lead it away. It seemed that Erlik was enfolding his Cloak ofUnending Night about him, yet a man was not meant to accept his own death meekly.
"Crom!" Conan roared and attacked. "Crom and steel!"
Fangs bared in a snarl the creature dashed to meet him, but Conan did not mean to come to grips withthe foul beast. At the last instant he dropped into a crouch, still moving, blade slashing across a belly ofdeathly argentine flesh covered with glowing slime, and ducked beneath slicing claws that struck only hiscloak. For an instant Conan was snubbed short, then cloth ripped, and he was beyond the beast with thetatters of the garment dangling down his back.
Barely slowing, Conan bent to snatch his pouch from the ground, pivoted on one foot, and raced downthe line of barrier stones. Stones grated close behind, and the Cimmerian whirled, broadsword striking ata clawed hand descending toward his head. Three cruel-tipped fingers fell, severed, but the mutilatedhand slammed into Conan, driving him dazed to his knees.
Then he was enveloped in adamantine arms, being drawn toward the great flesh-rending teeth. OnlyConan's sword arm was free of the unyielding grip, and with it he thrust his blade into that fanged mouth,the point knifing through flesh, grating on bone, bursting through the back of the beast's great head.
The creature snarled and snapped at the blade, trying with unabated fury to reach the Cimmerian, thestench of its breath flowing into Conan's nostrils. Like the iron bands of a torture device those huge armstightened, till Conan thought his spine would snap. No longer could he feel his legs, or his trapped hand.He did not even know if he still held the pouch that contained his sole hope of leaving the Blasted Lands.All he could do was fight with his last measure of strength to keep that ravenous mouth from his throat.
Suddenly there was a greater worry than the beast in Conan's mind. Over the creature's shoulder hecould see the marking pillars; its struggles were carrying them closer to that deadly shield. And closer. Atleast he would die with sword in hand, and not alone. Uncertainty flickered in the beast's blood-red eyeas grim laughter burst from Conan's mouth. Contact with the barrier.
Pain ripped through the Cimmerian, pain such as he had never known. Skin flayed from muscle, muscletorn from bone, bone ground to powder and the whole thrown into molten metal, then the torturous cyclebegan again. And again. And....
Conan found himself on the ground, on hands and knees, every muscle quivering with the effort of notfalling flat on his face. Through blurred eyes he saw that he still clutched his pouch in a death-grip. He stillhad his means of escape from the Inner Circle, and in some fashion he had survived touching the barrier,but one thought dominated his swirling brain, the desperate need to regain his feet, to be ready to face the
monster's next attack. His broadsword lay before him. Lurching forward, he grabbed the worn leatherhilt, and almost let the blade fall. The leather was cracked and blistering hot.
Abruptly sound crashed in on him, crackling and hissing like a thousand chained lightning bolts, andConan realized that he had been deaf. Shakily he scrambled to his feet... and stood staring.
The beast lay across the barrier, twitching as scintillating arcs of power rose from one part of its body tostrike another. Flames in a hundred hues lanced from the already blacking hulk.
A grin began on the Cimmerians face, and died as he stared at the barrier. He was no longer within theInner Circle. How he had survived crossing the barrier-perhaps the monstrous vitality of the beast hadabsorbed the greater part of the deadly force, partially shielding him-did not matter. What mattered wasthat he had but enough of the required powder to cross that boundary once. Did he enter again, he wouldnever leave.
In silence he turned his back on the still-jerking body of the beast, on the Inner Circle, a dark light in hiseyes that boded ill.
Akeba and the others were huddled around a tiny fire when Conan strode out of the Blasted Lands,wiping glittering black blood from his blade with the shredded remnants of his cloak. The Cimmerianannounced his presence by tossing the bloody rag into the fire, where it flared and gave off thick, acridsmoke.
All three men leaped, and Sharak wrinkled his nose. "Phhaw! What Erlik-begotten stench is that?"
"We will return to the yurts," Conan said, slamming his sword home in its shagreen sheath, "but onlybriefly, I must get Samarra's help to reenter the Inner Circle."
"Then you found nothing," Akeba said thoughtfully. He eyed the dried blood on Conan's tattered tunic,the pouch crudely tied to his swordbelt, as he added, "Are you certain you want to go back, Cimmerian?What occurred in there?"
Tamur spoke. "No!" Everyone looked at him; he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand beforespeaking further. "It is a taboo place. Do not speak of what happened within the barriers. It is taboo."
"Nonsense," Sharak snorted. "No harm can there be merely in the hearing. Speak on, Conan."
But the Cimmerian was of no mind to waste time in talk. The night was half gone. With a curt, "Followme," he started off into the night. The others kicked dirt over the fire and hurried after.
As soon as they arrived at Samarra's yurt, Conan motioned the rest to wait and ducked inside.
The interior was dark; not so much as a single lamp was lit, and the big charcoal fire was coal ash.Strange, Conan thought. Samarra, at least, would have remained awake to hear what he had found. Thenthe unnatural silence of the yurt struck him. There was a hollow emptiness that denied the presence of life.His broadsword eased into his hand almost of its own accord.
He started across the carpets, picking his way among the scattered cushions. Suddenly his foot strucksomething firmer than a cushion, yet yielding. With a sinking of his stomach, he knelt; his fingers felt alonga woman's contours, the skin clammily cold.
"Conan! Look out!" Akeba shouted from the entrance.
Conan threw himself into a diving roll, striking something that bounced away with a clatter of brass, andcame up in a wary crouch with his sword at the ready. Just as he picked out the shadow of what couldhave been a man, something hummed from the entrance and struck it. Stiffly the dim shape toppled to theground with a thud.
"It's a man," Akeba said uncertainly. "At least, I think it's a man. But it did not fall as a man falls."
Conan felt around him for what he had knocked over. It was a lamp, with only half the oil spilled.Fumbling flint and steel from his pouch, he lit the wick. The lamp cast its light on the body he hadstumbled over.
Samarra lay on her back, dead eyes staring up at the roof of the yurt. Blended determination andresignation were frozen on her features.
"She knew," Conan murmured. "She said if I entered the Blasted Lands many would die."
With a sigh he moved the light to the shape that had fallen so strangely. Akeba's arrow stood out fromthe neck of a yellow-skinned man in black robes, his almond eyes wide with disbelief. Conan proddedthe body with his sword, and started in surprise. The corpse was as hard as stone.
"At least she took her murderer with her," Conan growled. "And avenged your Zorelle."
"'Tis not he, though he is very like," Akeba said. "I will remember to my tomb the face of the man whokilled my daughter, and this is not he."
Conan shifted the light again, back to Samarra. "I could have saved her," he said sadly, though he had noidea of how. "Had she told me... Yasbet!"
Leaping to his feet, he searched furiously through the other curtained compartments of the yurt. Thestructure was a charnel house. Slaves, male and female alike, lay in tangled heaps of cold flesh. Nonebore a wound, any more than did Samarra, but the face of each was twisted in horror. Nowhere did hefind Yasbet.
When he returned to Akeba, Conan was sick to his stomach. Many would die if he entered the BlastedLands. Samarra had said there were many branchings of the future. Could she not have found one toavoid this?
"Jhandar sent more than this one to follow us," he told the Turanian. "Yasbet is gone, and the others aredead. All of them."
Before Akeba could speak, Tamur stuck his head into the yurt. "There are stirrings...." His eyes lit onSamarra's body in the pool of lamp light. "Kaavan One-Father protect us! This is the cause! We will allbe gelded, flayed alive, impaled-"
"What are you talking about?" Conan demanded. "The cause of what?"
"The yurts of the other shamans," Tamur replied excitedly. "Men are gathering there, even though nonelike to venture into the night this close to the Blasted Lands."
Akeba grunted. "They must have sensed the death of one of their own."
"But they'll not find us standing over the bodies," Conan said, pinching the lamp wick between his fingers.The dark seemed deeper once that small light was gone. He started for the door flap.
Outside, Sharak leaned on his staff and peered toward the distant torches that were beginning to movetoward Samarra's yurt. The mutters of the men carrying those lights made a constant, angry hum. The oldastrologer jumped when Conan touched his shoulder. "Do we return to the Blasted Lands, Conan, wemust do it now. This lot will take it unkindly, our wandering their camp at night."
"Yasbet is gone," Conan told him quietly, "taken or slain. Samarra is dead." Sharak gasped. Conanturned away, and Sharak, after one quick glance at the approaching torches, fell silently in behind theothers.
As four shadows they made they made between the dark yurts, out onto the plain, and hurried towardtheir camp, ignoring as best they could the rising tumult behind them. Then a great shout rose, a cry ofrage from a hundred throats.
Akeba quickened his pace to come abreast of Conan. "They have found her," the Turanian said, "butmay not think we slew her."
"We are strangers," Conan laughed mirthlessly. "What would your soldiers do if a princess of Aghrapurwere murdered, and there were outlanders close to hand?"
The Turanian sucked air between his teeth. "Mitra send us time to get to our horses."
With no more words the four men broke into a run, Conan and Akeba covering the ground withdistance-eating strides. Tamur ran awkwardly, but with surprising speed. Even Sharak kept up, wheezingand puffing, and finding breath to complain of his years.
"Awake!" Tamur cried as they ran into their dark camp. The fires had burned low. "To your horses!"Nomads rolled instantly from their blankets, booted and clothed, seized their weapons, and stared at himblankly. "We must flee!" Tamur shouted to them. "We stand outside the laws!" Leaping as if pricked,they darted for the horses. Tamur turned to Conan, shaking his head. "We shall not escape. We ridereedy coastal stock. Those who pursue will be astride war mounts. Our animals will drop before dawn,while theirs can maintain a steady pace all the way to the sea."
"The pack horses," Conan said. "Will they carry men?"
Tamur nodded. "But we have enough mounts for everyone."
"What if," Conan said slowly, "when our horses are about to fall, we change to horses that, if tiredsomewhat from running, have at least not carried a man? And when those are ready to fall...." He lookedat the others questioningly. He had heard of this in a tavern, and tavern tales were not always overly filledwith truth. "We have several extra mounts for each man. Even these war mounts cannot outrun them all,can they?"
"It could work," Tamur breathed. "Kaavan One-Father watch over us, it could work."
Akeba nodded. "I should have thought of that. I've heard this is done on the southern frontier."
"But the trade goods," Sharak complained. "You'll not abandon-"
"Will you die for them?" Conan cut him off, and ran for the hobbled pack horses. The others followed athis heels, the old astrologer last and slowest.
The nomads wasted no time once Conan's idea was explained to them, hastily fumbling in the dark withbridles, finishing just as roaring horsemen burst from among the Hyrkanian yurts. Conan wasted but asingle moment in thought of the gold from their trading, and the greater part of his own gold, hidden in a
bale of tanned hides, then he scrambled onto his mount with the others, lashing it into a desperate gallop.Death rode on their heels.
As they entered the tall, scrub-covered sand dunes on the coast, four men rode double, and no sparehorses were left. The sweat-lathered mounts formed a straggling line, but no man pressed his horse forfear of the animal's collapse. In the sky before them the sun hung low; the two-days' journey hadconsumed less than one with the impetus of saving their lives.
Conan's shaggy mount staggered under him, but he could hear the crash of waves ahead. "How muchlead do we have?" he asked Akeba.
"Perhaps two turns of the glass, perhaps less," the Turanian replied.
"They held their animals back, Cimmerian, when they saw they would not overtake us easily," Tamuradded. His breath came in pants almost as heavy as those of his mount. He labored the beast with hisquirt, but without real force. "Ours will not last much longer, but theirs will be near fresh when they comeup on us."
"They'll come up on empty sand," Conan laughed, urging his shaggy horse to the top of a dune, "forwe've reached the ship." Words and laughter trailed away as he stared at the beach beyond. The sandwas empty, with only the cold remains of fires to show he had come to the right place. Far out on thewater a shape could be seen, a hint of triangularity speaking of Foam Dancer's lateen sail.
"I never trusted that slime-spawn Muktar," Akeba muttered. "The horses are played out, Conan, andwe're little better. This stretch of muddy sand is no fit place to die, if any place is fit, but 'tis time to thinkof taking a few enemies with us into the long night. What say you, Cimmerian?"
Conan, wrestling with his own thoughts, said nothing. So far he had come in his quest for a means todestroy Jhandar, and what had come of it? Samarra dead, and all her slaves. Yasbet taken by Jhandar'shenchmen. Even in small matters the gods had turned their faces from him. The trade goods for which hehad spent his hundred pieces of gold-and hard-earned gold it was, too, for the slaying of a friend, evenone ensorceled to kill-were abandoned. Of the gold but two pieces nestled in his pouch with flint, steel,Samarra's pouch and a bit of dried meat. And now he had fallen short by no more than half a turn of theglass. Muktar had not even waited to discover that Conan lacked the coin to pay for his return voyage.Though, under the circumstances, a show of steel would have disposed of that quibble.
"Are you listening?" Akeba demanded of him. "Let us circle back on our trail to the start of the dunes.We can surprise them, and with rest we may give a good account of ourselves." Muttering rose amongthe Hyrkanians.
Still Conan did not speak. Instead he chewed on a thought. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. Therewas something of importance there, could he but see it. A faint voice within him said that it was urgent hedid see it.
"Let us die as men," Tamur said, though his tone was hesitant, "not struggling futilely, like dungbeetlesseized by ants." Some few of his fellows murmured approval; the rest twitched their reins fretfully andcast anxious backward glances, but kept silent.
The Turanian's black eyes flicked the nomad scornfully; Tamur looked away. "No one who calls himselfa man dies meekly," Akeba said.
"They are of our blood," Tamur muttered, and the soldier snorted.
"Mitra's Mercies! This talk of blood has never stayed one Hyrkanian's steel from another's throat that Ihave seen. It'll not stay the hands of those who follow us. Have you forgotten what they will do to thosethey take alive? Gelded. Flayed alive. Impaled. You told us so. And you hinted at worse, if there can beworse."
Tamur flinched, licking his lips and avoiding Akeba's gaze. Now he burst out, "We stand outside thelaw!" A mournful sigh breathed from the other nomads. Tamur rushed breathlessly on. "We are no longershielded by the laws of our people. For us to slay even one of those sent by the shamans would be tofoul and condemn our own spirits, to face an eternity of doom."
"But you didn't kill Samarra," Akeba protested. "Surely your god knows that. Conan, talk to this fool."
But the Cimmerian ignored all of them. The barest glimmerings of hope flickered in him.
"We will face the One-Father having broken no law," Tamur shouted.
"Erlik take your laws! You were willing to disobey the edict against revenging yourself on Jhandar."Akeba's thin mouth twisted in a sneer. "I think you are simply ready to surrender. You are all dogs!Craven women whining for an easy death!"
Tamur recoiled, hand going to the hilt of his yataghan. "Kaavan understands revenge. You Turanians,whose women have watered your blood for a thousand years with the seed of western weaklings,understand nothing. I will now teach you!"
Steel slid from scabbards, and was arrested halfdrawn by Conan's abrupt, "The ship! We will use theship."
Akeba stared at him. Some of the Hyrkanians moved their horses back. Madmen were touched by thegods; slaying one, even in self-defense, was a sure path to ill luck.
Sharak, clinging tiredly to his mount with one hand and his staff with the other, peered ostentatiously afterFoam Dancer. The vessel was but a mote, now. "Are we to become fish, then?" he asked.
"The galley," Conan said, his exasperation clear at their stupidity. "How much before us could Jhandar'shenchmen have left the camp? And they had no reason to ride as we did, for no one was pursuing them.Their galley may still be waiting for them. We can rescue Yasbet and use it to cross the sea again."
"I'd not wager a copper on it," Akeba said. "Most likely the galley is already at sea."
"Are the odds better if you remain here?" Conan asked drily. Akeba looked doubtful. He ran an eye overthe others; half the nomads still watched him warily. Sharak seemed lost in thought. "I'll not wait heremeekly to be slaughtered," Conan announced. "You do what you will." Turning his horse to the south, hebooted it into a semblance of a trot.
Before he had gone a hundred paces Sharak caught up to him, using his staff like a switch to chivy hisshaggy mount along. "A fine adventure," the astrologer said, a fixed grin on his parchment face. "Do wetake prisoners when we reach the galley? In the sagas heroes never take prisoners."
Akeba joined them in a gallop; his horse staggered as he reined back to their pace. "Money is one thing,"the Turanian said. "My life I'm willing to wager on long odds."
Conan smiled without looking at either of them, a smile touched with grimness. More hooves poundedthe sand behind him. He did not look around to see how many others had joined. One or all, it would beenough. It had to be. With cold eyes he led them south.
0ne horse sank to its knees, refusing to go on, as they passed the first headland, and another fell deadbefore they were long out of sight of the first. Thick scrub grew here in patches too large to ride around.There were no paths except those forced by the horses.
Conan grimaced as yet another man mounted double. Their pace was slower than walking. Keeping theirstrength was important if they were to face the galley's crew, or Jhandar's henchmen, but the horses wereat the end of theirs. And time was important as well. They must reach the ship before Yasbet's captorsdid, or at least before they sailed, and before the pursuing Hyrkanians overtook them. The nomadswould have little difficulty following their tracks down the coast.
Reaching a decision, he dismounted. The others stared as he removed his horse's crude rope bridle andbegan to walk. Sharak pressed his own mount forward and dropped off beside the big Cimmerian.
"Conan," Akeba called after him, "what-"
But Conan strode on; the rest could follow or not, as they chose. He would not spend precious momentsin convincing them. With the old astrologer struggling to keep up he plunged ahead. Neither spoke.Breath now was to be saved for walking.
Where the horses had struggled to pass there were spaces where a man might go more easily. Akebaand the Hyrkanians were soon lost to sight, had either chosen to look back. Neither did.
There was no smooth highway for them, though. Even when the sandy ground was level, their boots sankto the ankles, and rocks lay ready to turn underfoot and throw the unwary into thornbushes boastingblack, fingerlong spikes, that would rip flesh like talons.
But then the ground was seldom level, except for occasional stretches of muddy beach, pounded byangry waves. For every beach there were a pair of headlands to be descended on one side and scaledon the other, with steep hills between, and deep gullies between those. Increasingly the land becamealmost vertical, up or down. One hundred paces forward took five hundred steps to travel, or onethousand. The horses would have been useless.
Of course, Conan reasoned, sweat rolling down his face, grit in his hair and eyes and mouth, he couldmove inland to the edge of the plain. But then he would not know when he reached the beach where thegalley lay. He would not let himself consider the possibility that it might no longer be there. Too, on theplain they would leave even clearer traces of his passage for their hunter, and most of the time gained bytraveling there thus would be lost in struggling to the beaches when they were sighted.
A crashing in the thick brush behind them brought Conan's sword into his hand. Cursing, Akebastumbled into sight, his dark face coated with sweat and dust.
"Two more horses died," the Turanian said without preamble, "and another went lame. Tamur is rightbehind me. He'll catch up if you wait. The others were arguing about whether to abandon the remaininghorses when I left, but they'll follow as well, sooner or later."
"There is no time to wait." Resheathing his blade, Conan started off again.
Sharak, who had no breath for speaking, followed, and after a moment Akeba did as well.
Three men, the young Cimmerian thought, since Tamur would be joining them. Three and a half, an hecounted Sharak, the old astrologer would be worth no more than half Akeba or Tamur in a fight, if that
much. Mayhap some of the other nomads would catch up in time, but they could not be counted on.Three and a half, then.
As Tamur joined them, plucking thorns from his arm and muttering curses fit to curl a sailor's hair, fatraindrops splattered against the back of Conan's neck. The Cimmerian peered up in surprise at thick,angrily purple clouds. His eyes had been of necessity locked to the ground; he had not noticed theirgathering.
Quickly the sprinkling became a deluge, a hail of heavy pounding drops. A wind rose, ripping down thecoast, tearing at the twisted scrub growth, howling higher and higher till it rang in the ears and dirt hung inthe air to mix with the rain, splashing the four men with rivulets of mud. Nearby, a thick-rootedthornbush, survivor of many storms, tore lose from the ground, tangled briefly in the branches around it,and was whipped away.
Tamur put his mouth close to Conan's ear and shouted. "It is the Wrath of Kaavan! We must take shelterand pray!"
"'Tis but a storm!" the Cimmerian shouted back. "You faced worse on Foam Dancer!"
"No! This is no ordinary storm! It is the Wrath of Kaavan!" The Hyrkanian's face was a frozen mask,fear warring plainly with his manhood. "It comes with no warning, and when it does, men die! Horses arelifted whole into the air, and yurts, with all in them, to be found smashed to the ground far distant, ornever to be seen again! We must shelter for our lives!"
The wind was indeed rising, even yet, shaking the thickets till it seemed the scrub was trying to tear itselffree and flee. Driven raindrops struck like pebbles flung from slings.
Akeba, half-supporting Sharak, raised his voice against the thundering wind and rain. "We must takeshelter, Cimmerian! The old man is nearly done! He'll not last out this storm if we don't!"
Pushing away from the Turanian, Sharak held himself erect with his staff. His straggly white hair wasplastered wetly to his skull, "If you are done, soldier, say so. I am not!"
Conan eyed the old man regretfully. Sharak was clinging to his staff as to a lifeline. The other two, for allthey were younger and hardier, were not in greatly better condition. Akeba's black face was lined withweariness, and Tamur, his fur cap a sodden mass hanging about his ears, swayed when the wind struckhim fully. Yet there was Yasbet.
"How many of your nomads followed, Tamur?" he asked finally. "Will they catch up if we wait?"
"All followed," Tamur replied, "but Hyrkanians do not travel in the Wrath of Kaavan. It is death,Cimmerian."
"Jhandar's henchmen are not Hyrkanian," he shouted against the wind. "They will travel. The storm willhold the galley. We must reach it before they do and they put to sea. They, and Yasbet, will surely beaboard by then. If you will not go with me, then I go alone."
For a long moment there was no sound except the storm, then Akeba said, "Without that ship I maynever get Jhandar."
Tamur's shoulders heaved in a sigh, silent in the storm. "Baalsham. Almost, with being declared outlaw,did I forget Baalsham. Kaavan understands revenge."
Sharak turned southward, stumping along leaning heavily on his staff. Conan and Akeba each grabbed
one of the old man's arms to help him over the rough ground, and though he grumbled he did not attemptto pull free. Slowly they moved on.
Raging, the storm battered the coast. Stunted, wind-sculpted trees and great thornbushes swayed andleaned. Rain lashed them, and grit scoured through the air as if in a desert sandstorm. The wind thatdrove all before it drowned all sound in a demonic cacophony, till no man could hear the blood poundingin his own ears, or even his own thought.
It was because of that unceasing noise that Conan looked back often, watching for pursuit. Tamur mightclaim that no Hyrkanian would venture abroad in the Wrath of Kaavan, but it was the Cimmerian'sexperience that men did what they had to and let gods sort out the rights and wrongs later. So it was thathe saw his party had grown by one in number, then by two more, and by a fourth. Rain-soaked andwind-ravaged, the grease washing from their lank hair and the filth from their sheepskin coats, the rest ofTamur's followers staggered out of the storm to join them, faces wreathed in joyous relief at the sight ofthe others. What had driven them to struggle through the storm-desire for revenge on Jhandar, fear oftheir pursuers, or terror of facing the Wrath of Kaavan alone? Conan did not care. Their numbers meanta better chance of rescuing Yasbet and taking the galley. With a stony face that boded ill for those hesought, the huge Cimmerian struggled on into the storm.
It was while they were scaling the slope of a thrusting headland, a straggling file of men clinging with theirfingernails against being hurled into the sea, that the wind and rain abruptly died. Above the dark cloudsroiled, and waves still crashed against cliff and beach, but comparative silence filled the unnaturally stillair.
"'Tis done," Conan called to those below, "and we've survived. Not even the wrath of a god can stopus."
But for all his exuberant air, he began to climb faster. With the storm done the galley could sail. Tamurcried out something, but Conan climbed even faster. Scrambling atop the headland, he darted across,and almost let out a shout of joy. Below a steep drop was a length of beach, and drawn up on it was thegalley.
Immediately he dropped to his belly, to avoid watching eyes from below, and wriggled to the edge of thedrop. The vessel's twin masts were dismounted and firmly lashed on frames running fore and aft. Nodoubt they had had time to do little more before the storm broke on them. Two lines inland to anchors inthe dunes, to hold the ship against the action of the waves, and the galley had been winched well up thebeach, yet those waves had climbed the sand as well, and still clawed at the vessel's sides. Charredplanks at the stern, and the blackened stumps of railing, spoke of their first meeting.
As each of the others reached the top of the headland they threw themselves to the ground besideConan, until a line of men stretched along the rim, peering at the ship below.
"May I roast in Zandru's Hells, Cimmerian," Akeba breathed, "but I did not think we'd do it. The end ofthe storm and the ship, just as you said."
"The Wrath of Kaavan is not spent," Tamur said. "'That is what I was trying to tell you."
Conan rolled onto one elbow, wondering if the nomad's wits had been pounded loose by the storm."There is no rain, no wind. Where then is the storm?"
Tamur shook his head wearily. "You do not understand, outlander. This is called Kaavan's Mercy, a timeto pray for the dead, and for your life. Soon the rain will come again, as suddenly as it left, and the windwill blow, but this time it will come from the other direction. The shamans say-"
"Erlik take your shamans," Akeba muttered. The nomads stirred, but were too tired to do more thancurse. "If he speaks the truth, Cimmerian, we're finished. Without rest, a troupe of dancing girls coulddefeat us, but how can we rest? If we don't take that ship before this accursed Wrath of Kaavanreturns...." He slumped, chin on his arms, peering at the galley.
"We rest," Conan said. Drawing back from the edge, Conan crawled to Sharak. The aged astrologer laylike a sack of sodden rags, but he levered himself onto his back when Conan stopped beside him. "Lieeasy," the Cimmerian told him. "We'll stay here a time."
"Not on my account," Sharak rasped. He would have gotten to his feet had Conan not pressed him back."This adventuring is a wet business, but my courage has not washed away. The girl, Conan. We must seeto her. And to Jhandar."
"We will, Sharak."
The old man subsided, and Conan turned to face Akeba and Tamur, who had followed him from the rim.The other nomads watched from where they lay.
"What is this talk of waiting?" the Turanian demanded. "Seizing that galley is our only hope."
"So it is," Conan agreed, "but not until the storm comes again."
Tamur gasped. "Attack in the face of the Wrath of Kaavan! Madness!"
"The storm will cover our approach," Conan explained patiently. "We must take the crew by surprise ifwe are to capture them."
"Capture them?" Tamur said incredulously. "They have served Baalsham. We will cut their throats."
"Can you sail a ship?" Conan asked.
"Ships! I am a Hyrkanian. What care I for...." A pole-axed expression spread over the nomad's face,and he sank into barely audible curses.
In quick words Conan outlined his plan. "Tell the others," he finished, and left them squatting there.
Crawling back to the rim, he lowered himself full-length on the hard, wet ground, where he could watchthe ship. The vessel could not sail until the storm had passed. With the patience of a great cat watching aherd of antelope draw closer, he waited.
The rain returned first, a pelting of large drops that grew to a roaring downpour, and the wind followedclose behind. From the south it screamed, as Tamur had predicted, raging with such fury that in momentsit was hard to believe it had ever diminished.
Wordlessly, for words were no longer possible, Conan led them down from the height, each mangripping the belt of the man ahead, stumbling over uneven ground, struggling against the wind with grimpurposefulness. He did not draw his sword; this would be a matter for bare hands. Unhesitatingly Conanmade his way across the sand, through blinding rain. Abruptly his outstretched hand touched wood. Theside of the ship. A rope lashing in the wind struck his arm; he seized the line before it could whip awayfrom him, and climbed, drawing himself up hand over hand. As he scrambled over the rail onto theforepart of the galley he felt the rope quiver. Akeba was starting up.
Quickly Conan's eyes searched the deck. Through the solid curtain of rain washing across the vessel, hecould see naught but dim shapes, and none looked to be a man, yet it was his fear that even in the height
of the storm a watch was kept.
Akeba thumped to the deck beside him, and Conan started aft with the Turanian close behind. He knewthe rest would follow. They had nowhere else to go.
A hatch covered the companionway leading down into the vessel. Conan exchanged a glance withAkeba, hunched against the driving rain. The Turanian nodded. With a heave of his arm Conan threw thehatchcover back and leaped, roaring, down the ladder.
There were four men, obviously ship's officers, in the snug, lantern-lit cabin, swilling wine. Gobletscrashed to the deck as Conan landed in their midst. Men leaped to their feet; hands went to sword hilts.But Conan had landed moving. His fist smashed behind an ear, sending its owner to the deck atop hisgoblet. A nose crunched beneath a backhand blow of the other fist, and his boot caught a third man inthe belly while he still attempted to come fully erect.
Now his sword came out, its point stopping a fingerbreadth from the beaked nose of the fourth man. Theemerald at his ear and the thick gold chain about his neck named him captain of the vessel as surely astheir twin queues named all four sailors of the Vilayet. The slab-checked captain froze with his blade halfdrawn.
"I do not need all of you," Conan snarled. "'Ts your choice."
Hesitantly licking his lips, the captain surveyed his fellows. Two did not stir, while the third wasattempting to heave his guts up on the deck. "You'll not get away with this," he said shakily. "My crewwill hand your hearts in the rigging." But he slowly and carefully moved his hand from his weapon.
"Why you needed me," Akeba grumbled from a seat on the next-to-bottom rung of the ladder, "I don'tsee at all."
"There might have been five," Conan replied with a smile that made the captain shiver. "Get Sharak,Akeba. It's warm in here. And see how the others are doing." With a sigh the soldier clattered back upthe ladder into the storm. Conan turned his full attention on the captain. "When are those who hired youreturning?"
"I'm a trader here on my own-" Conan's blade touched the captain's upper lip; the man went cross-eyedstaring at it. He swallowed, and tried to move his head back, but Conan kept a light pressure with theedged steel. "They didn't tell me," the sailor said hastily. "They said I was to wait until they returned,however long it might be. I was of no mind to argue." His face paled, and he clamped his lips tight, as ifafraid to say more.
While Conan wondered why the galley's passengers had affected the captain so, Akeba and Tamurscrambled down the ladder, drawing the hatch shut on the storm behind them. The Turanian half-carriedSharak, whom he settled on a bench, filling a goblet of wine for him. The astrologer mumbled thanks andburied his face in the drink. Tamur remained near the ladder, wiping his dagger on his sheepskin coat.
Conan's eyes lit on that dagger, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Putting a hand on thecaptain's chest, he casually pushed the man back down in his seat. "I told you we need these sailors,Tamur. How many did you kill?"
"Two, Cimmerian," the nomad protested, spreading his hands. "Two only. And one carved a trifle. Butthey resisted. My people watch the rest." A full dozen remain."
"Fists and hilts, I said," Conan snarled. He had to turn away lest he sty too much. "How do you feel,
Sharak?"
"Much refreshed," the astrologer said, and he did seem to be sitting straighter, though he, like all of them,dripped pools of water. "Yasbet is not here?"
Conan shook his head. "But we shall be waiting when she is brought."
"Then for Jhandar," Sharak said, and Conan echoed, "Then for Jhandar."
"They resisted," Tamur said again, in injured tones. "There are enough left to do what they must." No onespoke, or even looked at him. After a moment he went on. "I went down to the rowing benches, Conan,to see if any of them were hiding among the slaves, and who do you think I found? That fellow from theother ship. What is he called? Bayan. That is it. Chained to a bench with the rest." Throwing back hishead, the nomad laughed as if it were the funniest story he had ever heard.
Conan's brow knitted in a frown. Bayan here? And in chains? "Bring him here, Tamur," he snapped."Now!" His tone was such that the Hyrkanian jumped for the ladder immediately. "Tie these others,Akeba," Conan went on, "so we do not have to worry about them." With his sword he motioned thecaptain to lie down on the deck; fuming, the hooknosed seaman complied.
By the time the four ship's officers, two still unconscious, were bound hand and foot, Tamur had returnedwith Bayan. Other than chains, the wiry sailor from Foam Dancer wore only welts and a filthy twist ofrag. He stood head down, shivering wetly from his passage through the storm, watching Conan from thecorner of his eye.
The big Cimmerian straddled a bench, holding his sword before him so that ripples of lantern light ranalong the blade. "How came you here, Bayan?"
"I wandered from the ship," Bayan muttered, "and these scum captured me. There's a code amongsailors, but they chained me to an oar," he raised his head long enough to spit at the tied figure of thecaptain, "and whipped me when I protested."
"What happened at Foam Dancer? You didn't just wander away." The wiry man shifted his feet with aclank of iron links, but said nothing. "You'll talk if I have to let Akeba heat his irons for you." TheTuranian blinked, then grimaced fiercely; Bayan wet his lips. "And you'll tell the truth," Conan went on."The old man is a soothsayer. He can tell when you lie." He lifted his sword as if studying the edge. "Forthe first lie, a hand. Then a foot. Then.... How many lies can you stand? Three? Four? Of a certainty nomore."
Bayan met that glacial blue gaze; then words tumbled out of him as fast as he could force them. "A mancame to the ship, a man with yellow skin and eyes to freeze your heart in your chest. Had your... thewoman with him. Offered a hundred pieces of gold for fast passage back to Aghrapur. Said this ship wasdamaged, and he knew Foam Dancer was faster. Didn't even bother to deny trying to sink us. Muktarwas tired of waiting for you, and when this one appeared with the woman, well, it was plain you weredead, or it seemed plain, and it looked easy enough to take the woman and the gold, and-"
"Slow down!" Conan commanded sharply. "Yasbet is unharmed?"
Bayan swallowed hard. "I... I know not. Before Mitra and Dagon I swear that I raised no hand againsther. She was alive when I left. Muktar gave a signal, you see, and Tewfik and Marantes and I went at thestranger with our daggers, but he killed them before a man could blink. He just touched them, and theywere dead. And then, then he demanded Muktar slit my throat." He made a sound, half laughter, halfweeping. "Evidence of future good faith, he called it. And that fat spawn of a diseased goat was going to
do it! I saw it on his face, and I ran. I hope he's drowned in this accursed storm. I pray he and FoamDancer are both at the bottom of the sea."
"An ill-chosen prayer," Conan said between clenched teeth. "Yasbet is on that vessel." With a despairingwail Bayan sank groveling to his knees. "Put him back where he was," Conan spat. Tamur jerked thewiry seaman to his feet; the Cimmerian watched them go. "Is this galley too damaged to sail?" hedemanded of the captain.
The hooknosed man had lain with his mouth open, listening while Bayan talked. Now he snorted. "Onlya dirt-eater would think so. Once this storm is gone, give me half a day for repairs and I'll sail heranywhere on the Vilayet, in any weather."
"The repairs you need, you'll make at sea," Conan said levelly. "And we sail as soon as the storm abatesenough for us to get off this beach without being smashed to splinters." The captain opened his mouth,and Conan laid his blade against the seaman's throat. "Or mayhap one of these other three would like tobe captain."
The captain's eyes bulged, and his mouth worked. Finally he said, "I'll do it. 'Tis likely we'll all of usdrown, but I'll do it."
Conan nodded. He had expected no other decision. Yasbet was being carried closer to Jhandar by themoment. The storm drumming against the hull seemed to echo the sorcerer's name. Jhandar. This timethey would meet face to face, he and Jhandar, and one of them would die. One or both. Jhandar.
Jhandar, lounging on cushions of multicolored silk spread beside a fountain within a walled garden,watched Davinia exclaiming over his latest gifts to her, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Three days moreand, as matters stood, all his plans would come to naught. Could the wench not sense the worry in him?
"They are beautiful," Davinia said, stretching arms encircled by emerald bracelets above her head.Another time he would have felt sweat popping out on his forehead. Her brief, golden silks left the innerslopes of her rounded breasts bare, and her girdle, two fingerwidths of sapphires and garnets hung withthe bright feathers of rare tropic birds, sat low on the swelling of her hips. Sultry eyes caressed him. "Iwill have to think of a way to show my gratitude," she purred.
He acknowledged her only with a casual wave of his hand. In three days Yildiz, that fat fool, would meetwith his advisors to decide where to use the army he had built. Of the Seventeen Attendants, eight wouldspeak for empire, for war with Zamora. Only eight, and Jhandar knew that Yildiz merely counted thenumber of those who supported or opposed, rather than actually weighing the advice given. Jhandarneeded one more to speak for war. One of the nine other. Who could have believed the nine lived liveswhich, if not completely blameless, still gave him no lever to use against them? One more he needed, yetall the nine would speak for peace, for reducing the numbers of the army. Short of gaining Yildiz's ownear, he had done all that could be done, yet three days would see a year's work undone.
It would take even longer to repair matters. He must first arrange the assassination of an Attendant,perhaps more than one if his efforts to guide the selection of the new Attendant failed. Then it would taketime to build the army again. If things were otherwise, three days could see the beginnings of an empirethat would be his in all but name. Kings would journey to him, kneel at his feet to hear his commands.Instead, he would have to begin again, wait even longer for that he had awaited so long.
And that wait added another risk. What had the man Conan sought in Hyrkania? What had he found thatmight be used against the Power? Why did Che Fan not return with the barbarian's head in a basket?
"You will let me have them, Jhandar?"
"Of course," he said absently, then pulled himself from his grim ruminations. "Have what?"
"The slaves." There was petulance in Davinia's voice, a thing he had noticed more often of late. "Haven'tyou been listening?"
"Certainly I've been listening. But tell me about these slaves again."
"Four of them," she said, moving to stand straddle-legged beside him. Now he could feel sweat on hisface. Sunlight surrounded her with nimbus, a woman of golden silk, glowing hot. "Well-muscled youngmen, of course," she went on. "Two of blackest hue, and two as pale as snow. The one pair I will dressin pearls and rubies, the other in onyx and emeralds. They will be as a frame for me. To make me morebeautiful for you," she added hastily.
"What need have you for slave boys?" he growled. "You have slaves in plenty to do your bidding. Andthat old hag, Renda, to whom you spend so much time whispering."
"Why, to bear my palanquin," she laughed, tinkling musical notes. Fluidly she sank to her knees, bendingtill her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips brushed the line of his jaw. "Surely my Great Lordwould not deny my bearers. My Great Lord, who it is my greatest pleasure to serve. In every way."
"I can deny you nothing," he said thickly. "You may have the slaves."
In her eyes he caught a fleeting glimpse of greed satisfied, and the moment soured for him. She wouldleave him did she ever find one who could give her more. He meant to be sure there could never be sucha one, but still .... He could bind her to him with the golden bowl and her heart's blood. None who sawor talked with her would ever know she did not in truth live. But he would know.
Someone cleared his throat diffidently. Scowling, Jhandar sat up. Zephran stood on the marble path,bowing deeply over folded hands, eyes carefully averted from Davinia.
"What is it?" Jhandar demanded angrily.
"Suitai is returned, Great Lord," his shavenheaded myrmidion replied.
Instantly Jhandar's anger was gone, along with his thoughts of Davinia. Careless of his dignity, hescrambled to his feet. "Lead," he commanded.
Dimly he noted that Davinia followed as well, but matters not of the flesh dominated his mind once more.
Suitai waited in Jhandar's private audience chamber, its bronze lion lamps unlit at this hour. A large sacklay on the mosaicked floor at the Khitan's feet.
"Where is Che Fan?" Jhandar demanded as he entered.
"Perished, Great Lord," Suitai replied, and Jhandar hesitated in his stride.
Despite his knowledge to the contrary, Jhandar had begun to think in some corners of his mind that thetwo assassins were indestructible. It was difficult to imagine what could slay one of them.
"How?" he said shortly.
"The barbarian enlisted the aid of a Hyrkanian witch-woman, Great Lord. She, also, died."
That smile meant that Suitai had been her killer, Jhandar thought briefly, without interest. "And thebarbarian?"
"Conan is dead as well, Great Lord."
Jhandar nodded slowly, feeling a strange relief. This Conan had been but a straw in the wind after all,catching the eye as it flashed by, yet unimportant. Suitai's smile had faded at the mention of the barbarian,no doubt because Che Fan had actually slain the fellow. At times he thought that Suitai's thirst for bloodwould eventually prove a liability. Now he had no time for such petty worries.
"The crew of the galley was disposed of as I commanded. Suitai? I wish no links between myself andHyrkania." Not until he was able to control that region the shamans had blasted, thus containing whatevermight be of danger to him within. Not until his power was secure in Turan.
The tall Khitan hesitated. "The galley was damaged, Great Lord, and could not put to sea. I left its crewwaiting for me. Without doubt the coastal tribes have attended to them by now. Instead I hired the vesselthe barbarian used, and came ashore well north of the city."
"And the crew of this ship?"
"Dead, Great Lord. I slew them, and guided the ship to the beach myself." An unreadable expressionflickered across the assassin's normally impassive face, and Jhandar eyed him sharply. Suitai shifteduneasily beneath that gaze, then went on slowly. "The captain, Great Lord, a fat man called Muktar,leaped into the sea, surely to drown. I have no doubt of it."
"You have no doubt of a great many things, Suitai." Jhandar's voice was silky, yet dripped venom like ascorpion's tail.
Sweat appeared on Suitai's brow. The mage had a deadly lack of patience with those who did notperform exactly as he commanded. Hurriedly the Khitan bent to the large sack at his feet.
"I brought you this gift, Great Lord." The lashings of the sack came loose, and he spilled a girl out ontothe mosaicked floor, wrists bound to elbows behind her back, legs doubled tightly against her breasts,the thin cords that held her cutting deeply into her naked flesh. She grunted angrily into her gag as shetumbled onto the floor, and attempted to fight her bonds, but only her toes and fingers wriggled. "The girlthe barbarian stole from the compound, Great Lord," Suitai announced with satisfaction.
Jhandar snorted. "Don't think to make up for your shortcomings. What is one girl more or less to-"
"Why, it's Esmira," Davinia broke in.
The necromancer scowled irritably. He had forgotten that she had followed him. "That's not her name.She is called...." It took a moment, though he did remember marking the wench for his bed, long ago itseemed. ". . . Yasbet. That's it. Now return to the garden, Davinia. I have matters to discuss here that donot concern you."
Instead the lithe blonde squatted on her heels by the bound girl, using both hands to twist the strugglingwench's gagged face around for a better look. "I tell you this is the Princess Esmira, Prince Roshmanli'sdaughter."
Jhandar's mouth was suddenly dry. "Are you certain? The rumors say the princess is cloistered."
She gave him a withering look that would have elicited instant and painful punishment for anyone else.From her, at this moment, he ignored it. The prince was Yildizs closest advisor among the Attendants, of
the nine, a man who seduced no woman with a husband and gambled only with his own gold. Yet it wassaid his daughter was his weakness, that he would do anything to shelter her from the world. For thesafety of his Esmira, would Roshmanli send Turan to war? He had had men slain for casting their eyesupon her. If handled carefully, it could be done.
Then his eyes fell on Davinia, smiling smugly as he examined the bound girl, and a new thought came tohim.
He pulled the blonde to her feet. "You say you want only to serve me. Do you speak the truth?"
"To you," she replied slowly, "I speak only truth."
"Then this night there will be a ceremony. In that ceremony you will plunge a dagger into the heart of thisgirl." He gazed deeply into her eyes, searching for hesitation, for vacillation. There was none.
"As my Great Lord commands me," Davinia said smoothly.
Jhandar felt the urge to throw back his head and laugh wildly. She had taken the first step. Once she hadwielded the knife, she would be bound to him more firmly than with iron chains. And by the same strokehe would gain the ninth voice among the King's Attendants. All of his dreams were taking shape. Empireand the woman. He would have it all.
Dark seas rolled beneath the galley's ram, phosphorescence dancing on her bow wave, as the measuredsweep of three score oars drew it on. Ahead in the night the darker mass of the Turanian coast wasmarked by white-breaking waves glinting beneath the pale, cloudchased moon.
Echoes of those crashing breakers rolled across the waters to Conan. He stood in the stern of the galley,where he could keep close watch on both captain and steersman. Already they had attempted to take theship other than as he directed-perhaps into the harbor at Aghrapur, so that he and the rest could beseized as pirates-and only the scanty knowledge he had gained with the smugglers had thus far thwartedthem. The rest of the vessel's crew, sullen and disarmed, worked under the watchful eyes of Akeba,Tamur, and the nomads. Sharak clung to the lines that supported the foremast, and gazed on the heavens,seeking the configurations that would tell their fates that night.
Conan cared not what the stars foretold. Their destinies would be as they would be, for he would notalter what he intended by so much as a hair. "There," he said, pointing ahead. "Beach there."
"There's nothing there," the captain protested.
"There," Conan repeated. "'Tis close enough to where we're going. I'd think you would be glad to seeour backs, wherever we wanted to be put ashore."
Grumbling, the slab-checked captain spoke to his steersman, and the galley shifted a point to larboard,toward the stretch of land at which the big Cimmerian had pointed.
With scanty information had Conan made his choice. The distant glow of lamps from Aghrapur to thesouth. A glimpse at the stars. Instinct. Perhaps, he thought, that last had played the most important part.He knew that on that shore stood the compound of the Cult of Doom, Yasbet's place of imprisonment,and Jhandar, the man he must kill even if he died himself.
Sand grated beneath the galley's keel. The vessel lurched, heeled, was driven further forward by themotion of long sweeps. Finally motion ceased; the deck tilted only slightly.
"It's done," the hooknosed captain announced, anger warring with satisfaction on his face. "You canleave my vessel, now, and I'll give burnt offerings to Dagon when you're gone."
"Akeba!" Conan called. On receiving an answering hail he turned back to the captain. "I advise you to gosouth along the coast, you and your crew. I do not know what will happen here this night, but I fearpowers will be unbound. One place I have seen where such bonds were cut; there nightmare walked,and some would count death a blessing."
"Sorcery?" The word was a hiss of indrawn breath in the captain's mouth, changing to shaky, blusteringlaughter. "An sorceries are to be loosed, I have no fears of being caught in them. I will be clear of thebeach before you, and I will go south as fast as whips can drive my oar-sl-" Hatch covers crashing openamidships cut him off, and the clatter of men scrambling on deck, whip-scarred, half-naked men fallingover themselves in their eagerness to dash to the rail and drop to the surf below. The hooknosed man'seyes bulged as he stared at them. "You've loosed the oar slaves! You fool! What-" He spun back toConan, and found himself facing the Cimmerian's blade.
"Three score oars," Conan said quietly, "and two men chained to each. I have no love for chains on men,for I've worn them around my own neck. Normally I do not concern myself with freeing slaves. I cannotstrike off all the chains in the world, or in Turan, or even in a single city, and if I could, men would findways to put them back again before they had a chance to grow dusty. Still, the world may end this night,and the men who have brought me to my fate deserve their freedom, as they and all the rest of us may bedead before dawn. You had best get over the side, captain. Your own life may depend on how fast youcan leave this place."
The hooknosed captain glared at him, face growing purple. "Steal my slaves, then order me off my ownvessel? Rambis!" He bit it off as he stared at the vacant spot by the steering oar. Conan had seen the manslip quietly over the railing as he spoke.
Discovery of the defection took what was left of the captain's backbone. With a strangled yelp he leapedinto the sea.
Sheathing his sword, Conan turned to join his companions, and found himself facing some two dozenfilthy galley slaves, gathered in a different knot amidships. Akeba and the Hyrkanians watched themwarily.
A tall man with a long, tangled black beard and the scars of many floggings stepped forward, ducking hishead. "Your pardon, lord. I am called Akman. It is you who has freed us? We would follow you."
"I'm no lord," Conan said. "Be off with you while you have time, and be grateful you do not follow me. Idraw my sword against a powerful sorcerer, and there is dying to be done this night." A handful of theformer slaves melted into the darkness, splashes sounding their departure.
"Still there are those of us who would follow you, lord," Akman said. "For one who has lived as a deadman, to die as a free man is a greater boon than could be expected from the gods."
"Stop calling me lord," Conan growled. Akman bowed again, and the other rowers behind him. Shakinghis head, Conan sighed. "Find weapons, then, and make peace with your gods. Akeba! Tamur!Sharak!"
Without waiting to see what the freed slaves would do, the big Cimmerian put a hand to the railing andvaulted into waist-deep seas that broke against his broad back and sent foam over his shoulders. Thenamed men followed as he waded to shore, a stretch of driftwood-covered sand where moon-shadowsstirred.
"They'll be more hindrance than help, those slaves," Sharak grumbled, attempting to wring seawater fromhis robes without dropping his staff. "This is a matter for fighting men."
"And you are the stoutest of them all," Akeba laughed, clapping the old astrologer on the shoulder andalmost knocking him down. His laughter sounded wild and grim, the laughter of a man who would laughin the face of the dark gods and was doing so now: "And you, Cimmerian. Why so somber? Even if wedie we will drag Jhandar before Erlik's Black Throne behind us."
"And if Jhandar looses the magicks that he did when he was defeated before?" Conan said. "There areno shamans to contain them here."
They stared at him, Akeba's false mirth fading. Sharak held a corner of his robes in two hands, hisdampness forgotten, and Conan thought he heard Tamur mutter a prayer.
Then the men from the galley were clambering up the beach, the half score who had not succumbed tofear or good sense, led by Akman with a boarding pike in his calloused hands. The Hyrkanian nomadscame too, cursing at the wet as they waded through the surf. A strange army, the Cimmerian thought,with which to save the world.
He turned from the sea. They followed, a file of desperate men snaking into the Turanian night.
"Must I actually put a knife in her heart?"
Davinia's question jangled in Jhandar's mind, which had been almost settled for his period of meditation."Do you regret your decision?" he demanded. In his thoughts, he commanded her: have no regrets.Murder a princess in sorcerous rites. Be bound to me by ties stronger than iron.
"No regrets, my Great Lord," she said slowly, toying with the feathers of her girdle. When she lifted hergaze to his her sapphire eyes were clear and untroubled. "She has lived a useless life. At least her deathwill be to some purpose."
Despite himself he could not stop the testing. "And if I said there was no purpose? Just her death?" Herfrown almost stopped his heart.
"No purpose? I do not like getting blood on my hands." She tossed her blonde mane petulantly. "The feelof it will not wash away for days. I will not do it if there is no purpose."
"There is a purpose," he said hastily, "which I cannot tell you until the proper time." And to forestallquestions he hurried from the room.
His nerves burned with how close he had come to dissuading her. Almost, he thought, there would be nojoy in achieving all his ambitions without her. Some rational corner of his mind told him the thought waslust-soaked madness. The fruition of his plans would hold her to him, for where would she then find oneof greater power or wealth? With the taking of Yasbet-if she chose to call herself so, so he would thinkof her-all would be in place. His power in Turan would be complete. But Davinia....
He was still struggling with himself when he settled in the simple chamber, before the Pool of the Ultimate.That would not do. He must be empty of emotion for the Power to fill him. Carefully he focused on hisdreams. War and turmoil would fill the nations, disorder hastened by his overgrowing band of theChosen. Only he would be able to call a halt to it. Kings would kneel to him. Slowly the pool began toglow.
From the branches of the tree, Conan studied the compound of the Cult of Doom. Ivory domes gleamedin the dappled moonlight, and purple spires thrust into the sky, but no hint of light showed within those
high marble walls, and no one stirred. The Cimmerian climbed back down to the ground, to the menwaiting there.
"Remember," he said, addressing himself mainly to the former galley slaves, "any man with a weaponmust be slain, for they will not surrender." The Hyrkanians nodded somberly; they knew this well.
"But the blackrobed one with the yellow skin is mine," Akeba reminded them. Time and again on theshort march he had reiterated his right to vengeance for his daughter.
"The blackrobe is yours," Akman said nervously. "I but wish you could take the demons as well."
Sharak shook his staff, gripping it with both hands as if it were a lifeline. "I will handle the demons," hesaid. "Bring them to me." A wind from the sea moaned in the treetops as if in answer, and he subsidedinto mutters.
"Let us be on with it," Tamur said, fidgeting whether with eagerness or nervousness, Conan could nottell.
"Stay together," the Cimmerian said by way of a last instruction. "Those who become separated will beeasy prey" With that he led them down to the towering white wall.
Grapnels taken from the galley swung into the air, clattered atop the wall and took hold. Men swarmedup ropes like ants and dropped within.
Once inside the compound Conan barely noticed the men following him, weapons in hand, falling backon either side so that he was the point of an arrow. His own blade came into his hand. Jhandar. Ignoringother buildings, Conan strode toward the largest structure of the compound, an alabaster palace ofgolden onion-domes and columned porticos and towers of porphyry. Jhandar would be there in hispalace. Jhandar and Yasbet, if she still lived. But first Jhandar, for there could be no true safety forYasbet until the necromancer was dead.
Suddenly there was a saffron-robed man before him, staring in astonishment at the intruders. Producing adagger, he screamed, "In the name of Holy Chaos, die!"
A fool to waste time with shouts, Conan thought, wrenching his blade free so the man's body could fall.And in Crom's name, what god was this Chaos?
But the noise produced another shavenheaded man, this with a spear that he thrust at Conan, soundingthe same cry. The Cimmerian grasped the shaft to guide the point clear of his body; the point of hisbroadsword ended the strange shout in a gurgle of blood.
Then hundreds of saffron-robed men and women were rushing into the open. At first they seemed onlycurious, then those nearest Conan saw the bodies and screamed. In an instant panic seized them by thethroat, and they became a boiling mass, seeking only escape, yet almost overwhelming those they fearedin a tide of numbers.
Forgetting his own instructions to stay together, Conan began to force his way through the pack ofstruggling flesh, toward the palace. Jhandar, was the only thought in his head. Jhandar.
"Great Lord, the compound is under attack."
Jhandar stirred fretfully in his communion with the Power. It took a moment for him to pull his eyes fromthe glowing pool and focus them on Suitai, standing ill at ease in the unnatural glow that filled thechamber.
"What? Why are you disturbing me here, Suitai? You know it is forbidden."
"Yes, Great Lord. But the attack...."
That time the word got through to Jhandar. "Attack? The army?" Had disaster come on him yet again?
"No, Great Lord. I know not who they are, or how many. The entire compound is in an uproar. It isimpossible to count their numbers. I slew one; he was filthy and half-naked, and bore the welts of alash."
"A slave?" Jhandar asked querulously. It was hard to think, with his mind attuned to the communion andthat communion not fully completed. "Take the Chosen and dispose of these interlopers, whoever theyare. Then restore order to the compound."
"All of the Chosen, Great Lord?"
"Yes, all of them," the necromancer replied irritably. Could the man not do as he was told? He must settlehis mind, complete his absorption of the Power.
"Then you will delay the ceremony, Great Lord?"
Jhandar blinked, found his gaze drifting to the Pool of the Ultimate, and jerked it back. "Delay? Ofcourse not. Think you I need those fools' rapturous gazes to perform the rite?" Desperately he fought tostop his head spinning, to think clearly. "Take the Chosen as I commanded you. I will myself bring the girlto the Chamber of Sacrifice and do what is necessary. Go!"
Bowing, the blackrobed Khitan sped away, glad to be gone from the presence of that which was boundin that room.
Jhandar shook his head and peered into the pool. Glowing mists filled the limits of the wards, an unearthlydome that seemed to draw him into its depths. Angrily he pushed that feeling aside, though he could notrid himself of it. He was tired, that was all. There was no need to complete the communion, he decided.Disturbed as he was, completion might take until dawn, and he had no time to wait. The girl must be histonight. As it was the Power flowed along his bones, coursed in his veins. He would perform the ritenow.
Gathering his robes about him, he left to fetch Yasbet and Davinia to the Chamber of Sacrifice.
Warily, sword at the ready, Conan moved along one wall of a palace corridor, with no eye for richtapestries or ancient vases of rare Khitan porcelain. Akeba stalked along the other, tulwar in hand. As apair of wolfhounds they hunted.
The Cimmerian did not know where the others were. From time to time the clash of steel and the cries ofdying men sounded from outside, or echoed down the halls from other parts of the palace. Who won andwho died he could not tell, and at that moment he did not care. He sought Jhandar, and instinct told himhe drew closer with every step.
Silent as death three saffron-robed men hurtled from a side corridor, scimitars slashing.
Conan caught a blade on his broadsword, sweeping it toward the wall and up. As his own blade cameparallel to the floor he slipped it off the other in a slashing blow that half-severed his opponent's head.Flashing swiftly on, his sword axed into the second man's head a heartbeat before Akeba's steel buried
itself in the man's ribs. Twice-slain, the body fell atop that of he who had faced the Turanian at the firstattack.
"You work well," Akeba grunted, wiping his blade on a corpse's robe. "You should think of the army ifwe live to leave this. . ." His words trailed off as both men became aware of a new presence in thecorridor. The blackrobed Khitan assassin.
Unhurriedly he moved toward them, with the casual confidence of a great beast that knows its kill isassured. His hands were empty of weapons, but Conan remembered well the dead in Samarra's yurt,with no wound on any but looks of horror on every face, and Zorelle, dead from a touch.
Conan firmed his grip on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword, but as he stepped forward Akeba laid ahand on his arm. The soldier's voice was as cold as frozen iron. "He is mine. By right of blood, he ismine."
Reluctantly Conan gave way, and the Turanian moved forward alone. Of necessity the big Cimmerianwaited to watch his friend do battle. Jhandar was still uppermost in his mind, but the way to him leddeeper into the palace, past the murderously maneuvering pair before him.
The Khitan smiled; his hand struck like a serpent, and, like a mongoose, Akeba was not there. Theassassin flowed from the path of the soldier's flashing steel, yet the smile was gone from his face. Likemalefic dancers the two men moved, lightning blade against fatal touch, each aware of the other'sdeadliness, each intent on slaying. Abruptly the Khitan deciphered the pattern of Akeba's moves; themalevolent hand darted for the soldier's throat. Desperately Akeba blocked the blow, and it struckinstead his sword arm. Crying out, the Turanian staggered back, tulwar falling, arm dangling, clawing withhis good hand for his dagger. The assassin paused to laugh before closing for the kill.
"Crom!" Conan roared, and leapt.
Only the Khitan's unnatural suppleness saved him from the blade that struck where he had been. Smilingagain, he motioned the Cimmerian to come to him, if he dared.
"I promised to let you kill him," Conan said to Akeba, without taking his eyes from the blackrobed man,"not the other way around."
The Turanian barked a painful laugh. He clutched his dagger in one hand, but the other twitchedhelplessly at his side and only the tapestry-covered wall kept him from falling. "As you've interfered," hesaid between clenched teeth, "then you must kill him for me, Cimmerian."
"Yes," the assassin hissed. "Kill me, barbarian."
Without warning, Conan lunged, blade thrusting for the blackrobed one's belly, but the killer seemed toglide backward, stopping just beyond the sword's point.
"You must do better, barbar. Che Fan was wrong. You are just another man. I do not think you trulyentered the Blasted Lands, but even if you did, you survived only by luck. I, Suitai, will put an end to youhere. Come to me and find your death."
As the tall man spoke Conan moved slowly forward, sliding his feet along the marble floor so that he wasat no time unbalanced. His sword he held low before him, point flickering from side to side like thetongue of a viper, light from the burnished brass lamps. on the walls glittering along the steel, and thoughthe Khitan spoke confidently, he kept an eye on that blade.
Abruptly, as the assassin finished his speech, Conan tossed his sword from right hand to left, and Suitai's
gaze followed involuntarily. In that instant the Cimmerian jerked a tapestry from the wall to envelop theother man. Even as the hanging tangled about the Khitan's head and chest Conan lunged after, steelripping through cloth and flesh, grating on bone.
Slowly the assassin heaved aside the portion of the tapestry that covered his head. With glazing eyes hestared in disbelief at the blade standing out from his chest, the dark blood that spread to stain his robes.
"Not my death," Conan told him. "Yours."
The Khitan tried to speak, but blood welled from his mouth, and he toppled, dead as he struck themarble floor. Conan tugged his blade free, cleaning it on the tapestry as he might had it been thrust intooffal.
"I give you thanks, my friend," Akeba said, pushing unsteadily away from the wall. His face gleamed withthe sweat of pain, and his arm still dangled at his side, but he managed to stand erect as he looked on thecorpse of his daughter's murderer. "But now you have hunting of your own to do."
"Jhandar," Conan said, and without another word he was moving forward again.
Like a great hunting cat he strode through halls lit by glittering brass lamps, but bare of life. The godssmiled on those who did not meet him in those passages, for he would not now have slowed to see if theybore weapons or not. His blood burned for Jhandar's death. Any who hindered or slowed him nowwould perish in a pool of their own blood.
Then great bronze doors stood before him, doors scribed with a pattern that seemed to have no pattern,that rejected the eye's attempt to focus on it. Setting hands against those massive metal slabs, musclescording with strain, he forced the portals open. Sword at the ready, he went through.
In an instant the horror of that great circular chamber engraved itself on his brain. Yasbet lay chained andgagged on a black altar, to one side of her Davinia, knife upraised to plunge into the bound girl's heart, tothe other Jhandar, an arcane chant rising from his mouth to pierce the air. Over the entire blood-chillingtableau a shimmering silvery-azure dome was forming.
"No!" Conan shouted.
Yet even as he dashed forward he knew he would not reach them before that knife had done its terriblework. He fumbled for his dagger. Davinia froze at his cry. Jhandar's incantation died as he spun toconfront the man who had dared interrupt the rite; the glow disappeared as his words ceased.Desperately Conan hurled his dagger-toward Davinia, for she still held her gleaming blade poised aboveYasbet-but Jhandar turning, moved between them. The mage screamed as the needle-sharp steel slicedinto his arm.
Clutching his wound, blood dripping between his fingers, Jhandar turned a frightful glare on Conan. "Bythe blood and earth and Powers of Chaos I summon you," he intoned. "Destroy this barbarian?" Daviniashrank back, as if she would have fled had she dared.
The floor trembled, and Conan skidded to a halt as chunks of marble erupted almost beneath his feet.Leather-skinned and fanged, a sending such as those he had faced before clawed its way clear of dirtand stone. With a wild roar, the Cimmerian brought his blade down with all his might in an overheadblow, slicing through the demoniac skull to the shoulders. Yet, unbleeding and undying, it struggled toreach him, and he must needs chop and chop again, hacking the monstrous thing apart. Even then itsfragments twitched in unabated fury. More creatures tore through stone between him and the altar, andstill more to either side of him, snarling in bloodlust. As a man might reap hay Conan worked his sword,
steel rising and falling tirelessly. Severed limbs and heads and chunks of obscene flesh littered the floor,yet there were more, always more, ripping passage from the bowels of the earth. Cut off from Yasbetand the altar, it was but a matter of time before he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
A smile, pained, yet tinged with satisfaction at the Cimmerian's coming doom, appeared on Jhandar'sface. "So Suitai lied," he rasped. "I will settle with him for it. But now, barbar, pause a moment in yourexertions, if you can, to watch the fate of this woman, Esmira. Davinia! Attend the rite as I commandedyou, woman!"
Terror twisting her face, Davinia raised the silver-bladed dagger once more. Her eyes bulged when theystrayed to the deformed creatures battling Conan, but her hand was steady. Jhandar began again hisinvocation of the Power.
Raging, Conan tried to clear a path to the altar with his sword, but for each diabolic attacker he hewed tothe floor, it seemed that two more appeared.
There was a commotion behind the Cimmerian, and a saffron-robed man staggered into his view, bloodstreaming down his face, weakly attempting to lift his sword. After him followed Sharak. Conan was soamazed that he hesitated with sword raised, staring. In that momentary respite the creatures tightenedtheir circle about him, and he was forced to redouble his efforts to stop their advance.
Sharak's staff cracked down on his opponent's head; blood splattered from that shaven skull, and itsowner fell, his sword sliding across the floor to stop against the altar. Irritably Jhandar looked over hisshoulder, but did not stop his chant.
Conan lopped off a fang-mouthed head and kicked the headless body, now clawing blindly, into the pathof another creature. His sword took an arm, then a leg, sliced away half of a skull, but he knew his sandshad almost run out. There were just too many.
Abruptly Sharak was capering beside him, waving his staff wildly.
"Be gone from here," Conan shouted. "You are too old to--"
Sharak's staff thumped a leathery skull, and the creature screamed. At the altar Jhandar jerked as if hehad felt the blow. Even the other beings froze as sparks ran along the struck creature's blue-gray skin.With a clap, as of thunder, it was gone, leaving only oily, black smoke that drifted upward.
"I told you it had power!" the old astrologer cried wildly. He struck out again; more greasy smoke rosetoward the vaulted ceiling.
Now those hellborn backed warily from Conan and Sharak rolling fearsome red eyes at Jhandar. Forthat moment at least, the way to the altar was clear, and Conan dashed for the black stone.
For but a heartbeat Jhandar faced that charge, then howled, "There are Powers you have not seen inyour nightmares! Now face them!" and darted across the floor and down a small arched passage. Withhis departure the creatures, yet whole, seemingly freed of his command, vanished also.
Indecision racked Conan. For all he had sworn the necromancer would be dealt with first, Yasbet laychained before him, with Davinia....
As his gaze fell on her, the lithesome blonde backed away, wetting her lips nervously. "I heard you hadsailed away, Conan," she said, then quickly abandoned that line as his face did not soften. "I was forced,Conan. Jhandar is a sorcerer, and forced me to this." She held the dagger low in thethumb-and-forefinger grip of one who knew how to gut a man, but she did not move toward Conan.
One eye on Davinia, Conan stepped up to the altar. Yasbet writhed in her chains. Four times his bladerang against her bonds, and steel conquered iron.
Ripping the gag from her mouth, Yasbet scrambled from the altar and plucked the dead Cult member'ssword from the floor. Her hair lay wildly on her shoulders and breasts; she looked a naked goddess ofbattles. "I will deal with this...." Words failed her as she glared at Davinia.
"Fool wench," Conan snapped. "I did not free you to see you stabbed!"
"'Tis a Cimmerian fool I see," Sharak called. He still leaped about like a puppeteer's stick figure,disposing with his staff of the portions of creatures that littered the chamber floor. "The necromancer mustbe slain, or all this is for naught!"
The old man spoke true, Conan knew. With a last look at Yasbet, closing grimly in on a snarling Davinia,he turned into the small passage Jhandar had taken.
It was not long, that narrow corridor. Almost immediately he saw a glow ahead; the same silver blue thathad shone about the altar, yet a thousand times brighter. Quickening his pace, he burst into a small,unadorned chamber. In its center, surrounded by plain columns, a huge bubble of roiling mist burned andpulsed. Barely, through the brightness, Conan could make out Jhandar beyond the pool, arms outspread,his voice echoing like a bronze bell in words beyond understanding. Yet it was the brilliantly shining massthat held his eye, and hammered at him as it did. From those pulsating mists radiated, neither good norevil, but the antithesis of being, beating at his mind, threatening to shatter all that was in him into athousand fragments.
Pale images, washed out by the blinding glow, moved at the edge of his vision, then resolved themselvesinto two of the leather-skinned beings from the grave, sidling toward him along the wall as if they fearedthat shining. He knew that he must deal with the creatures and reach Jhandar, reach him quickly, beforehe completed whatever sorceries he was embarked upon, yet within the Cimmerian there was struggle.Never had he given in while he had strength or means to resist, but a thought strange to him now creptinto his mind. Surrender. The mist was overpowering. Then, as if the words were a spark, rage flared inhim. As a boy in the icy mountains of Cimmeria he had seen men, caught in an avalanche, hacking attowering waves of snow and dirt as they were swept away, refining to accept the thing that killed them.He would not surrender. Hewould-not surrender!
A wordless scream of primal rage burst from Conan's throat. He spun, swinging his sword like an axe.Head and trunk of the foremost creature toppled, sliced cleanly from its hips and legs. Jhandar, rang inthe Cimmerian's brain, and he was moving even as his steel broke free of that unnatural flesh.
But such a creature could not be slain like a mortal. The upper portion twisted as it fell, seized Conanabout the legs, and together they crashed to the stone floor. Jagged teeth slashed Conan's thigh, yet in thebeserker rage that gripped him he was as much beast as that he fought. His fisted hilt smashed into thecreature's skull, again and again, till he pounded naught but slimy pulp. Yet those mindless arms grippedhim still.
And Jhandar's chant continued unabated, as if he were too enmeshed in the Power to even be aware ofanother's presence.
Claws clattering on marble warned the Cimmerian that the second creature drew near. Wildly,half-blinded by the everbrightening glow, Conan struck out. His blade caught but an ankle, yet the thingstumbled, flailed for balance... and fell shrieking against the shining dome. Lightnings arced and crackled,and the creature was gone.
The way to Jhandar was open. Grim determination limning his icy eyes, Conan crawled. Animal furyburned in his brain. Now the sorcerer would die, if he had to rip out his throat with bared teeth. Yet in asmall, sane corner of his mind there was despair. Jhandar's ringing incantation was rising to a crescendo.The necromancer's foul work would be done before Conan reached him. Powers of darkness would beloosed on the land.
Something about the way the last beast had disappeared tugged at him. It reminded him of... what? Thebarrier to the Blasted Lands. Feverishly he dug into his pouch-it had to be there!-and drew out the smallleather bag of powder Samarra had given him. Almost did he laugh. If nightmares were loosed to walk,still this time Jhandar would not escape. Undoing the rawhide strings that held the bag closed, he carefullytossed it ahead of him, toward the oblivious, chanting sorcerer. On the very edge of the burning dome thebag fell, open, contents spilling broadly. It had to be enough.
"Your vengeance, Samarra," Conan murmured, and slowly, coldly, spoke the words the shamaness hadtaught him. As the last syllable was pronounced, a shimmer sprang into being above the powder.
Jhandar's words of incantation faltered. For a brief moment he stared at the shimmer. Then he screamed."No! Not yet! Not till I am gone!"
Through that shimmer, that weakened area of the wards that held the Pool of the Ultimate, flowedsomething. The mind could not encompass it, the eye refused to see it. Silver flecks danced in air thatwas too azure. No more did it seem, yet an ever-deepening channel was etched into the marble floor as itcame from the pool. It touched pillars about the circumference of the pool; abruptly half pillars dangled inthe air. The ceiling creaked. It washed against a wall, and stones ceased to exist. The wall and part of theceiling above collapsed. The rubble fell into that inexorable tide of nonexistence, and was not.
Some measure of sanity returned to Conan in the face of that horror. Part of it moved toward him, now.Desperately he sliced with his broadsword at the undying arms that gripped his legs.
Jhandar turned to run, but as he ran the fringes of that flowing thing touched him. Only the fringes, theouter mists, yet full-throated he screamed, like a woman put to torture or a soul damned. Saffron robesmelted like dew, and on his legs flesh disappeared at every touch of that mist. Bone gleamed whitely, andhe fell shrieking to match the cries of all the victims he had ever laid on his black altar.
With a groan the far end of the chamber collapsed into vapor, though with less sound than Jhandar'sscreams. Conan redoubled his efforts, hacking at the tough flesh. The last sinew was severed; theunnatural grip was gone.
As the Cimmerian rolled to his feet and dove for the entrance passage, the invisible silver-flecked tidewashed over the spot where he had been. Ignoring his gashed thigh, Conan ran, the sounds of Jhandarshrieking to the gods for mercy echoing in his ears.
When the Cimmerian reached the altar chamber, Sharak was peering down the passage. From a safedistance. "What was that screaming?" the astrologer asked, then added thoughtfully, "It's stopped."
"Jhandar's dead," Conan said, looking for Yasbet. He found her slicing the dead cult member's robes intosome sort of garment, using the very dagger Davinia had intended for her heart. The blonde knelt fearfullynearby, bruised but unbloodied, gagged with the remnants of her own golden silks. A strip of the samematerial bound her hands; another circled her neck as a leash, with the end firmly in Yasbet's grasp.
Suddenly the earth moved. The floor heaved, twisted, and sagged toward the chamber from whichConan had fled.
"It's eating its way into the bowels of the earth," he muttered.
Sharak eyed him quizzically. "It? What? Nothing could-"
Again the ground danced, but this time it did not stop. Lamps crashed from the ceiling, splatteringpatches of burning oil. Dust rose, beaten into the air by the quivering of the floor, a floor that was tiltingmore with every heartbeat.
"No time," Conan shouted, grabbing Yasbet's hand. "Run!" And he suited his actions to his words,drawing Yasbet behind him, and perforce Davinia, for the dark-eyed woman would not loosen her gripon the blonde's leash. With surprising swiftness Sharak followed.
Down crumbling halls they ran, past flame-filled rooms, priceless rugs and rare tapestries the fuel. Dustfilled the air, and shards of stone from collapsing ceilings.
Then they were outside, into the night, but there was no safety, The rumblings of the ground filled the airas if Erlik himself walked the face of the earth, making it tremble beneath his footsteps. Great treestoppled like weeds, and tall spires fell thunderously in ruin.
Here there were people, hundreds of them, fleeing in all directions, furcapped Hyrkanians mixed withsaffron-robed cult members. But safety did not always come with flight. Ahead of him, Conan saw a riftopen in the earth beneath the very feet of four running men, three with shaven heads, one in a bulkysheepskin coat. When the Cimmerian reached the spot the ground had closed again, sealing all four in acommon tomb.
Other fissures were opening as well, great crevasses that did not close. A tower tilted slowly, shakingwith the earth, and slid whole into a great chasm that widened and lengthened even as Conan looked.
At the wall there was no need to climb. Great lengths of it had fallen into rubble. Over those piled stonesthey scrambled. Conan would not let them slow. Memories of the Blasted Lands drove him on, awayfrom the compound, into the forest surrounding, further and further, till even his great muscles quiveredwith effort and he half-carried and half-dragged Yasbet and Davinia.
With shocking abruptness the land was still. Dead silence hung in the air. A new sound began, a hissingroar, building.
Hanging onto a tree, Sharak looked a question at Conan.
"The sea," Conan panted. The women stirred tiredly in his encircling grasp. "The fissures have reachedthe sea."
Behind them the sable sky turned crimson. With a roar, fiery magma erupted, scarlet fountains mixed withroaring geysers of steam as the sea sought the bowels of the earth. The air stirred, became a zephyr, agale, a whirlwind rushing in to battle with the ultimate void.
Conan tried to hold the women against the force of that wind, but the strength of it grew seeminglywithout end. One moment he was standing, the next he was down, his hold on the women gone, clutchingthe ground lest he be sucked back toward the holocaust. Dirt, leaves, branches, even stones, filled the airin a hail.
"Hold on!" he tried to shout to them, but the fury of the wind drove the words back in his teeth.
Then the earth began to heave again. The Cimmerian had only an instant to see a broken branch flyingtoward him, and then his head seemed to explode into blackness.
Conan woke to daylight. The flat coastal forest had become rolling hills, covered with a tangle ofuprooted trees. Yasbet. Scrambling to his feet, he began to pick his way among trees tossed likejackstraws, calling her name without reply. Then, as he topped a hill, he fell silent in amazement.
The hills were not the only change that had been wrought upon the land. A bay now cut into the land, itssurface covered thickly with dead fish. Wisps of steam rolled up from that water, and he was ready towager that despite all of the sea to cool it the waters in that bay would remain hot for all time.
"The compound stood there," a hoarse voice said, and Sharak limped up to stand beside him. Somehow,he saw, the astrologer had kept his staff through all that had occurred. Now he leaned on it tiredly, histubes torn and his face muddy.
"I do not think fishermen will often cast their nets in those waters," Conan replied. Sharak made a signagainst evil. "Have you seen Yasbet?"
The astrologer shook his head. "I have seen many, mainly cult members leaving this place as fast as theycan. I have seen Tamur and half a dozen of the Hyrkanians, wanting only to be gone from Turan, yetunsure of their welcome at home. I wager we'll find them in a tavern in Aghrapur. I saw Akman, hurryingwest." His voice saddened. "Yasbet, I fear, did not survive."
"I did, too, you old fool," the girl's voice called.
A broad smile appeared on Conan's face as he watched her clamber up the hill, still leading Davinia onher leash, and Akeba following close behind. All three were streaked with mud, a condition theCimmerian realized for the first time that he shared.
"I lost my sword," she announced when she reached them. A narrow length of saffron was her onlygarment, affording her little more covering than the tavern girls of Aghrapur, but if anything her costumeseemed to add to her jauntiness. "But I'll get another one. You owe me more lessons, Conan." Her smilebecame mischievous. "In the sword, and other things."
Akeba coughed to hide a grin; Sharak openly leered.
"You'll get your lessons," Conan said. "But why are you still pulling Davinia about? Set her free, or killher, if that's your wish. You have the right, for she would have killed you."
The blonde's knees buckled. She crouched weeping at Yasbet's feet, her beauty hidden by layers offilth.
"I'll do neither," Yasbet said, after studying the cringing woman. "I'll sell her to a brothel. 'Tis all she's fitfor, and a fitting place for her." Davinia moaned into her gag; the horror in her eyes indicated she mightrather be slain. "And thus," Yasbet added, "will I get the wherewithal for my sword."
"I am as glad as any to see the rest of you," Akeba said, "but I would as soon be gone from this place."
"Yes," Sharak said excitedly. "I must return to Aghrapur. With the powers of my staff proven, I candouble, no, triple my fees. You will attest to it, will you not, Akeba?"
"Attest to what?" the soldier demanded. "Are you making claims about that stick again?"
Offering a helping hand to Yasbet, Conan started down the hill, away from the bay, toward Aghrapur."Jhandar called you by another name than Yasbet," he said as she scrambled after him. "What was it?"
"You must have misheard," she told him blandly. "Yasbet is all the name I have." Davinia pressedforward, making urgent sounds at Conan through her gag. Yasbet glared over her shoulder. "Do youwant a sound switching before you're sold?" Eyes wide with shock, the blonde fell silent, and thereafterwould not even meet the Cimmerian's gaze.
Conan nodded to himself. Clearly Yasbet was lying, but some said that was a woman's right. He wouldnot press her on it.
Snatches of conversation drifted forward from the two men behind.
"If Conan saw it, let him attest to it. I saw nothing."
"But you are a sergeant, an official as it were. Can you not see how much better your word would be?I'm certain Conan will tell you what he saw."
The smile Conan had worn since seeing Yasbet alive widened even further. For all the days before, therewas much to be said for this day. He was alive, with a little gold-he checked his pouch to see if the twocoins still rested there; they did-good friends, and a pretty woman. What more could any man ask for?What more?
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